The kittens arrived a few hours ago. They're all orangey-buff tabbies. I can barely tell them apart. I got them settled and took a few photos which I'll upload in a bit. I'm distracted. Kittens, yes, great. I hear thudding coming from the foster room above me, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

Three years ago today, my Mother died. Three years ago tomorrow, I found her body. Not a fun confession, but compared to all the others regarding my Mother's life, it not as bad. Like everyone else, my relationship with my Mother was complex. Often it was difficult, but with time softening my memories and the fact that I finally know the truth about some things; I'm to a place where I'm starting to just miss her.

Circa 2001. Mother at The Last Post in Falls Village, CT

My Mother introduced me to cats. When she was about to give birth to my brother, I was sent to stay with some friends of hers who lived on a farm. In my Mother's journal from those days she writes; "Robin thrives with Mary Ann, cats, horses, dogs etc. Her suggestion for naming the baby: Candy. Shows how her mind works. Like Mama, like daughter."

She also got me my first kitten when I was just four years old. Her name was Sarafina (my little Angel) -a pure white kitten with blue eyes. Sadly, we moved not long after we adopted Sarafina and we were separated during the move. My Mother told me that she was staying at a Vet's in Ohio until we were unpacked. I kept asking about the kitten. Then one day, my Mother told me she got sick and had died! She never even had a chance to grow up. I never knew if that was the truth or not. It was not out of the question for my Mother to lie. Of course, I was devastated.

While I'm in a confessing mood, I can add that the biggest point of contention between us wasn't about my relationships or my career path or my weight; it was about cats. As far back as when I was in my teens, I remember my Mother being against taking the cats to the Vet. She thought it was cruel to make them suffer! When my brother's cat got sick, I took him to the Vet and cared for him. He was very very ill but I never gave up. Eventually Yukio, our big lug of a cat, got better for a few more years before he passed away at just nine years old.

As an adult, our conflicts grew worse. It started out to be charming that my Mother felt she needed to feed every creature that came to her door. She put food out for birds, squirrels, raccoons and any cat who came by. At any given time there were scraps of food or seeds on the deck. Once in awhile I'd see a friendly stray or neighbor's cat munching away a bowl of dry food.

We gave many of these cats nicknames. One was called, OJ. He was a big orange tom. He was always covered in scratches from fighting. He was intact, I'm sure. One day he disappeared and never came back. My Mother was very upset for a long time. She could have taken the cat in, but she felt he deserved his "freedom" whatever the cost.

She continued with this attitude, which I didn't pay much attention to, until she began to feed a new big orange tom cat she named; Bob Dole. Bob got his name from his injuries. He showed up at her door with a serious leg wound. I nagged at her to get him to the Vet. For once she agreed to get me off her back. Bob got the treatment he needed, but that was it. Bob was not neutered. Again, a conflict. My Mother didn't want to take anything away from Bob that would effect his FREEDOM. She was SO BIG on that term. I'm sure it had nothing to do with Bob and everything to do with her. She felt trapped in her life with my Father and probably with her kids, too. Knowing Bob was out there populating the neighborhood was fine with her. He could do as he pleased even if she could not.

I had to tread carefully and pick my battles. It was "too expensive" to get Bob fixed, so I worked out a trade with my Vet. He would do it for free if I trained his wife on how to use the computer. Great! She couldn't argue with me now, even though I knew she was pissed when I figured away around her argument. I got Bob neutered, all his shots, then Dr. Larry said his teeth looked really bad. I knew this was not going to go over with my Mother.

As best I could, I brought up the topic of Bob's teeth with my Mother and she said NO WAY. Too much money. Not going to make the cat suffer-though apparently it was FINE to make him suffer with a painful mouth.

We also had a big fight over another stray, a small gray cat. One day my Mom says the cat's EYE is hanging out of her head. Too bad. "I guess nature will take its' course."

That's it? No taking the cat to the Vet? I bullied my Mother until she promised to let me know when I might be able to get my hands on the cat. The next day she called me and I drove over to get the kitty. If you look back a few posts, you'll see a photo of that kitty-her name was Sasha and she not only needed her eye removed, she was SO FULL of parasites that after she got treated, she was pooping worms like they had never seen before!

The worst was how she treated her own cat, Blue; a chocolate point siamese. Blue got a urinary blockage and my mother let him suffer and die. When I found out, I was so angry I didn't speak to her for many months. In my heart, I could never forgive what she did. I could never understand WHY someone who literally had the IQ of a GENIUS, could not get her mind around the fact that she was responsible for this life and feeding it and cleaning the litter pan wasn't enough. She had the money to help the cat. That wasn't even an issue.

A rare photo of Me with Mum. 2001.

So this is my private, now public shame. My own Mother, who I did my best to love; who I'm not sure how she felt about me, could have easily been arrested for cruelty to animals. I feel like I have to make up for the suffering she caused and you can bet that every time I look at Bob and see his shiny coat and hear his deep purr, I feel like, at least I could save him. I couldn't save my Mother from her private Hell and I can assure you, it WAS HELL for her in this life, but I can do this one thing. Maybe in some twisted way, I'm doing for my Mother, what she could not find the courage to do for herself-get involved with the suffering of another being and be willing to face the consequences of that, whatever it costs.

I'm left feeling confused and sad, ashamed and distraught. I can't change the past. I can only do what's best for the animals in my life now, and every day from now on, and hope that it's enough.

I love you, BOB! (He looks like Puss in Boots from Shrek!)

Bob had a re-check after his dental procedure, tooth extraction and adventure with Metacam (see back a few posts). Looks like the old fella is doing well. His toothie holes have closed up and healed nicely. Considering Bob is FIV+ this is pretty darn good news!

Bob's had this weird head-shaking thing for a few years and I thought the dental would stop the problem. Bob shakes his head and his tongue comes out and sort of licks sort of doesn't lick his mouth. Hard to describe. I thought one of his teeth was the culprit. Now that the dental is over, he does it less, but still does it. Dr. Larry gave me some drops to put in his ears. He assures me they are 20 times more poisonous than Metacam is, so we should be in good shape.

That was a joke.

Ever since I "yelled" at Dr. Larry about prescribing Metacam, every chance he gets Dr. Larry tells me how he's sure I'll be using it again and that it's just fine for short term and then..tease...tease...Metacam.

Well Poop on your Metacam, Dr. Larry! Hmpf! Glad my Bob survived your prescription!

Later that same morning, about 5:06AM:

I realize I never bothered to look at the insert in the box the pain meds came in. I only had to medicate Bob for four days, so why get involved with reading miniscule type with my old people eyeballs?

Really, how bad could it be?

Then I went online and saw THIS.

WHAT

THE

#^#$!?!

Apparently Metacam is NOT approved for use in

CATS

Last I checked, BOB IS A

CAT!

And WHY didn't anyone bother to tell me it has known side effects of

ACUTE (horrible terms since it's far from CUTE) RENAL FAILURE!

This is for a CAT who is at least 15. It would be one thing if Bob was young, maybe he would have better odds of surviving this stuff, but GEEZUS. Maybe we should have let him suffer for a few days with a sore tooth hole and not risk

KILLING HIM!!!!!

Just makes sense to me and ever more so at about 5:37 am.

So let's be calm. It's just one web site with about 30 horror stories of cats on Metacam. I found another web site that said, hey, it's not THAT bad and since cats can't handle pain killers, this is about the best that can be done for them and the benefits outweigh the risks.

This is like the time I took VIOXX. Wow, did I feel good, but luckily I didn't take it for very long because it could have DIED from it. Oops! Guess the FDA missed that one. Oh and when I took "Yaz---that fun and funky birth control pill that's supposed to make your periods like a blissful day at the spa? Well, I was on it for four months. I didn't SLEEP. I got PMDD, instead of PMS and I was violent and suicidal, but hey, I'm just one dumb person. Probably was something else that did this to me though oddly enough, I slept like a rock and didn't try to off myself when I stopped taking it. Now there's a lawsuit claiming increased numbers of women having Heart Attacks, Strokes and Blood Clots from this crap. Huh. Guess it wasn't just me having problems.

This reminds me of the saying; "That which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger (or more pissed off or have not-cute renal failure)."

I'm thinking I have to call Dr. Larry and YELL at him, then ask him if I need to bring Bob to the ER. Bob's breathing seems heavy. I'm trying not to flip out. I wake Sam up, because why should I have to have all the fun, alone? I ask him if he remembers seeing Bob use the litter pan or drink water. He remembers one, but not the other, I remember the opposite. Good, so he must have done both? I get Bob to drink warm water mixed with tuna water so I know he's got some fluids on board. I lay down on the hardwood floor, while he sits in the "cat loaf" position on a comfy cat bed. Fat as I may be, I have not nearly enough padding to be comfortable at this point, but I love Bob and I want to watch him. I'm waiting for a sign, telling me I need to get dressed, rush him to VREC in Norwalk and drop about $1,000.00.

Nothing. No sign. My right shoulder and hip are complaining. I'm really tired. Fuck it. I go back to bed, knowing I have to get up in less than two hours because we're signed up to do a dog transport. Ugh.

Of course, I can't get to sleep. I think about the nice lady's web site. She says Metacam is ok. She has complex math that makes my head spin. How many KG's is Bob? How many mL/KG dose did he get? I need my Parents. They did math!

My alarm goes off. What sleep? I get up to check on Bob. Somehow, while I was lying in bed worrying, one of the cats blew this hairball.

I really like how there's a little swooshy tail at the right tip of the hairball. That's classy.

I can't believe I'm going to confess this, but I got two forceps out and "teased" apart the hairball, to see if I could get any idea of what color the fur was. Sure enough, it was Bob's.

He puked up his food because this Mother of a hairball was ready to blast out. Bob's breathing has always been a bit heavy, but he's had ultrasounds done. He should be fine. All that pissing and moaning for nothing?

Maybe yes, maybe no. I'm still going to have a TALK with Dr. Larry about this.

and no, Bob did not get any more Metacam. Nor will he. He ate well, had a nice long nap on the deck. I have yet to see him drink or use the pan, but I will be watching. I WILL BE WATCHING!

It's 4:30 AM as in THE MORNING BEFORE THE SUN RISES AND I SHOULD BE SOUND ASLEEP IN MY BED. But no, once again, for the fifth time this week, I awaken to the sound of a cat puking.

While my fading dreams tease me to return to them, my desire to be a good Cat-Mama, ok my desire to make sure they didn't puke on my parent's antique oriental rug, drives me out of bed. Also, as some of you may recall, last year Bob Dole, the cat was VERY ill for many weeks, vomiting many times a day and always around 4 or 5AM, thank you, Bob. Bob was diagnosed with Pancreatitis and since it's a bitch to deal with, the sooner I figure out Bob needs meds, the sooner I can get him back to feeling better.

Now, I can almost tell which cat is puking just by the sound. Each barf has its' own unique timbre. For example, Gracie moans prior to puke-off and her offspring, Tunie, cries as though she were reenacting the death scene in La Boheme. It's great to get enough pre-puke warning that I can quickly usher (chase) the cat off the (damn) rug.

Bob, on the other paw, has a very LOUD gulping sound. It rattles the windows. When Bob's about to blow, there is no question. He usually does three warning "gulps," followed by a splash, sort of like a drink recipe if you don't count the fact that the contents don't end up in a glass and you'd probably never get a good tip if you tried to get someone to taste it.

I hear the telltale "Gulp, Gulp, Gulp." I race down stairs, trying not to break my neck since my legs haven't caught up with my brain. I reach the last step and see Bob waving slowly towards me. His gait says "Old Man," but he looks up at me those Puss In Boots (from Shrek 2) Eyes, pleading to be fed, again.

"There will be no food at 4:30am. I'm not teaching you to wake me up this early to feed you. No way." and with that, I begin the far too familiar search for The Unholy Grail, hoping I will see it before my bare foot accidently does, first.

My dear parents oriental rug, which I just hauled to my house last summer, after selling and emptying their home after they had both passed away. The rug is HUGE for my small house. It's wildly colorful and doesn't really fit my decor, if 100 lunchboxes and a collection of salt & pepper shakers that look like miniature appliances count as decor. It's got a boo-boo in the corner from my mother leaving a wet plant on it without any sort of protection, so I had it patched. It's not worth that much money, but it's the rug my Mother made my brother and I sit on while she mopped the kitchen floor. It became our island and we could go no further than the edges of the rug while the floor was wet. Mother would set the timer for 30 minutes and leave us alone. We would touch the floor every two seconds. It sure seemed to be dry, but why couldn't we leave the rug?

Because my Mother wanted a break from two crazy kids and took a nap for half an hour and her kids were too stupid to realize what was going on.

So this is why I have to protect the rug.

Woah. Bob barfed. A lot. On the rug. I quickly estimated it would be a two trip clean up. One to pick up the big blob, one to wash off the rug. I started to worry. Bob might be getting sick again...or...was it the Metacam he was taking for post surgery pain?

What I found out next almost made me scream, but heck, this post is getting kinda long, so I'll finish it up later. I need to get my Rant on and I'm still undecided on whether or not I need to have a LOUD, YELLING, SCREAMING "TALK" with Dr. Larry.

Wow. Bob is a new cat!

Was the dental surgery, which included removing two of his few teeth, the reason for his almost joyful expression when I saw him this morning? Or was it the fact that his anal glands had been emptied of "Thick, Pasty, Yuck...a double-glover for sure;" according to Super Deb, who either watched Dr. Larry do the deed, or was stuck having to do it herself.

What I don't understand is that of the three cats who've "been expressed," only ONE of them showed any symptoms of needed anything done. This bothers me. How am I to know if they're feeling uncomfortable, walking around with big, fat, gooey glands? I read that high fiber diets help clean them out, but that would only be due to making heavy duty turds that would push against the glands and clean them out as the poop passes.

Once again I will say, CATS ARE OBLIGATE CARNIVORES so FIBER is OUT. I guess I'm going to have to invest in rubber gloves or get used to paying an extra $28 for every wellness visit at the Vet.

Bob's got that "I just got my glands emptied, faraway look."

So, where was I? Oh yes, Bob's glands. They're empty. He's happy. I swear he was smiling, but that may be due to the fact that I was about to feed him. He had a brightness in his eyes, almost a sparkle. For such an old fella, it's remarkable to see. Regardless of what's making him look so un-Bob-like, it's worth it.

And no, I have NO plans of doing "home anal gland expression." I draw the line at washing their asses when they have "chocolate chips" (my term for bits of shit) stuck to their behind.

If you're nuts and want to know more about anal glands, check this nifty, rather obvious link: Anal Glands, The Movie It needs a 3D animation and some whoooshing sound effects, but you'll get the idea, anyway.

And if that didn't satisfy your hunger, you can read this article which has a sneaky plug for a product that's supposed to help clean out the not-Fun-bags. Not sure I believe it works or is necessary, but the rest is helpful. More Anal Gland Fun

So when in doubt, SQUEEZE THOSE BAD BOYS & EMPTY THEM OUT...

...By a PROFESSIONAL and please don't do this at home and if you do, don't tell me, especially if I'm ever invited over to eat dinner.

I got the call from my Vet that Bob would be ready to go home around 6 pm tonight. I had no other details, save for "Dr. Larry wants to talk to you." Okay. Sure. Does this mean "have a talk" or just "talk to me about how things went?" I've had both types of talks and the former is not one I'm fond of having.

Bob had a rather long procedure. He had "fun" at both ends. Since he was sedated, I figured they better check his anal glands (see my article about the horror of anal gland expression!), so they did that, then he had his remaining teeth cleaned. With FIV+, Bob has crappy gums and teeth. Until he started living with me, he had NO Vet care at all and his diet was pretty bad, too. Needless to say, this is why I've had to spend so much time and money on Bob. He's come a heck of a long way in three years and I know he would be long dead by now, if I hadn't taken him in when my Mother died in 2006.

I spoke with Dr. Larry and he showed me two of Bob's teeth. They were no longer in Bob's mouth. One was broken, the other whole. They both showed signs of disintegrating near the gum line. They must have been VERY painful. Dr. Larry said that Bob reacted to him touching the teeth, even though he was unconscious. Poor Bob.

I asked how many teeth Bob has left. He's almost down to none, but he has a few, just for fun. He can start off eating mooshie food (which he already gets, then he can eat whatever he likes after a few days. He's on Metacam, a short dose, to keep him comfortable.

All that was left was for me to pay the $450. bill (anal gland expression went up $4 since last time I noticed!), hide my pedicured toes from Dr. Larry (he HATES seeing bare feet for some reason! What is so wrong about toes? Maybe he got ambushed by naked feet when he was a little kid or something?) and get Bob home.

Bob's already eaten, but his back legs are very weak. I see he got a butt shave, oo la la! Tomorrow it's pain meds and observation. Hopefully in a few days he'll be like his old self, only not in pain.

I dread tomorrow. Bob Dole has to go in for a dental procedure. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but since Bob is who-knows-how-old and he has FIV+ and he has bad gums and worse teeth, that I flat out worry he won't even get through the surgery.

I must have the dental done. Since Bob's immune system is compromised, infected gums could kill him. He also has a mysterious head shake. He's had it since he came to live here 3 years ago, but it's worse now. I wonder if it's a dental issue? We can't seem to figure it out.

Bob may lose the rest of his teeth tomorrow, too. I hope not. For his sake, but that said, the food he likes is mooshy so he should be able to manage it all right. I guess we'll see.

The other thing on my mind is that Nicky flared up with a URI. Not too bad, just juicy sneezes. Now Spencer may be sick and Bob, too. It's hard to tell. I guess I'm so worried about him I want to be extra safe. I got him a shot of a new antibotic called Convenia on Tuesday as a precaution to help him fend off any URI secondary issues and to help him with the aftereffects of the dental.

Bob's three year anniversary living with me approaches. I'm so glad he's here. I sure hope he'll be here lots longer. I love you, Bob! Hope you have a great day tomorrow and all goes smoothly.