Sam and I have a running joke. Often, we'll be watching mind-numbing tv shows about "real" life murder mysteries. Nine times out of ten, the narrator says; "We'll never really know for sure..." This is after we spent an HOUR of our time watching and wondering how the story will end. To hear it's "we'll never really know" not only defeats the entire purpose of watching the show in the first place, it also pisses me off good!

If I'm going to waste my time in front of the TV, I need RESOLUTION (pardon the pun).

So my dear Spencer and I went to visit Dr. Larry. I was fully prepared for him to give me shit about ripping out my own cat's fur, that I'm a stupid pet owner and it's nothing to worry about-other than being stupid makes me worry. I just wasn't careful enough removing Spencer's mats and "baldness happens."

Dr Larry didn't let me down. After a few minutes pretending he was calling the "authorities" to report me for abusing my cat, he sat down to take a good look.

The two, nearly symmetrical bald patches don't have any crusting or oozing. They're both about 2 x 3 inches. The skin is pink. Spencer doesn't seem to be itchy. Dr. Larry turned off the lights. We weren't alone so there was no hope for a makeout session. Dang! Oh, he was just using the Wood's Lamp to check for...oh shit...RINGWORM!

The smile on my face weakened into a razor straight line. I kept thinking; Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! NOT RINGWORM!!!!!!

I looked while Dr. Larry was talking. He saw some slightly reflective scaly areas that were tiny. One of the bald spots had a slight pale white edge to it.

Well? Was it RINGWORM?

"We can't really be sure right now."

SHIT! It's like watching 48 Hrs! Change the channel! Change the channel!

With no better programming available, I was stuck in an answerless void. Dr. Larry removed a few of Spencer's hairs and placed them into a vial with some goop in it (that is a technical term; goop). The test for ringworm takes 2-3 WEEKS. Meanwhile, there is nothing else to be done. We decided to run a full blood panel to rule out hypothyroid (even if it's rare in most cats, I've already had one cat who had it and Dr. Larry knows my cats get weird stuff-it's almost a rule). Plus, Spencer is due for a dental in January AND we can also check his BUN because now that we know he's a purebred Weegie (well, sort of), we're going to watchout for polycystic kidney disease, too. See? I'm smart! I know stuff! I spent $220 on the Vet visit. Wait? Is that smart? Not so sure.

Spencer did not care to have his blood drawn, as usual, but this time Super Deb showed me she still had all her fingers attached to her hand, after the blood draw was finished. The only injury was to the towel they restrained Spencer with. It had to be put down due to it being ripped to shreds.

So am I a stupid pet owner?

We'll never really know for sure...

It doesn't suprise anyone that I want to do the BEST I can for each of my "resident" cats, as well as my fosters, but it isn't always possible. I realize that having seven cats (plus God knows how many fosters) means that each cat might not get everything they need every day. Sure, they get FED daily, and if I'm not feeling too lazy, I slug their water fountain over to the sink to rinse it out every few days (and they get a small bowl of fresh water every day, too). I try to play with the cats and give them each, at least a few minutes of my time. Some get more than others. Some gravitate to Sam, so that lightens the load a bit, but it has to be tough on the cats-especially Gracie and Petunia.

Gracie came to me six years ago as an "unwed Mother" with her three offspring. Because I had trouble placing her and her daughter, Petunia, I decided I had room in my home to keep them. I never really had a strong bond with them, but I also didn't want to continue trying to find them homes after almost a year. I was with the wrong rescue group who put my kitten on the back burner, until she was too big to be attractive to many families, and both of the cats were skittish and showed poorly.

Over the years, Petunia has developed territorial aggression and some aggression towards a few of the other cats. She did a lot of inappropriate urination, which drove me mad. Getting a consult with a behaviorist, seeing my Vet, reading about cat behavior, I came to be able to work with Petunia, to a point. Clearly, she feels she is not getting enough attention and does not care to have other cats in "her" space-like my bedroom. I've worked on giving her more attention and playtime, but, again, with the duties of a foster mom and the other cats having their issues, there isn't a lot of time for her. It's my fault.

Meanwhile, it's been a YEAR since Gracie began her odyssey with Miliary Dermatitis, possibly brought on by her own high strung emotional state. Gracie will RUN if anyone comes close to her. Partly it was from all the medications and baths she's gotten over the past year, partly because she is a nervous cat. She's been pulling out her fur, over grooming herself and vomiting it up. I haven't seen her pull her fur, but there are clear signs something is going on. Even with all this, Gracie STILL wants to sleep near me at night and still wants attention, but is fearful if I step closer to pet her.

Dr. Larry says to re-home the both of them. As I've written before, they are 6 and 9 years old. It would be VERY tough to find them a home I'd feel was good enough to care for them. I'd also miss them. They do have some adorable qualities! I just wish they could relax...

So, after all this time, I've decided to try one last thing-Elavil. Yes, my cats are on anti-anxiety meds. Here I am, studying cat behavior, trying to help other people with their cats, when my own are so messed up I finally decided to medicate them. Surely, there is another way? Surely if there is, I'm not sure what it would be at this point.

I started Gracie on 10mg, once per day. In two days, whatever existed of Gracie's personality was gone. She was lifeless and very depressed. She didn't run off, but she seemed to lose interest in life. She ate like a pig, but stayed by herself, not wanting to be around anyone else. I could not get near her. I took her off the meds for a week, spoke with Super-Deb, the Vet tech, and decided to halve the dose and see if that helped.

Right around this time, I was seeing more and more aggression from Petunia towards Nora-who was doing NOTHING, just minding her own business. Unprovoked attacks on the rise, another call to Super-Deb and we agreed it was time to put Petunia on the other half dose.

Both girls have been on the half dose for a week now. Gracie is perky, eating well, wants to be close to me, but is still nervous. Her skin improved with a shot of vetalog and I'm waiting to see if it STAYS that way now she's not so nervous. So far, so good. Just a tiny outbreak, but not bad. She likes to visit me at night and purrs and like her pets, she's just not quite so stressed out.

Petunia seemed more clingy to her mom, but also seemed to be less high strung. I thought it was going all right, but in the past day she's actually gotten MORE aggressive towards Nora. Is she fighting her "mellow" feelings by overcompensating her attacks? I put her on the full 10mg dose today to see if that makes a difference.

My hope is to give it a month and re-evaluate. If the girls are doing better, I may continue it another month or may wean them off it slowly. I want them to gain confidence and reduce aggression or self-multilation. I WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY, but the price they have to pay to get there is the problem. I hope, in the end, it's worth it. Right now it feels like I'm running out of options. This is my last chance to make it work for them to continue living here.

They said if I could keep him restrained for five minutes that should do it. Who were they kidding?

Two seconds in and my right bicep had already endured multiple lacerations. I was convinced my left eye was in imminent danger. I should have put a shirt on before attempting this. In fact, safety goggles were probably in order. How could an otherwise docile 8 year-old be so strong?

Four seconds in and I wasn’t sure how much longer I would last. This is what I get for skipping Total Body, I thought to myself.

Dr. Larry didn't see anything that would cause concern on Bob's x-ray, but as you know, x-rays don't show everything. Bob's blood panel came back mostly just fine, but there was one serious value, that of his ALT or liver function. Bob's always had a high ALT, up to about 450 or so, when in the 20-100 is normal. Bob was on Denamarin for a long time, but when he was sick last year, I took him off it. Last May his ALT was down to 236, which we all considered to be good news. Today it was in the 700's!

I don't know if Bob's fall injured his liver or that his liver is in bad shape and it was just fate that we found out he was in trouble after his fall. Or, if Bob had a heart attack since ALT can raise from heart ailments, too.

Bob's already back on the Denamarin and to be extra careful, I'm taking Bob to VREC in Norwalk early tomorrow afternoon to get an ultrasound done of his liver. Going there means giving them my wallet, but so be it. I will do whatever it takes for Bob.

Bob's home. He ate well for me and then had a big drink of water. He's hanging out, watching what's going on. I wish he'd get on his fluffy bed and rest, but maybe it's good that he's alert.

Thursday I'm supposed to fly to Chicago to attend Petsmart Charities Feline Forum. I can't leave here knowing Bob's health is at risk. I hope to get some answers tomorrow and find out if it's OK for me to leave Bob for a few days. Sam will be here, but he tells me he'll be away from home for a long chunk of the day on Friday and he's busy with work. I'm really the hawk when it comes to keeping an eye on how the cats are doing.

By the way, we measured the distance Bob fell so I can tell the Vet tomorrow-16.6 feet. If he fell a few inches closer to the deck, he would have hit some large rocks. It made me sick to realize that. I just hope Bob will be all right. I'm scared to know what they'll find out tomorrow. I fear that this is the beginning of the end for him.

This chapter is a difficult one to write both physically and emotionally. Last night I wrestled with whether or not I should leave out what happened and just keep this as a positive, uplifting story, but that's not how life goes some times.

The truth is, socializing feral kittens can be difficult, frustrating and painful. It's part of the process. Some times all the work is for naught. Some times we have to accept the results we get, knowing we did our best. Some times things go beautifully and without a hitch and it's just another notch on our belt of success.

Yesterday, though Tweetie was mellow and friendly, the three kittens I introduced him to, didn't care for him one bit. Poor Tweetie wanted to fit in and play, but they just hissed and arched their tiny backs. Eventually, Tweetie hissed back and ran off to hide in his carrier. I got them all to play together and eat in close proximity, but clearly the kittens were all stressed.

Tweetie putting up with hisses from Sprinkles

Pixie, is not thrilled, while Tweetie looks to make friends elsewhere.

At 6pm Sprinkles' adoptive family come to see her again. Since they also wanted to see Tweetie, I left him in the room, instead of moving him to his private quarters.

Still hoping to make friends. Tweetie tries his luck with Twinkles.

Friend or Foe? Who's that knocking upon my door?

It was clear, fairly quickly, that all the kittens were stressed during the visit. Because it was important that Sprinkles show well, I realized I needed to move Tweetie to his room. Tweetie was upset. I reached to scruff him and he went down right away. A good, submissive move.

Because I was distracted by the visitors, I missed scruffing Tweetie properly and grabbed his shoulder. He flipped out and bit me. Instead of moving my hand, which I SHOULD HAVE DONE, I tried to adjust my grip, but it was too late. Tweetie's teeth sunk deeply into my index finger-the same one he bit a week ago.

Instead of screaming, I calmly let him go, stood up and told him to "go to your carrier." As I walked behind him, he ran into his carrier. I shut the door, preparing to return him to his room. My finger was throbbing painfully and starting to gush blood. Sprinkles' family thought I had magic powers over cats, by getting Tweetie to obey me so quickly, but I just knew he'd run to the first, small, dark place he could find.

I summoned up the courage to be calm and excused myself from the room, bringing Tweetie with me. I put him back in his room and quietly left him to calm down while I took care of my wounds.

I have five bite marks on my finger. It hurts like Hell. I furiously cleaned my finger, fearing infection. I've been down this road before with my very own formerly feral cat, Cricket. He sent me to the hospital once when he didn't want to go to the Vet. He sunk his teeth into my hand. It swelled up like a balloon, even though I cleaned it out. I got a few shots, one in the ass, for my troubles. I wasn't sure this wound was that serious. I sure hoped it wasn't.

The family finally left and I basically fell apart. I haven't slept well for a long while and I was very upset, thinking about Tweetie. He'd made all this great progress. Would his chances of being adopted end because he bit me? Would anyone see past that and feel safe around him?

I know it was MY FAULT that Tweetie bit me. He told me, most clearly, that he was upset and I did not heed his warning signs, so the warnings became more explosive. I never should have touched a cat in the "red zone." I should have re-directed him with a toy and got him into his carrier. My fear was how would he behave now that we've had this "incident?"

I went to bed at 10pm after getting everyone fed. Normally I'm up much later, but my body was aching. I laid in bed and couldn't get comfortable. I tossed and turned, worrying about Tweetie. In my heart, even though he hurt me, I know he didn't mean it.

I got up an hour later and made some chamomile tea. It tastes like ass (actually, I never tasted an ass, so this is just a guess). I brought it into Tweetie's room, not knowing what his state of mind would be.

He was sitting on the cat condo, so I sat on the floor next to it. I didn't reach out to give him a pet, I just looked over at him. He looked at me and burbled, then cocked his head, curious as to why I wasn't petting him. He jumped off the condo and nervously ran past me. He sat on the floor and looked at me as I sipped my tea.

He got up and jumped onto my leg. As I lifted the teacup to my lips, he head-butted my elbow and burbled another greeting. I touched his back and he melted into my lap, looking up at me as if nothing tragic had happened and that everything, as far as he was concerned was just fine...and oh, could I pet him some more so he could purr louder??

So this, my friends, is part of my difficult journey with a cat who has literally gotten under my skin in so many ways. He's a good egg, I promise. I take all the blame for what happened. I'm not sure what this means for him or if it's just another bump in the road? I just hope beyond hope's limits that I can find Tweetie the loving home he so deserves and a band-aid for my finger. I seem to be out.