Tag Archives: cat pee

The Great Realization

25 Aug

This past Friday night following a shift at work I arrived home to find blood on my desk. Obviously I freaked out because it was a clear indication that something was wrong with one of my cats. I immediately, and correctly as it turned out, figured it was Grete. She had been acting a little bit weird the past few weeks. She’s always been kind of a brat – waking me up in the morning by head butting me in a desperate attempt to get under the covers and knead me with her dagger-like claws and pissing on the floor right in front of the door to my bedroom if I didn’t feed her the second she started her dinnertime siren call – but she had never been overly vindictive. That is until a month or two ago when she decided to pee on my bed. That is the ultimate sign of feline displeasure. I will be the first to admit that there have been times when I have been remiss in my duties as a kitty mom. At that time, though, I’d been on top of it. So, what the fuck? I figured maybe something was wrong so I decided to take the two of them into the vet for their annual check-up (they get better health care than I do) and just see if maybe, just maybe, there was something beyond general cat-assiness that caused the problem. The vet seemed to think everything was okay. Great. I had an asshole on my hands.

Fast forward to the past week when I started noticing little dribbles of pee around the room. I started to feel like I was playing a game of whack-a-mole. You know, every time I would mop and then spot-clean the floor another dribble would appear. I started to get concerned. And then there was the blood. Clearly that was the last straw. Had to make an emergency appointment. So on Saturday morning at about 10, after sleeping barely at all following what amounted to a 16-hour bar shift between two places, I called the vet and made an appointment. And then I had to get Grete into her carrier. Have you ever tried putting a cat into a carrier? It is no easy task. It’s like they grow extra legs at every possible angle and use all those legs, and the claws that come with them, to forcibly keep themselves from being lowered into the chamber of doom. And then once you finally get them in there the yowling starts.

MEEEEOOOWWWWWW!!!!!!!! RRRAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!

It’s horrifying. It’s the sound that I imagine a whale would make if it was experiencing a slow and painful death. It would actually be funny if it didn’t make you ears bleed. (Okay, nevermind, it’s funny.) Anyway, I walked my screaming cat half a block down to the vet (bless you, convenience!) and checked her in at the desk. I then put her carrier down on one of the chairs in the waiting room and tried to distance myself. By this point she decided that yowling wasn’t working and thought that perhaps making sounds in a desperate attempt to evoke pity from me would be a more effective technique.

Roooooooooooooooo…… roooooooooooooooooo.

She has it down. At this point I noticed another lady in the room who was alternatively looking at me judgmentally (she had her carrier on her lap and was whispering through the grates to her noticeably silent cat) and then glancing at the carrier that housed Grete with a great deal of pity and concern. Obviously I must be a terrible cat mom since I was standing 5 feet away, giggling to myself. I looked at the lady and said

“She is very dramatic.”

At this point the lady realized I had a heart afterall and asked me what was wrong with my cat.

Lady: Just a check-up?
Me: No, an emergency appointment. (I realized right after I said it that this probably did not make her feel better about my relaxed stance.)
Lady: Oh! Bless her heart!
Me: I think she’s okay. I mean, she’s eating and drinking the normal amount. Has energy. There was just a little blood this morning so I think maybe she has a UTI or something like that.
Lady: Bless her.

At this point, two younger women came in with their cat which they set down on a chair in between where they both were sitting. They took turns clicking lovingly at her. Then one of them looked over at my carrier where Grete was now alternating noises.

MEEEEEEOOOOOWWWWW!!!! Roooooooo………..

I looked at them and I said

“She’s fine. I swear. Just dramatic. Tough to be a kitty, you know.”

Then, this.

Young Lady: Oh, she sounds just like Maddie! This is Maddie. (She gestured at the carrier.) Her name is Madison, actually, but we call her Maddie for short. Oh your cat is just beautiful. A tabby?
Me: Um…yea?
Young Lady: So cute. (Addressing who I assumed was her partner) Doesn’t she sound just like Maddie? I keep hearing her and thinking Maddie is throwing her meow! But she isn’t! It is a completely different cat!

At this point Grete and I got called into the office. I quickly smiled around the room, accepted the well wishes and the “bless hers,” walked into the exam room and explained to the vet tech what had been going on in my house the past few weeks. A few minutes later the vet came in, asked some more questions, did some feel tests and said it was likely a UTI, as I had suspected. We left the office $150 poorer and with a prescription for Clavamox. After dropping my still yowling and slightly traumatized kitty at home, I went to run some errands. During the errands I got to thinking about my experience in the vet office and I had a realization: I am not a cat lady.

Okay, so as a back story, when I adopted my cats over 4 years ago (I have two of them), my mother and I had a very serious (okay only sort of serious) conversation about what it takes to turn into a cat lady. At what number of cats is this an inevitability? We came to the conclusion that you could have up to three cats but once you found yourself at four and up you were basically screwed. I told my mom, at this point in all seriousness, to cut me off at three. We made it sort of a rule: over three, definite cat lady; under three, not so much. We did not, however, discuss the incidence of cat lady-ness at under three cats. It never really came up. I trusted in the fact that I was not a cat lady because I had under three cats, but perhaps there is more to it. Can one, without having an absurd number of felines, actually be a cat lady? I have a lot of thinking to do.

PS Grete is fine. Antibiotics are really something.

My No Good, Very Bad (Fluid Filled) Day

13 Aug

Is that blog title a copyright infringement?  I kind of feel like no because it is only a small portion of the title of the kids book but I also kind of think I am only saying that to make myself feel a little less like Fareed Zakaria.  If you have any insight or opinions, kindly leave them in the comment section below.  Thanks.

And now, on to the blog post!  As I have done before, I would like to preface the actual telling of this tale by saying that if you think girls are made of raw cookie dough and scotch, you probably should skip this post.  I refuse to feel badly for the men-folk out there who read this post despite my warnings and then complain to me about how they wished they hadn’t read it.  It’s happened before.  You know who you are and you have been warned.  Very well.

So yesterday before 2pm, about 1/4 of the way through my bartending shift, was a really shitty day.  Like epically, epically shitty.  Nobody died or anything so don’t go getting that idea.  It was just one of those days where nothing of consequence really happens but all of the non-events just generally blow.  It all started at 12am the night before when I decided to go to sleep rather than watching an episode of Friday Night Lights with my boyfriend.  I was trying to be responsible.  So, I got myself all ready and got into bed.  Generally, I am a very good sleeper.  One game (or part of a game, let’s be honest) of sudoku and I am sleeping like a baby.  But not that night.  I played a game, then another, and another.  Midnight turned to 1am…2am…3am.  I listened to my kittys running around the room with one of their favorite toys:  a wrapped straw.  I got annoyed at the noise it was making, got up, and hurled it down the hallway.  They brought it back and continued with their game.  At some point, I fell asleep.  And then, at 8:30, I awoke with a start.  Wide awake!  So, I went down the hallway to the bathroom to discover the thing that every woman hates to discover first thing in the morning.  Leakage.  God damnit.  Well, that’s okay.  Actually, looking back, I didn’t feel like it was okay in the moment, to be entirely honest.  I looked in the mirror to see an angry Rebekah staring back at me.  A Rebekah who wanted to rip her ovaries and uterus out of her body and then get back into bed and sleep soundly, and cleanly, for the next 10 days.  I decided instead to seize the moment and do the thing I had been putting off all week — I would wash my hair!  For those who know me, I have incredibly thick hair practically down to my ass so washing it is really nothing to sneeze at.  Afterwards, I felt much better.  I started packing for my upcoming trip to visit my Aunts in Pennsylvania.  I decided it wise to pack my back-up running shoes instead of my actual running shoes for a myriad reasons that I don’t feel it necessary to go into at this time.  I went over to the line of shoes outside my bedroom door, picked up my back-up pair and…what is that smell?  Ew!  What’s running down my arm?!  CAT PEE!  I stood there in disgust and disbelief, called to my boyfriend who was in the room presumably playing a game of backgammon on his phone.

Peeeeeeeeeee-eeeeeeete?  Will you come out here for a sec…?

I was trying to sound relaxed but I imagine there was a serious degree of panic and murderous rage in my voice.  I can only imagine the face he opened the door to.  The next 10 minutes saw me and Pete with bleach and paper towels, him calmly cleaning, me angrily cleaning and cursing the kittys at every opportunity.  It sounded something like this.

Me:  Stupid kittys.  Why do they do this?  No one else’s kittys ever pee on things.  Carrie’s kitty, she doesn’t pee.

Pete:  Actually, I’m pretty sure Carrie said she has gotten pretty adept at cleaning cat pee smell out of laundry, so…

Me:  (Stewing in silence at being proven wrong.)  Well, whatever.  These ones are the worst.  Why do they have to be such assholes?  Right now I hate them so much I wish we never got them.*  Ew!  Ew!  A drip!  Oh god.

Once the cleaning was complete, and I had sufficiently scoured my arm so I felt about 75% as clean as I did when I got out of the shower, Pete and I headed off, with packed bag in tow, to the bar.  Going to a bar job when you are already in a bad mood and having a bad day is not something for the faint of heart.  But I persevered (in all honesty, I didn’t have much of a choice).  One of my customers ordered a Chelsea Hop Angel.  It immediately kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Ten minutes later, someone else ordered the Kelso Pils.  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  Then the same fool who ordered the Chelsea Hop Angel ordered his fourth Brooklyn Lager and, wouldn’t you know it?  It kicked.  Had to run down and change it.  By this point I was so frustrated that I was storming around the walk-in fridge imagining that I was hearing a strange humming and that something in there might explode at any moment and wouldn’t that just figure?  I went to change the third and, as it turned out, final keg of the day and, in my haste to avoid death or dismemberment by walk-in fridge disaster, I didn’t put the sankey in properly and BOOM!  Beer geyser!  It was everywhere, but mostly it was everywhere on me.  Dripping down my face.  Stinking-up my hair.  Soaking into my clothes.  I was dripping and I was furious.  I stormed upstairs and stomped into the bathroom, likely alarming my few customers on the way through.  I took a quick sink-shower, praising myself for the choice to go make-up free at work that day.  No running mascara for this girl!  I went back behind the bar and begrudgingly served the offending beer to my normally-offensive sometimes customer.  Even he knew to keep his mouth shut (actually…he knew after I told him talking to me was probably not in his best interest at that particular moment.  Whoops).

Then, 2pm came around and as fast as the bad day started it came to a grinding halt.  I ate some snacks.  I threw some darts (4 bulls!).  I made some money.  And then I headed back to New Jersey for the first leg of my vacation.  And that’s where I sit right now.  At my grandpa’s old desk, looking forward to the week and hoping that I am a few good laughs away from my crappy day.

*I would like to say at this juncture that this is a sentence that leaves my mouth every now and again.  Truth is, I love the kittys.  I think they are the cutest kittys in the world and if you let me I will show you a picture of Grete in a bag.  I just wish they wouldn’t piss on my things.