There’s something you guys need to know about me. I’m a crazy cat lady. Yes. I mean full cat lady and full crazy. Now, I don’t let my cat lick my ice cream from my spoon like Roberta. But I only find that semi-disgusting and not full-out gross. The bottom line is that I care more about cats than I do about people. Depending on how you look at it, you could call me a bitch. Or, I just have a bigger heart than most.
Animals have feelings. And they don’t have the opportunity to blog about their problems or tell us what’s wrong, so as their guardians we have extra responsibility to care for them and ensure that they know they are loved.
So here is the problem, my kitty Oliver has been in pain for months. It started out that he was constantly in the litter box trying to take a crap. Now, originally I was concerned that he had the dump the size of a golf-ball brewing and might need some sort of monstrous laxative. So when I asked the almighty Google how to care for a constipated cat, the most reliable search-engine responded that what looked like kitty constipation often turned out to be urinary problems. So, I took him to the vet. He was prescribed pain medication and told to drink lots of fluids and wet-food.
So a few days later Oliver was happily using the bathroom and I thought all was well. But my bitch of a roommate (more on Hortencia later), wouldn’t let me feed Ollie wet food because of the smell (but the fact that Hortencia’s vagina smelled like the rotting frittata in our fridge didn’t bother her much).
So a few months later and once again Oliver was partially blocked and couldn’t pee. He meowed at me a lot, peed on my bath rug (in front of me), and in the sink (in front of me), and in a box (in front of me), and of course I got the message. Honestly, cats are such intelligent creatures. They find a way to tell you when something’s wrong, whether it’s constant meowing or peeing on your roommate’s things, (I’d pee on Hortencia’s things too if I could). So, I got the medication and all was well. I thought this might happen a few more times but I knew I would be moving soon and then be able to feed Oliver proper food – even if it did smell a bit like vomit. That was a sacrifice I was willing to make for my child. You would too. But apparently not Hortencia because she’s a bitch.
But then things took a turn for the worse. It was the night before my move. I was plastered after too much alcohol. I only had two glasses of wine, but I guess that’s quite enough for me. Or I was drugged. Yeah. I was probably drugged. Roberto was taking care of me as all good boyfriend’s do. Well, technically he’s not my boyfriend because he hasn’t “asked me officially” yet. But it’s way less complicated to introduce Roberto as my boyfriend or non-boyfriend so we will stick with that. But here’s the weird part about Roberto, my nickname for Roberta is Roberto. How weird is that?
Back to the story, Roberto was taking care of me and all the sudden we hear a growl from a horror movie. It was Oliver. Under the bed, crying with pain. This was it. The end. He was throwing up and peeing blood. Something had to be done. So the next day, after the movers had finally moved my things to my way more chic apartment by Lincoln Center (living in East Harlem with Hortenica was one of the biggest mistakes in my life, and I don’t make mistakes, only happy accidents. So that is saying something) — Roberto and I went to the cat hospital. It was there that they told me how serious the situation was. They said that they would give him IV fluids and that he would need to get seen by a vet ASAP if he did not pee. But it was a miracle, when we got home and he had pain medication he peed a lot. Like I’m taking glass half full of piss. Litter box super clumpy type of piss. It was as if God himself came down and blessed my cat with a perfect bladder. But not for long.
Because God sucks. And totally fucks up my life one day, makes it amazing the next, and then has diarrhea again the next day. I come to work late because I had spent the previous night in the hospital. And they fired me. Now, to be completely honest I was expecting it. I had been sick a lot (I think I have Lyme disease), and I have a sleeping disorder (called STM. Sleeping Too much), so they had to let me go. It was really hard, I was totally depressed. And still kind of am. But it was a wake up call that I need to take my life seriously. It really wasn’t God’s fault, if anything it was a blessing. If I hadn’t lost my job Oliver would have died and this is why.
That night I went to New Jersey to spend time with Roberto in his full-sized bed. But I needed to board Oliver. So I took him to a vet near Roberto house, cried in Roberto’s arms about how fucked up my life was, had lots of sex (for the endorphins to help with being depressed), fell fast asleep in Roberto’s big-strong-manly arms. But I woke up to like 15 voicemails, more than I ever wake up to, even with my parents and grandparents combined. So I was really worried. The vet asked me where I was, they had been calling since 8AM and it was now 2PM.
I didn’t want to tell the vet that I slept all day so I told them that I had had some problems with my phone, totally true. The problem was that their calls did not wake me up. But it turned out Oliver had been completed blocked (the crystals had consumed his urethra and they needed a catheter to unblock his peen). They told me that I urgently needed to transport him to a 24/7 animal hospital because they might need to perform surgery.
I remember hysterically crying on the phone with my Mom who knew how important the cat was to me, but really didn’t want to pay for my lifestyle because I didn’t have a job anymore. But all my lifestyle entails is my cat. My cat is my lifestyle. He is my life. He is my everything. She suggested I put him down and I erupted into sobs. Finally she said that she would fork over the money, on one condition: I get my shit together. More on that later.
So finally Oliver was able to get the treatment he deserved. Now, I didn’t really know what the surgery entailed. Only that it was very expensive, like 2/5ths the cost of a Birkin expensive. All I knew was that they would need to widen the Urethra. That sounded difficult, I Googled it. It meant they would be amputating his penis.
Unfortunately, they would not let me keep his penis (I named it Princess Charlotte because it was my little Princess). In fact, they even made me pay a hazardous waste fee. Those fucking bastards. I was planning on selling his penis to a sketchy man on craigslist who offered 2k for it. Losing my job saved my cats life but sacrificed his penis.
Moral of the story: life is never what you expect it to be. When things get bad, they get really bad, then even worse. But that’s when you see the silver lining. Losing my job, but keeping my cat’s life. Stay positive friends, the worst is yet to come.