Safely Ensconced in My Bathtub

I was going to have a patch test this week to determine what I’m allergic to that causes itching, though, as mentioned, it seemed a bit pointless—since even stuff that has just three ingredients in it and that is billed as being hypoallergenic makes me itch, there probably is no product that lacks the offending substance or substances.

This problem began when a hair product changed formula years ago. It occurred to me that it might be exacerbated by walking around for four days with 120 kinds of chemicals taped to my back: “Here, we’ll saturate one quarter of your skin with chemicals so we can find out what kind of chemical-laden product you may be able to purchase.”

Then I came upon inspiration in Emily Raboteau’s very fine novel The Professor’s Daughter, in which the main character mentions her boyfriend dressing his hair with olive oil. If this fictional character can put olive oil in his hair, so can I, and so have I been, just about two drops, and it’s working great—it quells the frizz and imparts a zesty salad-like smell. Makes one feel healthy without having to eat a salad.

I don’t think it’s making my pillowcase greasy, either. I haven’t actually looked, but it is my feeling, if not my actual observation, that it’s not doing this.

As my ex-brother-in-law once said, “I know I’m safer on an airplane than I am in my own bathtub, but I feel safer in my bathtub.”

Over the weekend, I felt so grief-stricken about Thelonious I began to think I might never get over losing her, but I feel much better at the moment. I can look at a picture and say, “That’s my nice girl cat; she’s dead now,” without it seeming incomprehensible and unbearable.

I wish I’d paid more careful attention to her every day of her life. I lived with her for eight years in my previous apartment and eight years in my current apartment, and I can barely remember the kinds of things she did in the first apartment, which seems like a parenting failure.

I remember she used to sit behind me on the chair as I practiced the trumpet. But where did she sleep? What was she doing when she wasn’t sitting behind me on the chair? What vet did she see? How did she get there, as that was when I wouldn’t have had money for a cab? I can’t remember. I will have to check my old money books for clues.

It’s hard, in fact, to remember her exactly as she was in any moment whatsoever, but it occurred to me that I also can’t remember my mother exactly as she was in any moment whatsoever. So remembering someone must not require a photographic memory, thank goodness, and of course I do have nice photos as such.

An image of my father passing by the window in his broad-brimmed hat the last time I visited my parents keeps popping into my mind. It’s a pleasing image: Dad about his garden-related business. I couldn’t tell you the exact features of the hat or the details of the shirt my father was wearing, but I can still remember him passing by the window and enjoy the satisfactoriness of that moment.

On Monday I left Hammett the new black cat in the bathroom when I went to work, as that was his first full day alone. He had the run of the apartment all day Tuesday, so I was psychologically prepared to find the place a shambles when I returned, but he had behaved himself perfectly. He was under the bedcovers when I came in.

He has obviously been showered with love all his young life. There is no part of him he minds having touched, and he loves to be picked up and cuddled. It took Thelonious many years to learn to tolerate being picked up, and I’m not sure she ever came to love it, though she developed a habit of trying to clamber up toward my right shoulder when I picked her up. Maybe she didn’t trust being held and wanted to be on top of something, though I prefer to think she wanted to be closer to my face, from whence issued the compliments and kisses.

When I was reading yesterday in what is now obviously Hammett’s chair—I feel slightly guilty sitting in it—he sank into the crack between me and the back of the chair and lay there on his back languidly waving his front paws in the air as I got the week’s dose of bad news from Newsweek.

The only thing that could make me feel better about the world situation is a New York Times headline about Laura divorcing George: “I have come to loathe the sight of that Satan-spawned imbecile; nor can I answer for my actions if I hear him mispronounce ‘nuclear’ even one more time.”

Barbara Boxer said on KQED the other night how Bush claimed terrorists hate us because of our freedom and our way of life, and then he removed our freedom and our way of life.

Hammett Encounters a Talking Chair

Thelonious pursuing one of her favorite hobbies, back when she was alive.

Friday night I saw my acupuncturist for the first time in six weeks, which was lovely. There’s been less raving lately about how fabulous he is because he was away in Mexico for five weeks of surfing on what was actually one of his twice-annual five-week surfing trips to Mexico—talk about self-care, particularly given that he has his own business. If I had my own business, I’d probably never go on vacation at all, let alone for 10 weeks a year. He’s extremely serene.

When I got home, I took another crack at fixing the wobbly lamp, with some further hardware I’d obtained, and at least for now it’s as solid as one could want. My mother’s lamp-wiring advice: “Keep fiddling with it until it’s the way you want it.”

I lapsed into self-pity later in the evening and vowed never to get another cat. No, I would just live without this, that and the other, alone in my little apartment, mourning my departed cat, waiting for my remaining time in this vale of tears to pass. It’s only going to be 40 years or so at the absolute most; I can make it.

But when I woke up Saturday, I thought, forget that: I’m going to have all that stuff. What I want is not excessive. There is no reason to refuse myself these things.

I took some kitchen items to the thrift store and then rode my bike to the very pleasant pet store at Church and Cesar Chavez, Noe Valley Pet Company, where I bought some cat toys for the future cat.

Then I went to Best Buy at Harrison and 14^th (kind of a horrible place) and bought a Sony radio so I can hear KQED in the living room and the kitchen. Yes, I was going wild.

After that, I went home and had a nice chat on the phone with Mr. Bull about cat adoption. She said if I wanted to go to the SPCA the next day, Sunday, to look at cats, she would go with me. It was only 3:30 or so when we got off the phone, so I decided to stroll over to the SPCA and look at cats right away.

I brought my lease just in case and happened upon a cage full of black kittens, including one little short-haired boy cat, who is right now locked in my bathroom, since it’s my first full day away from him and he is at that inquisitive age, six months. I think his name will be Hammett (after Kirk, not Dashiell), which lends itself to the nicknames Ham and Hammy.

He’s very friendly and affable, and so far he is manifesting perfect cat behavior: he goes in the litter box, hasn’t clawed anything, doesn’t bite or scratch my fingers when I pet him. I warned Tom not to teach him to regard fingers as toys, because I think he’s going to be big.

Saturday night he was up much of the night, therefore so was I. I had a good cry over Thelonious, holding the cedar box with her ashes in it, and I feared it was just the way it was going to be with Hammett until he was older and that I’d have to confine him in another room (i.e., the bathroom) at bedtime, but last night when I went to bed, he crawled under the covers with me for a bit—it was unexpectedly soothing to have that warm little body there, an emissary from Black Cat Land come to console me for the loss of the other black cat—and then he went to sleep on the comfy chair.

He only got up once in the night that I noticed, to see (again) what those papers piled on top of the shredder are.

This morning he sat down on the answering machine and then got up startled, no doubt thinking, “Odd, a talking chair.”

Saturday night I watched about ten minutes of the original Manchurian Candidate with Tom and then went home to be with Hammett.

Yesterday I went to Rainbow for groceries and did my cooking for the week. Besides the usual grains and beans, I tried a recipe that I hoped would approximate Whole Foods’ vegan brownies, and one that I hoped would approximate Whole Foods' vegan chocolate frosting.

The former came out surprisingly well but took absolutely forever and dirtied way too many things, including the food processor. I had to wash dishes for 45 minutes afterwards. Maybe I’ll just continue to pay Whole Foods the $1.89.

The latter didn’t come out at all. The recipe called for two tablespoons of brown rice syrup, but after four or five, it still tasted awful, so then I tossed in some honey—that’ll sweeten this stuff up, by gum—and then I had to put the whole batch in the compost bin. Tom tasted it before I threw it out and politely said, “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

A Lovely Permanent Monument

It was hard when Monday night rolled around again earlier this week (October 9): One week ago at this time I found Thelonious moribund in the doorway. One week ago at this time we left for the vet’s office. One week ago at this time, she died.

It has helped so much to put my attention on my actual feelings, rather than my thoughts about the situation, though it is inevitable there will be some thinking, which is probably a good thing, as it causes the feelings to well up.

But at a certain point, I remind myself to drop the story and feel the feelings, and I tune into physical sensations and take a breath, and it is rather miraculous how quickly the emotion dissipates. It’s not being pushed away, just directly sensed rather than thought about.

Though I wasn’t sure I quite believed it, I kept telling myself that while I will always love Thelonious and always miss her, I will in time get used to her absence. There were so many tears the first several days after she was gone, I thought I’d be crying every day for the rest of my life, and I gave myself absolute permission to do that. Who would it hurt, as long as I could function otherwise?

But after a week and a half, I feel better and there is less crying. I am now positive that what I’ve been telling myself is true: I will absolutely live on and be happy, and I will (probably) get used to her not being here.

After several days, there were even times I looked at a photo of her and felt joy rather than sorrow.

It’s like with my grandmother (and my aunt, and my great-aunt): I miss my grandmother and I love her—I talk to her; she answers—and I can still carry on despite her absence. There’s still a relationship, just a different kind.

A couple of days ago, I got a call I wasn’t expecting for another week or two: a call from S. F. Veterinary Specialists saying Thelonious’s ashes were ready to pick up.

Yesterday after work I rode my bike over to get what turned out to be a lovely little cedar box with a brass lock on the front, with two keys provided. A card on top had Thelonious’s name on it and the date of her death. It also said, “Cremation Service Provided for The Atkins Family,” half of which was inside the box, if we’re considering my own immediate Atkins family, which was just me and her.

The box and card were wrapped in plastic to keep them together and keep everything clean and protected. The whole thing was tremendously thoughtful. I realized that the person who handed it to me was someone I had talked to on the phone a few times who had been very kind and was again on this occasion.

There was another woman there picking up medication for her pet. When I was outside unlocking my bike, she came out and it looked like she was crying as she said to me, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Hearing about my cat’s ashes must have reminded her of a beloved departed cat of her own. I was glad she spoke to me. That was also very sweet.

As always, I had the feeling of loving spirits all around. I live in a sea of kindly entities, embodied and not.

In the end, I got five “real” cards and two e-cards, which I printed out, and many emails and phone calls and verbal expressions of sympathy. My dear friend Elea in Washington emailed every couple of days for the first week just to ask, “How are you doing?” I have been magnificently cared for (which could not have happened if I hadn’t told people what was going on).

After my aunt died, while my uncle probably received an outpouring of sympathy, of course I didn’t receive such expressions, but in fact, it was a major loss. It was an untimely, horrible, prolonged death, and I had loved her very much, so I called up my mother and asked her to send me a condolence card.

She sent a lovely handwritten card that is one of my (many) highly valued sentimental objects. Yesterday I asked her if she could send one for Thelonious, too.

She asked if I wanted her to send the remainder of my grandmother’s ashes.

“I don’t know; how much are we talking about?”

“Two pounds?”

“Two pounds?! I don’t think so. I think the token amount I have will suffice.”

“Perhaps I should scatter them somewhere.”

My grandmother really enjoyed driving around in the Cadillac a friend gave her after becoming too infirm to drive it, so I suggested maybe she should scatter her mother’s ashes over the nearest Cadillac, and then she could write a message in the dust with her finger: “I love my mother.”

My mother noted that if the ashes were mixed with cement first, it would be a lovely permanent monument.

Several Days Somehow Endured Without World’s Best Cat

I assumed that I would wake up consumed with terror in the middle of the night after Thelonious was gone, but it hasn’t happened. The night she was euthanized, I cried until about 2:30 a.m. and then I went to bed, and once or twice it felt like fear was arising, but it passed immediately upon being welcomed, and it hasn’t come up since.

I also thought I would have vivid dreams about Thelonious and wake up sobbing, but I’ve only dreamed about her once, a day or two ago. I dreamed she trundled into the bathroom carrying my Alice in Chains ticket in her mouth, and I didn’t feel upset after I woke up, at least not by the dream.

I knew from my online research that I might have moments where I seemed to see her, and that has happened a million times, out of the corner of my eye.

I have to remind myself over and over that she is dead.

While there are definitely tears on a regular basis and miserable moments of, "My kitty is gone!", I am also reminding myself over and over that I did the right thing and that it was the kindly cat mother act to let her go, and that the reason I am suffering is that she no longer is, and that is the way it should be.

I am also trying to point my brain less at "Why did my cat have to die?" and more at "How wonderful that this lovely creature was here for sixteen and a half years and gave me so much pleasure!"

All the good wishes and kindness around me have helped so much, plus telling myself every now and then, "Take a breath" and then doing it.

I have many beautiful photos of her, plus I unearthed a stack of "baby" pictures, one of which shows an adorably pudgy cat looking sternly at the camerawoman. Her pudgy period was brief and was long ago.

Over this past week, I have slowly let some of her things go, or have put them away. I meant to leave her diarrhea-spotted litter box as a permanent shrine, but abandoned that plan after a couple of days, though the clean litter box is still in my closet. It was sad to wash it for the last time. It gave me joy to care for her, to clean her litter box and launder the pillowcase for her nest, to give her fresh food and water every day.

I left her water and food bowls in place until yesterday, with water and food in them. Her toys are still scattered all over the living room floor. I recycled her “house,” a cardboard carton that once had ten reams of paper in it, as probably the new cat(s) should have one thing that didn’t belong to Thelonious, or maybe he/she will have all new things, as my friend Trudy advised on the phone.

On Saturday, the first Saturday Thelonious was gone, I got up early and rode my bike to Marina Green to volunteer with the Neighborhood Emergency Response Team at Fleet Week. A couple of fire engines came and parked right next to our booth, and a lot of little kids had their pictures taken in the cabs.

When the fire truck rolled up, I waved and the firefighters waved back. I should have done this NERT thing long ago: Now I can walk up to any San Francisco firefighter—you may have noticed they’re always attractive—and say, “I’m a NERT,” and he’ll say, “Hello! I’m so-and-so,” and shake my hand. At least, that’s what happened the first time I tried it.

The night after Thelonious died, my bedside lamp also died. My living room is the same thing as my bedroom, thus a significant portion of my lighting was gone, which made things that much stranger.

As I was going out to throw the lamp away, I ran into Tom, who mentioned that the lamp could be “fixed,” which would never have occurred to me. My mother said the very same thing, so I went and got parts, and I did indeed fix it!

The top is now a bit loose and I see I should have used a washer between the nut and the inside of the lamp, but derned if I’m going to take it all apart again. If I can live with the lamp not having a shade for 15 or 20 years, I can certainly live with the switch being a little floppy. Once I get the shade, I’ll look into tightening up the fixture.

In the evening, Tom and I watched The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, which was excellent.

On Sunday I did my cooking for the week, and in the late afternoon I went to the reunion of an AA meeting I used to go to 24 years ago. They had managed to collect 102 people by word of mouth, including the two I most wanted to see, and it was really a fabulous event.

The Earthly End of Thelonious

Here’s what happened to Thelonious. On Sunday, October 1, she seemed quite well and was playing with the cords for the blinds and wanted to come under the covers with me as I slept in until 1 p.m. or so. She was ascending to the cat nest without any problems and purring every time I petted her.

She seemed so well that I was thinking how I would probably need to hire someone to come and give her her medication if I went away overnight for Thanksgiving, eight weeks in the future.

At the same time, she had been eating very little for several days, but I had seen that before, and kept hoping the next day would be better.

When I came home from work on Monday, October 2, however, she was lying in the doorway to the living room, seeming quite listless, and she didn’t get up when I came in.

Sorry for another gross detail or two, but if you’ve followed the story to this point, you have proven your strong constitution. I saw that she had eaten nothing whatsoever that day, yet there was a massive puddle of black diarrhea on the bathroom floor.

It’s rather touching that, as lousy as she must have been feeling, she never once said, “Heck, I’ll just go on the living room floor.”

I called my mother and said it seemed like it might be time to call the euthanasia doctor, but I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting for someone to come over and kill my cat.

My mother wisely said, “Then maybe that’s too hard. Maybe you should just take her to the vet.”

I went online and saw that the black diarrhea probably indicated blood in her upper intestines, which made it clear it was time, but in case there was any doubt, soon she barfed up a terrible pile of bloody tissue of some sort. A red stain remains in my vestibule.

All of a sudden, she looked terribly small and ill. I bundled her up in a soft pillowcase—she moaned once in pain when I picked her up—and got in a cab with her and Tom, and we went to San Francisco Veterinary Specialists, which is open 24 hours a day.

I had told her I would be with her at the end, and I was. The moment of death itself was not particularly traumatic for me, and I hope it wasn’t for her, either. The three months prior were terrible, and the week following was even more terrible.

One thing that has made it much easier is the tremendous outpouring of kindness and support from my friends and family. It has been a dreadful time, but I never once felt alone.

After Monday night, I received emailed condolences and cards and phone calls. My Al-Anon group gave me a card. As we left Monday to take Thelonious to the vet, I called Lisa C. to let her and David know, and when I got home, there was the nicest message from Lisa on the machine, and the next day there was an e-card of condolence from Lisa’s mother.

I got a note from my father that I have read over and over; it says, in part: “Having a cat euthanized is always heartbreaking, but it's a kindness we owe a creature that is dependent on us, however difficult the loss may be.”

My parents have listened to me carrying on for months (well, for 44 years, but in particular, for the past three months) and have graciously received multiple phone calls on some days.

I know it’s just the family sense of humor when my father answers and I hear my mother yelling in the background, “Is that Linda again? Didn’t we just talk to her?”

(David C. once announced to Lisa, “It’s Linda, graciously calling us again.” That also made me laugh.)

I went to work the next day, Tuesday, because it was a week at work when it would be very poor form to be out, but after listening to me sob in my cube for a few minutes, my coworkers told me to go home, and said they would cover for me.

I did go home and then I took about 150 cans of cat food to the SPCA. The woman there said, “It’s like Christmas!”

Then I went to return some prescription food and some medication to Thelonious’s regular vet—I had just picked up a new bottle of Prednisone on my way home Monday! —and ran into Dr. Press, who listened to the tale of her final night and gave me a hug.

I returned to work on Wednesday and it was a hellish week at work; it would have been even if my cat hadn’t died at the beginning of it, which seems like particularly diabolical timing, but maybe it was good to have something else to think about part of the time.

The bloodstain is still in the entryway. It smells bad if you put your nose close enough, and that is good: Something awful happened there—it had better smell bad.

Thelonious Is Gone

Thelonious Atkins
September 22, 1987 - October 2, 2006

Friendliness Protocol Implemented Perhaps Belatedly

Thelonious and her mother. No, there is not a white kidney-shaped thing in my hair. That is empty space and that is the natural shape of my hair. I guess this kind of thing is why people buy Photoshop.

Along with my improved cat diarrhea cleanup protocol, I have also implemented a new friendliness protocol, which involves ten minutes per day of metta practice (followed by 30 minutes of concentration practice, which is not directly part of the friendliness protocol).

It has been my custom to silently say metta phrases as I do certain activities, like filling a glass or bottle with water, or walking up stairs, one syllable to a step: “May all beings be happy and be free from fear,” for instance, gets me from one landing to the next at work.

I have just started doing the same when I walk around outside and am finding it extremely relaxing, plus outside the Container Store it briefly felt like I was losing contact with the earth, or perhaps it was a touch of vertigo, which can happen now and then.

When annoyance arises, I note my thoughts in detail: Having the thought that this person might in the next few moments do such-and-such. Having the thought that that will be annoying and then I will say this, that and the other. Oh, having the thought that the person didn’t in fact do such-and-such.

Having the thought that it is very irritating that this person is standing in the doorway through which I would like to exit right now. Cannot this person see I am standing here?

A huge number of my irritable thoughts begin with, “This person can see I am …” This person can see I am trying to get down the street here. This person can see I was approaching the water fountain.

So, anyway, having the thought that this person is very irritating because he is standing in my way. Having the thought that this is a bad person, and therefore deserving of my unfriendliness.

It’s kind of mortifying to see some of this, but it also affords the opportunity to inquire if I’m sure my thoughts are right.

This person might actually be very nice even if he’s standing near the elevator and even if he made a clicking noise.

Sometimes the irritation dissipates merely through being seen clearly. But if not, and this is the beauty of this plan, all I have to do is keep noting my thoughts, which, if nothing else, somewhat turns my attention from the object of my awareness to the process of awareness itself. Even if the irritation doesn’t lessen right away, I’m probably not so likely to give voice to it in a way I’ll regret later.

I did, unfortunately, yell at a pedestrian the other day. Jaywalking from between two cars, he walked right into me. Had I been moving faster, I would probably have fallen. My immediate startled reaction included an expletive or two.

He seemed very regretful, but then he remembered his rights and said, “Pedestrians have the right of way.” This caused me to remember my rights, and I’m afraid I said, in part, “Use the [expletive deleted] crosswalk, moron.”

He looked frozen and descended into the BART station without further comment. I felt quite awful about it right away, as he did look like a decent fellow, and posted an apology on Craigslist, which was about all I could do.

However, one thing to ponder is that one of the reasons the highly unkind phrase popped so readily out of my mouth is that it had been practiced mentally countless times, so part of the new protocol is to abandon saying that kind of thing even to myself.

By chance, I also have a new financial protocol, which is to wait until payday to buy anything that falls into the miscellaneous category that I don’t really need right away or that isn’t truly a minor purchase, and then to use money left over from the previous payday, and if there is no money left over from the previous payday, not to buy the thing.

To keep on track, I am writing down each day in my calendar exactly how much money I have left in this category.

This replaces the previous practice of having no idea how much money I have left, buying everything I feel like buying and then having a shortfall come payday which must be filled in with funds I would otherwise have invested in hopes of a plush retirement.

I love the feeling of knowing I am not going to overspend in this category, the last frontier, where vagueness can so easily rule.

Plus, by the time payday rolled around, I had concluded I didn’t really even want or need the things I had been waiting until then to buy.

A Fair and Just Universe

Thelonious with her Aunt Lisa and Uncle David. David’s hair is shorter than usual due to the malicious attentions of a Chinatown “stylist.” As you can see, he looks very handsome, anyway, but let the record reflect that this is not his customary coiffure.

On Friday evening I bought Thelonious a little brush (at a wonderful store called Noe Valley Pet Company), piles of Fancy Feast and a supply of empty gelatin caps.

I started giving her slippery elm in gelatin caps, and switched to the new herbs, and sure enough, she is eating noticeably less again, so I have stopped the slippery elm and reduced the new herbs. If matters don’t improve, I’ll switch back to the old herbs.

On Saturday, David and Lisa came from across town to see their ailing niece, which was awfully nice of them. They said she looks frail but not at all unhappy. Tom was off on a bike ride, so the three of us had a tasty lunch at Herbivore.

Then I rode my bike to Rainbow for groceries, and in the evening Tom and I watched Owning Mahowny, in which Philip Seymour Hoffman plays a compulsive gambler.

Sunday morning Tom and I went bright and early to the Fillmore box office for Alice in Chains tickets (that is, ticket, as I will be attending unescorted). I was afraid there would be 500 AIC fans already there when we arrived (or, conversely, none at all, meaning I had the date wrong), but there were about 15 people in line.

I told the affectless broker that I wanted to sit near the front and center of the balcony, but on an aisle, so no unfamiliar leg touches mine. He said he wasn’t set up to determine whether the seat was on an aisle or not, and that for that kind of request, you need to call Ticketmaster (and pay the substantial service charge).

“OK, I’ll call Ticketmaster,” I said, not having taken offense, but he said, “This seat won’t be there. This show is selling out.” That was ten minutes after tickets went on sale, so I went ahead and bought the ticket, which is for a fantastic seat four rows from the front of the balcony, just not on an aisle. I feel very happy when I see my Alice in Chains ticket on the bookshelf.

Tom and I were early for our next engagement, so we walked from the Fillmore all the way to the Ferry Building, which took an hour. At the Ferry Building, we sat at one of the big square wooden tables outside the Book Passage and read until the ferry arrived, bringing Tom’s mother, who took him (and me!) out to lunch at The Slanted Door for his birthday. The food was extremely tasty, as always, and it was great to see Ann, as always.

Tom and I parted company outside the Ferry Building because he had to finish some gelato and then he was going to go to Safeway rather than straight home. I went into the Embarcadero station to wait for a J train and sat while several trains went by and several announcements were heard. I finally heard an announcement saying a J would be coming in nine minutes.

Holding my Harper’s magazine and sitting due upright, I closed my eyes for the merest moment, and then was awakened by another announcement. “Did she say J?” I inquired of my neighbor, who replied, “The J just left.”

The next several announcements made no mention of a J train, and yet I couldn’t believe I’d been asleep for nine minutes, so I concluded there had been no J, and after 20 or 30 more minutes, I went up one level and told an agent that I’d been waiting for a J for an hour. He said to tell the other agent. The other agent said to go back down and tell the inspector. I went down; there was no inspector. Just as I was going up again, I heard an announcement saying, “The J is coming right now!” or words to that effect. I barely caught it.

When I got home, I could hear Tom already in his apartment overhead. He said he’d gone into the station and seen a J right away, so decided to skip Safeway (as the J is the only train that goes to our neighborhood, whereas any would go near Safeway).

So either I was asleep for nine minutes sitting bolt upright and clutching a periodical or, and this is much more likely, Muni said, “J coming in nine minutes,” and then it arrived in ten seconds, just as Tom put his foot on the platform.

By the way, I wasn’t meaning to suggest that my father was a patsy when I said he was susceptible to logical arguments when I was younger. On the contrary, it was soothing to my youthful nerves and upheld the illusion of a fair and just universe to hear my father say, “You won the argument, so I guess you can … .”

Pre-Apocalyptic Garlic Toast and a Pleasing Dab of Doo

Today is Thelonious’s 19^th birthday, and the best one of all, since I was afraid she was going to die right before it. With much pleasure did I sing the birthday song this morning and call her Uncle Tom to notify him of her impressive longevity.

After wringing out a poop-infused sponge several times too many, I have developed a new diarrhea cleanup protocol which uses Wet Ones, previously disdained as not environmentally friendly, for cleaning the floor, walls and edge of the litter box, once I’ve gone as far as I can go with wads of toilet paper. They’re very handy and more hygienic.

But wait! Isn’t there a nearly identical product at Whole Foods for which I could pay three times as much? Well, there is. Avalon Organics Flushable Biodegradable Baby Wipes (Certified Organic Blend of Chamomile, Aloe & Calendula) is the item you’ll want. These are supposedly fragrance free, which could be a plus, as the smell of Wet Ones plus trace amounts of cat poop is faintly nauseating.

Feeling a bit concerned about my landlords’ plumbing, I also got some gallon-size ziplock bags in which to put clumps of the aforementioned substance, along with the accompanying pile of cat litter. Certainly a firm cat turd, should I ever be lucky enough to see one again, is not a problem to flush down the toilet, all the more so because it isn’t followed by 500 yards of toilet paper, like the turds of some.

Up until recently, it was my feeling that anything with a dab of cat poop on it needed laundering. How very innocent I was. After having to do seven loads of laundry two weeks in a row, my requirements have tightened. Now I think, oh, well, how can it hurt me? It’s on top of the blanket, whereas I’ll be under the blanket. What’s a dainty dab of doo among friends?

This week I did wash one of the blankets that is draped over the comfy chair, putting it in with the diarrhea-splotched bath mat, and it came out of the dryer smelling extremely strange. I assumed it had become contaminated, but the bath mat itself smelled fresh and clean, so I think I must have burned the blanket in the dryer. The smell of cooked polyester is actually rather more unpleasant than the smell of Wet Ones plus cat poop.

I ran Thelonious’s current state of being by Dr. Fong and he suggested that we switch to different herbs (the new formula has the lovely name of Anemone Combo) and he said I should go back to giving her the slippery elm powder, which is supposed to help her intestines.

I stopped because I swore off anything to do with syringes. Syringe feeding is out, certainly, but maybe eschewing syringe medication was going too far. However, I noticed, thumbing through the Eating Log, that her appetite perked up during the week she was off the slippery elm, so if she starts eating less again, I’ll cease administering it.

Last night, I gave her a dose, mixed with water and via syringe. She doesn’t mind it too much, but the Anemone Combo was much worse-tasting (judging from the smell) and it made her foam at the mouth a bit and was obviously very unpleasant.

It occurred to me that maybe I could just put it in a gelatin capsule and give it to her as with any other pill. The vet’s office confirmed that today, which was very welcome news, because I can give her the slippery elm the same way and we can say goodbye to the syringe again.

It seems you can also give liquid medicines in gel caps if you do it quickly, before the gelatin melts.

I am really happy about this because it will take much less time, be a lot less messy, and ensure that she’s actually getting the whole dose and not losing some due to it being spit out, dribbled down her face or escaping as foam.

Rainbow sells empty gelatin capsules in several sizes, so I’ll go by there this evening. At the hardware store, I got two itsy-bitsy plastic funnels, which is perfect: one for each medication, thus no need to rinse between uses. I could also have made funnels out of little pieces of paper.

I must as well go to Safeway for more Fancy Feast and to a pet store for a little cat brush with soft bristles, as I have recently become racked with guilt over never having bought her one. I guess I never bought her one because she never minded being combed and I just used the comb to remove superfluous fur, but now she is very bony and might enjoy being brushed even if it doesn’t actually achieve anything.

I tried making vegan garlic bread with Asti Meyer Lemon olive oil, which I bought recently at Whole Foods, and which is a gorgeous color, and it was wonderful. Until the apocalypse, that’s the only way I’m making garlic bread.

Cat Chronicler Misnomered as "Beavis" By Own Mother

Thelonious's toys, with beloved cork third from right.

I know "misnomered" didn't used to be a word, but once upon a time I referred to Frank's dog "Poppy" as "Poggy" and he said people have died for lesser offenses than "misnomering" his dog, so now it is.

I ended up getting in a fight with my building manager after all, when I told her I might end up adopting two kittens instead of one cat. For one thing, the SPCA’s web page has an ad that says, “Take two—they’re small!” and the kitten professor had mentioned that they encourage people to adopt two, though they won’t twist your arm.

For another, when I showed an attorney at the Tenants Union my lease many months ago to make sure I’d be able to get another cat after Thelonious was gone, she pointed out that my lease allows for multiple cats.

Having two kittens sounded fun, but also like kind of a hassle. How would I take two cats to the vet? Would I need two litter boxes? I started doing some research and found out that one litter box is often fine for two cats and that many people take two cats to the vet without undue strain.

I also came upon several articles that said it is a myth that cats are solitary and aloof, and that often cats are happier with another cat for company and even stay healthier longer. Also, two kittens can occupy each other, while one kitten alone is more likely to get into mischief.

So it sounded great all around: it would certainly be good for me to have two cute kittens, it would double the number of souls rescued from homelessness, the cats would be happier, and it could potentially be less injurious to my landlords’ property.

Most important of all, I had thought up fantastic names for two little black girl cats: Hammett and Hetfield. “Hammy, time for dinner,” I pictured myself bellowing into the living room. I was looking forward to 19-year-old guys, if I ever talked to any, saying, “Cool names, dude.”

I sent the building manager an email letting her know of the possibility of dual cats, and hoped she would write back, “Well, if it’s in your lease, I guess that’s that.” But she got ticked off and said, “Doesn’t your lease say such-and-such?” I said it does, and that that’s the part that means I can have two cats. She said, after having inquired about the wording of my lease, that she didn’t want to argue about the wording of my lease, that I know how the landlords feel about cats, and that she felt like I was taking advantage of her having been nice about it.

I wrote back that while it’s fine that the landlords’ feelings have changed, they can’t expect people to go by their feelings as opposed to by the lease. Just in case, I called my mother to see if she thought I was being a butthead. She loyally said, “No, of course not—you’re Beavis.”

When she heard the whole story, she said I was being a butthead, though I eventually argued her into seeing it my way (I think). A key difference between my parents when I was a teenager was that one of them was wholly susceptible to logic and would say, “Well, you’re right. OK, I guess you can borrow the car and drive to Chicago,” whereas the one who now thinks I’m a butthead would say, “You win the argument, but you still can’t do it.”

Later my mother suggested trying to find out what the landlords’ actual concern is, in order to put their minds at ease, if possible, but by then I’d gotten an email from the building manager washing her hands of the whole affair and suggesting that if I plan to get two cats, I should notify the landlords myself.

Later I wondered if maybe the whole thing was simply to divert my mind temporarily from Thelonious's state of health. In many ways, she is doing fine. She is more or less active depending on the day, she is eating probably enough to keep going for now, and she seems to be finding some enjoyment in her life. She is getting thinner, but the main problem is the never-ending diarrhea.

I ran it by Dr. Press, who said the blood in her poop is “not concerning,” but he thinks the chances are pretty good that she has a significant cancer.

Along with Prednisone, she’s been taking a Chinese herb formula that is supposed to banish diarrhea, but if a patient reacts adversely to it, one tell-tale symptom is diarrhea, plus it’s homeopathic, so it works by providing a hair of the dog that causes the problem—in other words, something that causes diarrhea.

I don’t know if the herbs are prolonging the bowel problems, or if the herbs have improved her appetite, or if they’re doing nothing at all. I left a detailed message for Dr. Fong, but have yet to hear from him, so I stopped the herbs and will see if that seems to change things.

If the change is for the worse (and I wouldn’t say there’s that much leeway for experimentation here), I will put her back on them and increase the dose a tad, as had been mentioned.