So I Don’t Have Gout! Is That So Wrong?

I got home yesterday and was met by Hammett at the door and thought, “Here’s a good thing that’s still here: this fantastic cat Hammett.” He’s such a delightful cat. Sometimes when I pick him up, he flails his hands in all directions, though I don’t detain him against his will. If he wants to be set down, I set him down. He still likes to lick me when he gets a chance, though he’s starting to lick himself now and then, too.

I’ve thought of three semi-painless ways to make new friends:

Answer ads for activity partners on Craigslist, look for one-time volunteer opportunities on Craigslist, and probably best of all, make it a point to get to Eugene Cash’s sitting group on Sunday evenings, which is certainly a bunch of like-minded souls.

Why, already I saw an ad on Craigslist that said, “Do You Have Gout?” Maybe that will be my new best friend! I hope he or she won’t reject me because I don’t have gout. If people really care about each other, they should be understanding about goutlessness.

Oh, turns out I was still looking at the Los Angeles Craigslist, where I went to post a question asking if John Stamos ever spent time in Ann Arbor, Michigan. When I was in kindergarten or thereabouts, I had a crush on a very cute olive-skinned boy (I would say “little boy,” but at the time, he seemed pretty much regular-sized) named John Stamos. I could easily imagine that this boy, who was only around for a semester or so, grew up to look like, and in fact be, John Stamos the actor, who is about my age.

However, I have never been able to find any mention of this online. Anything I see about John Stamos says he grew up in Southern California. Maybe some Los Angeleno will clear this up for once and for all.

I went up to visit Lucky the rat last night and found her in an unusually sociable mood. She was getting rather portly for a time, but now is smaller, no doubt due to her cancer. She used to not mind if you stroked the end of her tail if it was sticking out between the bars of her cage, but now she reels it in if you touch it.

It also used to be common for her to come out whenever there were people around, but lately she spends much more time huddled under a ramp in her cage, even if someone is talking to her, so it was a treat to have her want to visit, and a very good thing, since it was her last evening alive, probably.

I was having the fantasy that the vet will say, “Oh, she’s not in pain, and I’ll fix her scratched-up back with a one-time application of this stuff"—because I don’t think there is any way we could put medication on her ourselves—“and if she’s eating and drinking”—which she is, albeit losing weight—“she can go on for a time.” But I don’t think the vet will say that; I think Lucky will be euthanized this afternoon, and so I kept having to step into Tom’s bathroom and blow my nose and dab at my eyes.

I feel so sad about that little rat.

Tom asked if I really think he shouldn’t have another caged pet, which is a condition of my paying for Lucky’s euthanasia—the mice at the pet store are so cute! Indeed they are, but I think he wasn’t paying close enough attention to Lucky, or he would have seen sooner that she was growing tumors, and I think if a pet of his had a problem that required lots of medical care, as so many animals do when they get old, it might be impossible on his budget. I tried to say it kindly.

But there are other things I pester Tom about a lot, and in a much more critical way. He’s such a kind soul that people tend to hugely take advantage of him, which drives me berserk. Sometimes my mother says, “Don’t nag him!”, but that advice would be so impossible for me to take, it’s almost incomprehensible.

I could probably get it if she said, “Nag him 99 times a day, but stop before you get to a hundred!”

The fact is, it is a strain on our friendship for me to offer the same opinion or criticism over and over—even if he’d be way happier if he did what I said!—and what he does is well beyond my control. I can’t pester him into saying no to people who need to hear it once in a while any more than someone can talk an alcoholic into quitting drinking.

The alcoholic will quit when he or she is ready, which may be never, and Tom will say no when he’s ready, which may be never. And if he learned this skill, the first person he might say it to is me. That’s not such a good feeling.