February 27, 2020

So, the long and short of it is that Rox is a very senior cat, who should be turning 17 this June. And, as happens in senior cats, she is at Stage 2 Kidney Disease. We got blood results back today that say the prescription food that we are torturing (her words, not mine) her with is working, and the proteins in her bloodstream have gone down dramatically.

This is great news, but I understand the reality that we are buying time. Hopefully, very comfortable, happy, and loving time, but time. At some point, everyone – you, me, the dog next door, and yes, even Roxie – will shrug off the chains of mortality and become a different type of energy in the Universe.

But at least I get more of it with the Tabby Terror.

As I was talking with our vet about treatment options and care — over Roxie’s stoned-out-of-her-gourd body on the exam table, mind you — she paused, turned over an idea and very carefully slid it across to me.

“And look…this is an option…and I only recommend it because I’ve had very angry pet parents ask my why I didn’t bring them every possible option for treatment for kidney disease, but there are transplants for cats.”

Okay; I’ll bite. How does that work?

Well, gentle friends, it works by adopting some unsuspecting cat to reenact an urban legend upon, and then give that kidney to Roxie. Thereby, two cats and only two working kidneys.

To say my reaction was visceral might be an understatement, “That’s fucking ghoulish!”

The vet’s relief to my reaction was palpable. Roxie, however, informed us she could hear colors from the gabapentin I’d given her.

February 19, 2020

Charlie and I have been together for almost 18 years, which, if you’re doing the math at home, is almost 50% of my lifetime.

That said, we only got into (official) Communal Living, and Six-Figure Debt in 2013. So, for the first 11 years of The Grand Experiment, we not only lived in separate households, but separate ZIP codes, and three counties apart.

I still, as recently as last night, have dreams about us living apart. The theme about these “Living Apart” dreams is one of two things:

  1. We are, in fact, married, but he still lives in in Ashland, and I’m living at home with my parents. And I get very frustrated that we have not yet bought a house that we can live in together, or
  2. We are married, and working the jobs we currently have (me in Cleveland, he in Ashland), but we live in Ashland, and why, God, why haven’t we bought a house that’s not in Ashland?!

The first scenario is always much more unsettling when I wake up than the second. I’m equally distressed by both scenarios as I’m dreaming, but it’s weird that my subconscious may still be getting used to the fact that yes, a Major Lending Institution agreed with us that Charlie and I were totally good for the six figures we swore we’d pay back in a timely fashion.