Briefly,

1) No nibbles on the job front.  What I expected, but discouraging nonetheless.  I need time to concentrate and meet people in person so my all-over-the-map resume has some meaning to it.  I’m also concerned that I simply won’t find a job to cover my schedule.

2) Classes at USF start this week.  I’m now enrolled in both the chemistry and biology I wanted.  I should be estatic, but it just makes me so weary and decisions even harder - do I write off the non-refundable tuition to SPC or stick with it and make my schedule even worse?  It’s so disheartened to think of the time, energy, and yes, money, I put into to assuring my academic promotion when all along I’d get into these classes.

Not so briefly…we had a big scare with Sheba last night. 

We’ve known for over a week that someone else moved in with us here - a few hundred someone elses.  Returning to ground-floor apartment living has meant the return of fleas.  We talked with increasing frequency of frontline, but everything really came to a head Saturday night.

Frisco spent the entire night marching purposefully across the bed and my head.  I was pretty much ready to trade him in for a plant when around 2am we decided to get up for a while and I started petting him.

Then I realized he was marching for a cause - his neck was so flea bitten.

One awesome thing about ST is that he has the same values, principles, or insanity gene that I have so he agreed completely with the decision that 2am on a Saturday was the perfect time to get something done.  We couldn’t wait a minute longer.

I got out the flea comb, he got out the spray.  By 4am the cats seemed calmer and less parasictic hosts.

We went back to bed, got up around 8, had breakfast, did some shopping, then returned home for an afternoon of flea baths to really knock them on their asses.

Frisco and Roark went relatively calmly through the ordeal.  I’d never bathed Sheba before, but somehow I knew she was going to be worse.

She started out just as a expected.  Clawing at the proclein and giving her low, loud, moan.  But then something happened.

Instead of a purposeful strike at us or freedom, her legs sort of seemed to just flail.  ST held her gently down, then she flipped over and performed the most contorted flip that seemed very much against her will.  She stopped then, gasping for air.

We have guesses from seizure to heart attack to simply too much stress to allergic reaction to the soap.  While not knowing the cause added to our helplessness, it wouldn’t have aided us in her care.  She simply couldn’t breath.

ST picked her up to give her lungs more room.  After a few minutes we carried her out of the tub.  When an opening presented itself, she went right for the closet.  Not too strange, especially since the first few weeks she lived with me, she spent convalescing in one.

There was nothing we could do but offer towels to sit on (she definitely did NOT want to be dried), food (after we determined her breathing was better), water, and a litter box.

It was a rough night.  I got up around midnight and checked on the lump of fur hiding, not sure it would move.  But not only would she move, she came out and decided to spend the rest of the night in bed with me. 

Right now, she’s sitting by the patio like nothing happened.  Although I expect what we saw has some lasting damage, if only just making her older.

I, like most people I assume, view death very selfishly.  How does it effect me.  What will it do to me.  I’ve never wanted a person or animal to suffer, so I’m glad Sheba isn’t right now.  Because I just couldn’t handle losing her right now, in a way that I felt so responsible for.

She’s made such a recovery since the breast cancer detection.  It was easy to treat her the same.  But this weekend was like learning my grandparents will never travel again.  There are different set of rules for her now. 

There are six animals in my house. 

Some think other animals are food options.  (Busch looks longingly at Cocoa (dog/guinea pig))

Some think Mom has betrayed them by letting STRANGERS near their precious litter box.

Some think everyone needs to shut the fuck up and take a nap.  (Nap is Sheba’s answer to any problem.)

ST is in Alabama for the week.  He left Friday.  Let’s not discuss the fact that I miss him.  Instead, I will sum up missing him with this dialog snippet:

Me:  I miss you.  I think we need to break up.  This is icky.

Him: It feels weird doesn’t it?  Like something’s not right.

Me:  I…I just can’t take it.  What the hell is this feeling??

Him: I don’t know babe.  I just don’t know.

On top of the dog, ST has a small black cat.  She and I have a strange relationship in that I named her.  Before we met, he just called her “cat”.  I just couldn’t do that.  Pets have names, and she needed one.  It felt extremely presumptuous, but I asked if I could call her by a real name.  I started calling her Celeste.  That’s her name now, and she answers to it.  She’s become much more social since her christening.

In the beginning, it was a relief to date another pet owner.  And when I let Busch fall asleep on my lap after date #4?  I knew I was golden.

But my place?  WAY TOO FUCKING SMALL for all these animals.  I’ve coped by margarita for the weekend, but a girl has to be sober for class.  And I’m out of tequila.

Does this look like a girl worried about her x-ray to determine if the carcinoma has metastasized into her lungs?

No.  Sheba says to cancer, Step off Bitch.  Or I will cut you.

(For those unaware, cats are anesthetized for dental cleanings.  That’s probably important info to follow along…)
 
Today was the day I have been dreading for forever.
 
Years ago when I lived in Tallahassee my vet said, “These cats need their teeth cleaned!”  And I said, “Sure!”
 
And Frisco nearly died.
 
I was going to write, “And he nearly killed Frisco.”  But as much as I found the place incompetent in the aftermath, I will agree that Frisco probably freaked out on them when they were not expecting it and caused part of the problem.
 
(Still.  They should be used to cats freaking out on them.  They should be careful with anesthesia dosing.  They should be upfront, calm, and informative when they call you to say your cat has to stay longer due to his bad reaction.)
 
Frisco and Roark have never been anesthetized since.  I believe we agreed once to let the vet we loved, loved, loved (and W had worked for) put Sheba under to do a dental.
 
But I no longer live near the vet we loved, loved, loved.  I no longer live on the property of an exotic cat sanctuary where I am fearful of spreading diseases.  I hadn’t taken the cats to a vet or been current on their shots in two years.
 
Then Frisco had to go and not eat for a day.  When I say Frisco did not eat for a day, imagine, “And the world stopped turning, the locusts came, and lo there was much suffering.”  Because it is a sign of the apocalypse if any animal in my household is not wavering somewhere between, “I could eat a bite” and “CALL THE ASPCA.  SHE HAS NOT FED US IN TWO HOURS.  DEATH IS IMMINENT.”
 
 No one is ever not hungry.  Nothing is inedible.  I pulled Roark off a plate with leftover salsa drips yesterday.
 
So Frisco went off food for a few hours, I freaked out, and wham, bam, thank you ma’am, we were at the vet’s.
 
The vet thought I was a little dotty, and really tried to find something wrong with him because hi, I decided to come to the vet’s.  No dice.  There was nothing wrong except his teeth needed cleaning.
 
La, la, la I can’t hear you.
 
The vet thought I was a little dottier when told about “The Bad Experience” from so long ago and I was against an important procedure that would increase Frisco’s life span.
 
I hate it when someone else is right.  Especially when it’s going to cost me a butt load of money.
 
I wrangled Sheba and Roark in there for checkups as well, because I was sure they needed it too.  This also gave me a little more time to fall in love with the vet and, more importantly, for him to fall in love with the cats. 
 
(I think he’s also a tad smitten with me, but that’s neither here nor there.  He just needs to adore my babies as much as possible so he does not leave them lifeless on the surgery table.)
 
We had to schedule far in advance because I really wanted them all done on the same day so there would be no beating up of the groggy cat(s) by the happy cat(s).  Now everyone will be groggy and puking on Mommy’s bed at the same time.  Whee.
 
We scheduled so far in advance it didn’t seem real to me.  And then wham, bam, thank you ma’am, it’s here.  I withheld breakfast (NOOOOOOOOO!  WHY DON’T YOU LOVE US??  Or, more accurately, “Meow?  Meow?  Meow!  Meow?  Meow!  Meow!  Meow!  Meow?  Meow?  Me…ow?  Meow! Meow!), lugged three carriers down to the car, and signed their lives away. 
 
(Do not rationalize with me.  These cats have had two “daddies”, more “uncles” than I should ever admit to, and have soaked up an ocean of tears in their fur.  They deserve me freaking out over a medical procedure.)
 
But first?  I found the lump.
 
I was curled up in my reading chair last night petting Sheba when I rubbed her belly and felt something.
 
A lump.  Right next to her left, middle, nipple.
 
GAH!
 
But also, whew.  What better time to find this than before a day she’s scheduled to be at the vet’s?
 
Despite the few hundred dollars in price difference, the vet really didn’t have to convince me to have it biopsied versus just doing an aspirate.  More like I called him and demanded he tell me anything less than a biopsy was unpatriotic.  (“Yes, it is best…your dottiness.”)  Aspirates are not as accurate, and (more importantly) the lump might have to come out anyway, which would mean a second surgery.
 
Funny thing is that before bringing her in this morning, I wasn’t concerned about the lump at all.  I told myself it was a fatty deposit, cyst or something like that.  But now that the dental is over?  Well, now I have the room to worry about something else.  Why hello lump!  How are you?  Cancer you say?  Awesome.

To end on a positive note, we are all home and well enough for now.  Frisco did have to have different sedation meds to calm him in the beginning which means he’s a bit loopier than the rest.  He’s back legs aren’t communicating with the rest of him and he’s listing to the left.  But he’s definitely hungry.  Right now he’s walking from bowl to bowl (Sheba and Roark aren’t as interested) like it was a buffet.  I’ve tried to get pictures for you guys but I had to quit.  Every time he heard the camera chime on, he would immediately bolt (hind legs following five minutes after) for the next bowl.  Like people who think a picture will steal their soul, he’s afraid it will take away his appetite.

That’s what I told people I’m writing about from now on.

And the cats are helping.  Evidently they tried to write the great American novel with magnetic poetry.

This was in the water bowl:

Can you read that?  Blood.  Of.  Puppy.

So less a novel and more a death threat.  I’m still proud they can use a preposition.

The irony is that Bernie was named after the movie Weekend at Bernie’s.  Because like the movie Bernie, he was supposed to already be dead.
 
(People who know me in real life?  SO sick of that joke.)
 
The fact is Bernie was to be food, not a pet.  I am not going to share the details, but I hope everyone reading here knows me well enough to trust that I do not go around feeding animals to other animals unless it is necessary.  If I did, I wouldn’t put it in writing.
 
It was a life or death situation, and live prey was a possible solution.  Unfortunately, death came before Bernie could be supper.  Or I suppose fortunately if you were Bernie.
 
While I am pragmatic about the circle of life and had no issue offering up choice food to an animal that hadn’t eaten in weeks, I am not cruel.  I would not just chuck Bernie to a willing carnivore for the sake of it.
 
So.  Animal dead.  Bernie alive.  In a laundry basket in our bathroom.
 
I was married at the time and after discussing options we decided we should just suck it up and admit that we owned a guinea pig.
 
I had never really liked rodents.  But the truth is, Bernie had an awesome personality.  He was spunky and loving all at the same time.  He was fearless around the cats and our dog. 
 
(The cats and dog basically looked at him with amused interest.  He was big enough to not be an immediate dinner option and I’ve been lucky to raise my animals with a high tolerance for other species.)
 
He felt Sheba was his girlfriend, and would sit as close as possible to her on the couch, leaning in lovelorn.
 
After we gave in to the inevitable that we were now cavy owners, we started doing some research.  For one, almost all store-bought cages are too small.  Many people do not understand the importance of a continuous supply of timothy hay.  And, most important, guinea pigs are social animals and can die from depression.
 
It was clear to us from the very beginning that Bernie was incredibly social.  He loved attention from anyone or thing in the house.  So on top of creating a big open cage out of Rubbermaid wreath containers, we started looking into a second guinea pig.
 
(Not only was the bigger cage good for his health, but also it allowed more interaction with humans walking by.)
 
I saw Bernie and Cocoa as more my ex-husband’s pets than mine.  But when we split, he didn’t want them.  We already had to give up the dog and it killed me.  I couldn’t abandon more animals.  So Bernie and Cocoa came with me.
 
I particularly enjoyed it when I moved into the condo, because the floor is mostly tile and the rug is short, stiff fibers.  Very easy to clean up after them.
 
Bernie was over four-years-old.  Getting up there but definitely not geriatric. I found him dead but still warm this morning. 
 
I examined him some and his bottom teeth looked a little long.  I am wracked with guilt that I didn’t check his like I did Cocoa’s when I clipped their toenails last.  (Cocoa bites sometimes, so I have his teeth more on my mind.)
 
Besides noticing just yesterday afternoon that the food dish and water bottle seemed a bit too full, I had no other warning.  After that observation, I handed out timothy hay and parsley before heading to the sanctuary.  Bernie partook of at least the parsley.  He hadn’t lost any weight that I could tell or showed any other symptoms of an issue.  He had never needed teeth trimming in the four years I’d owned him.  I should have checked, but it isn’t anything I’ve ever had an inclination would be a problem with him. 
 
And even with all that said, I can’t be sure what really happened.  That’s frustrating.  I am teaching all the other pets to write so they can leave me goodbye notes and be specific on what I should feel guilty about.
 
I am sad that he is gone.  He was a chipper, demanding little guy who made me laugh.  I am sadder for Cocoa though.  They were a good pair.  Cocoa is not taking this well; just laying there right now.
I’m not quite sure what I will do now.  I might try letting Cocoa live free-range so that he has the company of the cats full time.  But he has always been more skittish of them than Bernie.  I really can’t see myself getting another guinea pig.  And Cocoa’s age and health (tumor) don’t make him a great candidate for adoption.
 
This was definitely an unpleasant way to start my day.  And yes, I can’t help but think about karma and jinxes and such.  But the funny thing about that is, last night was the first time in a long while that TG spent the night.  We’ve both been so busy; away on trips and having to be places early even on weekends.  And the last couple of times we did spend the night together was at his (cat-hair-free, big-screen-TV) place. 
 
Just having him there, someone to talk to about it, rub my back, sympathize that picking up dead pet is just not a good morning activity, was a real help.  So while the world might like to let me know I am not above life’s icky parts, at least it didn’t kick me in the teeth after throwing me to the ground.