pWdumaNjA-6CEEBhRoD5euxNETs When All This Actual Life Played Out

10 October 2016

Bad as he wants to be

Because I'm bad, I'm bad
10 October 2016

He is standing in my kitchen window. You can see his shaved hind end. You can sort of see his scar (I have real pictures, sutures and all, but it's sad. And not pretty). But the real story is that less than two weeks after having a large chunk of muscle removed, he is jumping onto 3-ft. high counters and clambering around on my bed (he slept on me last night), eating everything he can get into his mouth, playing with his catnip pillows and generally behaving like anything but a 15-1/2 year old cat recovering from cancer surgery.

This is Milton.

Maybe it will last. I am resistant to hope, but I am enjoying my furry little boy for the time we have now. It's what I did with Mitzi, enjoyed the moment, spoiled her rotten and just made the most of her last 6 months.

It's weird to think about: the spouse and I have been together for nearly 30 years, married for almost 28, and for 26 of those years, we've had animals around. A continuous round of cats, dog and many different fish. Really, there has been a continuous round of animals in my life since I was in kindergarten. I think about taking on another animal after Milton goes, and I wonder if I will. I love animals, but a healthy animal has a life expectancy of about 15 years, and I'm not even sure that I have 15 years at this point.

So, I'm taking it a moment at a time.

Nothing else for it.

Tech stuff: Taken with my iPhone6.
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02 October 2016

Whachu lookin' at?

2 October 2016
Milton was recipient of the Cone of Shame yesterday because he wouldn't stop licking his sutures. I have to give him a break every couple of hours to eat, drink and use the box because he is doing a terrible job of navigating with it on. I will suddenly hear a crash and there he is, stuck in the doorway, staring at me like "MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Tonight, I was cooking dinner and there was a horrific noise behind me. Milton had tried to jump on the kitchen counter with the cone, and collided head on with the coffeemaker that he couldn't see. He ended up leaping sideways back to the floor, and was apparently no worse for the wear.
He is driving me berserk.
The vet seems to think that his highly energetic behaviour is a good indication that the cancer is gone, baby, gone.
Frankly, I'm afraid to believe it, but I'm cautiously hopeful.
I just hope the wound on his back end actually closes before he manages to rip all the staples out.
Tech stuff: Taken with my iPhone6.
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30 September 2016


Milton as a flounder
11 October 2003

He came to wake me Tuesday, a little song, complaining that no one had given him breakfast. I stroked him and he rubbed his head along my arm, insistent. Where was his breakfast?

I have frequently posited that in a previous life, Milton was a New York lawyer. He may speak feline but he has perfected the art of negotiation, he drives a tough bargain and when riled, he resorts to a particularly unattractive meow. I can say "no" and explain my position, but he will rebut, repeatedly, my arguments against what he wants.

This particular morning, however, I was using a sweet voice and telling him that I was powerless to assist him. Finally he gave up and sacked out on the living room couch, which is where I nabbed him and put him in his carrier.

The carrier means the worst.

I apologized as I drove. It was going to hurt, but we'd get that crap out of his hip. I was so sorry that he was frightened and that he wasn't really going to understand what was happening. I was so, so sorry.

The vet called me almost as soon as I got home, and my heart hit the floor. But the news was cautiously good. His bloodwork was good, his lungs were clear. So we decided to proceed.

But the second phone call wasn't good. Milton was awake and on pain meds, but the tumor was larger than last week, aggressive, widespread. The vet had gone in muscle layers, but wasn't sure he'd gotten it all. The incision went knee to spine. He's probably have a limp. Biopsy should be back in 3-5 days, and the vet tried to console me as I sat silent, told me hopeful stories of cats who didn't see recurrence for a year and a half. Maybe...

My gut knows better, though. My gut has known through this whole thing. My gut says location, location, location! And in this case, location is probably an injection site tumor, fibrosarcoma. It's almost impossible to remove and even with radiation and chemotherapy, recurrence is likely in 18-24 months.


He came home Wednesday morning, groggy, angry. He ran, with an 8-inch incision filled with 25 staples down his left leg, to his scratching post to relieve his rage. Then he wanted to hide under my bed, but I wouldn't let him. He finally settled under the coffee table in the living room, glowering at me.

So it began.


The vet had come in on his day off to discharge my cat. He is particularly fond of  Milton. He told me what they'd done for him, and how to care for his wound.  He warned me that he'd been aggressive in removing the tumor and the more the cat walked, the better his muscles would knit and heal. The cytology came back as sarcoma, but the biopsy would provide more information.

"Injection site?" I asked. He knows I'm well versed in things medical and he never minces words with me.

"No," he said, "No! That's fibrosarcoma. That's...deadly. I don't think that's what we're dealing with here."

"I can't tell you why," I said gently, "but I'm expecting the worst."

He heaved a sigh. "I know what you mean."


I spent Wednesday and Thursday nights on the couch so that if there were problems, I could deal with them without waking the whole family. Milton began to talk to me again, rubbed his cheeks on my hands, let me brush his chin and neck. He ate with glee, refused his pain medication with vigor and was generally cranky. I think that if someone removed a third of my leg, I'd be cranky too.

(Oh wait! I know how that works.)

I passed the living room on my one of frequent checks and he was sleeping under my red leather chair. The next time I passed, he was sleeping on the chair. Eight-inch incision, 25 staples and jumping on the furniture. That is Milton.

The vet just laughed when I told him.


The phone rang early this morning.

"I got the biopsy results," he told me. "I wanted to tell you right away."

But I knew. I always know.

"It is injection site sarcoma, but the margins are clear. I got it all."

"So good news and bad news," I said.

"I think it's good news," he told. "They said the margins were totally clean, no cancer cells. I think he'll be alright. But I have to tell you...I've been in this practice for almost 20 years. This is the first case we have ever seen. I've removed more masses from animals than I can count, but we've never had one of these."

"Milton," I said.

"Milton," he agreed.

He is, after all, the man who saved my cat from a bowel obstruction that became a campaign for self-starvation and resulted in a feeding tube, simultaneous fatty liver disease and pancreatitis, ending with a case of cat MRSA. Then 5-1/2 years of routine care.


This morning, as I reeled from two nights of little sleep, FrankenButt tried to climb into my lap, purring deeply, kneading at my arm. I stroked his head and face and murmured love to him, while his chest rumbled. His x-rays were clear and his blood work was good, but the vet showed me the thickening in his heart wall. Even if the cancer is gone for good, his stout and wild little heart is beginning to fail. Indoor cats have an average life expectancy of 12-16 years and he will be 16 in March. While to me, he will always be the skinny, clinging 5-month-old kitten I brought home from Arizona, he is in reality an 80-year-old man. And no one lives forever. Not even New York lawyers in cat guise with a facility for wearing one down with non-stop negotiation.


Tech stuff: Taken with a Canon PowerShot S110. I know many people who feel that animals are expendable companions. Truth is, I've always liked my animals better than I like most people.
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25 September 2016

A rough week

Sunny Jim Cave
La Jolla, California
25 August 2016
We were really too busy this summer to do much traveling, but we did take a quick trip down to La Jolla and San Diego. I promised the daughter we'd visit the cave and so we did.
So heartbreaking to learn of the death of Marlins pitcher Jose Fernandez when I woke this morning. Another promising young light extinguished too soon.
On a brighter note, the first episode of Fox's new baseball series Pitch was really well done. And I need something to fill the void now that Mr. Robot is finished for the year.
And finally, Milton does in fact have a cancerous tumor in his hip. The doctor says it's in the skin, so it may be that removing it will be the cure. But of course, there must be bloodwork and x-rays first. I already put the kibosh on chemo. Milton is nearing 16, and any treatment needs to be useful without diminishing what time he has left. And yes, my rational tone is not indicative of just how much this hurts. It doesn't matter that he's at the far end of average life expectancy. He is still my youngest baby.
Tech stuff: Taken with my iPhone6.
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21 September 2016

Sweet dreams

21 September 2016
I make him pillows filled with catnip. They are little, hand sewn from fat quarters of fabric I picked up at a now defunct quilting store. He dances under my feet while I fill them, still able to smell the fragrance that is so irresistible. When it's finished, he grabs it from my hands, rolls on the floor with it, holding it between his paws, rubbing his face with it, and finally, exhausted, goes to sleep with it under his head or a paw.
It happened so fast. Sunday night, I felt a lump near his left hip. Took him in to the vet. We're waiting on labs, but the vet is a pragmatist, and I guess I am, too. We saved him 5 and a half years ago. I don't think we'll be so lucky this time.
Tech stuff: Taken with my iPhone6.
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20 September 2016

I look at you all...

Orange County, California
20 September 2016

11 September 2016

Double negative (and a positive)

Fifteen years have passed and there are truths that are self-evident:

I will never not see that second plane going into the tower.

I will never not see the towers falling behind the man who was being interviewed on camera.

I will never not read the reports about how the towers fell, making my edit marks and trying not to comprehend what I was reading.

I will never not trace my finger around the photos of the blast radius, understanding the facts but not the rationale for what happened.

I will never not think "blast radius."

I will never not scream the words I screamed that morning, a scream of primal rage and fear and anguish. I will never not know what I knew at that instant. I will never not be right about it.

I will always believe that we as a world can be better than we are and I will face every morning as that better person. I won't always succeed in being her, but I will never not work at it.