The felines...
Well, thoroughly crappy week., obviously.
As I mentioned in my previous post, Lou died Saturday night.
She'd been sluggish and a little off since Thursday but I wanted to hold off until her vet appointment (today) if possible--With the meds and such, it wasn't unusual for there to be "off days."
But, by Friday evening I was worried. I kept an eye on her and, other than sluggishness nothing seemed overly wrong.
Saturday afternoon she was bad...heart-rate and breathing very slow, no interest in food, all that stuff.
About 10:00, I checked her breathing and pulse again. Her pulse was actually slower than mine at that point (which was pretty fast for a human since I was scared). After we put her on the couch, she had what I think was a mild heart attack. I called the emergency vet in hysterics.
We rushed her over there and after looking at her, the vet said it looked like either renal failure or congestive heart failure...that she could try giving her fluids and a couple other things but it didn't look good.
I was going to try anyway, but when the vet weighed her, she said she weighed 3 1/2 pounds, meaning she'd lost over a pound in the last month (not even mentioning the 4 pounds she'd lost in the last few months).
I just couldn't put her through it anymore. I knew she wasn't going to make it...a day maybe, even a week or a month...but in what kind of condition? Beyond that, I just knew it...I know what death looks like.
I couldn't stay with her while she was euthanised. I thought I could but realized pretty quickly that I couldn't, not because of squeamishness or watching death, but because sitting by allowing someone to "kill my cat" was beyond me. The vet agreed that, if I was that upset I shouldn't because she might feel it and be upset by it. That made me feel better.
Rob stayed with her though, which also made me feel better. I couldn't have let her die with a stranger, kind though she was.
The vet was very compassionate and understanding...I'm also pretty sure she gave us a break on the bill. The amount we were charged barely covered the emergency visit fee.
I'm sure she was confused when her comforting, "I know she seems like your baby but you have to think of her more as your grandma..." led to more sniffling.
Poor woman...drug out of bed, yelled at on the phone and having to deal with a sobbing wreck.
I bawled incessantly...at the vet's office, on the way home, for quite some time afterwards. I started crying today at the vet's and at my therapist appointment. I'm just tired of losing people/creatures that I love--I was looking back through photos on the computer for one of Lou to include in this post and saw how many people in pictures from even a year or two ago are gone now--either through death or just not being part of my life anymore. It sucks...just straight out sucks.
Of course, nothing sad in my life would be complete without a bit of morbid humor. Rob drove back from the vet's office because I was totally incapable. After leaving EC, we passed a woman hitchhiking and Rob muttered the usual, "Sorry, can't do it." (Yes, we do sometimes pick up hitchhikers...rarely, but sometimes).
Between sobs, I blurted out, "I don't know. We could always put her in the back with the dead cat."
The idea of a person trapped in a car with Wailing Girl and a dead cat made us both laugh.
We got her home. I petted her one last time. Rob dug a hole for her.
Yes, we had a pet funeral...don't knock it; it helps.
I piled rocks and flowers on the grave. Eventually I'll put something different there, but, for now, I think it's suitably pretty...
Most Southerners, morbid bastards that we are, have collections of photos from funerals. I have one other quirk--I have photos of myself from almost every funeral I've ever attended. It actually embarrasses me that I do this...It seems like it must look like inappropriate egotism or vanity...or at least strange.
Really it's that I need to see myself IN that moment--Need to look back while grieving and say, "Yes, there I was...This did indeed happen to me. I remember what was going on at that moment." I need to see my tension and control, my puffy eyes, the odd smile that happened in spite of hurting, the people who helped me get through it.
No reason it should be any different with animals. There I am...
Yeah, I looked rough. I felt worse.
So that's the death part...Now, the story of Lou.
I wish I could show you the photos of her life...from a little fluffball, to her brood of kittens, to her senior years. Unfortunately until this year I mostly used film and I'm without a scanner.
But here she is....
I got Lou the summer before I turned 15. I got her from "Lamb's", a gas station in Camden. Mom and I went in there and I saw this little black fluffy kitten running around. Of course I chased it down and loved on it, not having learned yet that me petting strays usually leads to them no longer being strays. The cashier said it was a stray that they'd been letting live in the store until they found a home for it.
Of course I started giving Mom pleading looks. She sighed and said I could keep it if it was a boy. I made a pretense of lifting its tail and saying, "Yep, a boy." --Figuring I had a 50/50 chance of being right and even if I was wrong, it's not like she'd make me RETURN it.
So, probably because of my adolescent Anne Rice obsession, I named "him" Louis.
A few days later my sister stopped by. She scooped up the new arrival and gave it a once-over, after which she pointed out that "he" was most definitely female.
Mom glared at me and grumbled but, as I figured, was already attached to her as well. The name Louis also stayed--for some reason it just fit. When she was particularly obnoxious, it became "Lucifer"...Over time, she mainly became "Lou."
One picture I did find on the computer: This is me at 16, threatening to cut her tail off....
She had a knack for getting outside and loved to lead the silly humans on a chase around the yard...staring at us and then hauling ass when we got a few feet away (chasing a black cat in the middle of the night...fun). On one of these forays into the outside world, before we could get her spayed, the little tramp got knocked up.
Since first litters are generally small, we figured we'd be able to give away a couple kittens, keep one (a boy--one certified as such by someone other than me).
Lou pregnant was funny. Never a large cat and then a lanky adolescent, she looked like a furry black football with legs. She also developed an unnatural attachment to my red satin bathrobe, pulling it out of the closet and nesting on it.
Thankfully she chose instead to give birth in the bathroom closet on nothing that required dry cleaning...to five boys and one girl.
The kittens and Lou were promptly moved to my bedroom and I often woke up covered with seven furry bodies. I quickly learned to not move on waking, instead checking to see where everyone was and carefully removing my bedmates before rising.
Mom took to calling me Mama Goose, since every time I walked through the house I was followed by six kittens and Lou heading off for a few moments of freedom from her brood.
Of course the whole policy of keeping one kitten didn't work so well. Mom broke the rule first...seeing two identical silver tabbies whose facial markings looked like treasure trolls.
"But they're twins! We can't separate them!"
These two would eventually become Lump and Mouth...Lump because of his chronic obesity, Mouth because of his vocal nature. Both of them being huge, we joked that Lou must have mated with a raccoon.
I was obnoxious in my screening process for adoptive parents for the other four. I insisted on seeing the person's house--required that they be indoor cats, not de-clawed, go to people with enough money to give them stable homes and proper care.
In spite of this, I managed to find homes for three of them.
One night, holding the last one on my lap, I announced to Mom, "His name's Edgar. I'm keeping him."
She said, "I figured."
I could go on endlessly about her offspring...but this is about Lou.
The role of matriarch suited her. She was queenly, with that Siamese or Abyssinian face shape and truly cat-like natural elegance. She also established dominance over her offspring and every other cat who has lived here. She would keep to herself until one messed with her, then give them a couple offhand swats that allowed no further argument. You could almost hear her mutter, "Bloody upstart peasants!"
Though not a lap cat, she was affectionate...not pushy but obviously happy to be cuddled. I loved simultaneously scratching the base of her tail and under her chin because she would get cross-eyed and, while trying to arch herself in two directions at once in a veritable love frenzy, eventually lose balance and topple over.
She had a certain sweetness that's hard to explain...and a lot of patience with my innocent "tormenting".
She was vengeful. Mom would punish her for running outside or digging in the flower pots and Lou would immediately jump up, clear off a shelf of her ceramics and haul ass.
She was a cat...meaning she was all the wonderful, infuriating things a cat should be.
Edgar disappeared the same week my mom died. Since he was the one who always gravitated towards me when I was sad (If I cried, he would reach up and bat at the tears with his paws), this seemed particularly cruel.
I've always felt guilty that when I went to Gboro, I could neither find homes for them or a place to rent that allowed pets....A few of you may remember my stress over the cats and efforts to figure out how to deal with the problems involved then. None of the no/low-kill shelters would take them--they were already to old to be considered adoptable. We made do as best we could--whoever lived here took care of them and, when no one was here, we had people come by and take care of their basic needs.
Lump died while I was in Gboro. I still feel bad that I wasn't here for him.
I think Lou developed hyper-thyroidism the last year I was away and when I first came back I had no money to have her treated.
Once I could, she improved immediately...gained weight, grew her hair back, was playful and happy.
About four months ago she started declining again...nothing we did helped. I've been dreaming about her all month, knowing that she was coming to the end of her life.
The last few weeks, she and Mouth were inseparable. The ate and drank together, slept beside each other; I'd even catch him grooming her or just resting his head on hers.
It was touching--Like he was taking care of his mommy in her old age, in spite of his own health.
I know cats don't think life people, but that's how it looked and, ever since she died, they've been, for lack of a better word, somber. I know they don't "understand" exactly but surely they know something is off....her smell, the smell of sad humans, etc.
A photo of them together from about three weeks ago...
I miss her...keep thinking I need to give her meds to her or expecting to see her sleeping on the coffee table when I walk in. I've glanced over several times at the black pillow she always slept on or at the vacuum cleaner hose, seeing a black shape out of the corner of my eye and thinking it was her before remembering...
But she had a long and happy life, was loved and died peacefully surrounded by love. I will always remember her for being a comfort who came into my life during one of the hardest times in it and who, along with her children, was a true friend to me through all the good and bad times since.
Requiem aeternam dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Bye, Queen Mother Lou...I'll miss you.
***
But it's not over yet.
Still mopey and shaken by this, I had to take Mouth to his vet appointment today.
Beyond the suckiness of having to explain that I was only bringing one cat of the two I'd made the appointment for, Mouth of course has the same disorder she did and I was scared of what his test results would show.
His hair is coming back and he seems to feel a little better but, even without my new paranoia, his improvement wasn't as much as I'd like to see. He's alert and seems to feel fine but has too many of the same symptoms she had near the end...drinking more, losing weight...
It makes no sense though...It took her at least five years to develop those symptoms while he only showed enough to cause me concern in the last three months. One of the things I was thankful for when he was diagnosed was that I already KNEW the symptoms and caught it much earlier.
So I took him in this morning, explained about Lou and got a very sympathetic reaction--My favorite vet tech looked like she was going to cry. The kitties, especially Mouth, are favorites there.
They took Mouth back to get his bloodwork done. A little later they called me back and asked that I wait in one of the rooms.
I almost fled when I saw it was a "tissue room"...I've noticed that, in hospitals and vet's offices, if they take you into a room with chairs and a prominently displayed box of tissues, then you're about to get really bad news.
The vet tech came back and told me that the medicine didn't seem to be working, that he had lost another 3/10 of a pound and his heartrate hadn't changed. His previous bloodwork also showed some minor liver abnormalities.
This could mean anything from a correctable/manageable bi-product of hyperthyroidism to related (or unrelated) untreatable organ failure to malignant tumors. Any diagnosis is complicated by his age.
Yet again, I was given a slight break on the bill (on top of our usual long-time customer/bad luck with felines discount) so that she could do all the tests she wanted to and stay within my maximum budget.
I should have test results in the next hour...I'm scared. I jump every time the phone rings and keep getting teary-eyed when I look at my babies.
I know that to some of you this will seem excessive but I know other people on here are the same way about your animals that I am about mine. Either way, I'm a nervous, sad girl right now.
Not knowing what the deal is yet, I don't have much for my mind to chew on...even though it IS all I can think about.
I have decided that I have to have an "emergency vet fund". Between Mouth, Lou and the water pump, we've had $500 in unexpected expenses this month alone. We managed by the skin of our teeth + our vet's willingness to accept post-dated checks.
I cringe to think how things would have turned out this weekend if it hadn't been right after a pay day. I can't stand running the risk of having to let them die because I can't afford treatment or, if treatment is extremely expensive, chances of survival iffy to nonexistent, etc...having to watch them die a painful death.
Tomorrow and Thursday I'll be posting auctions for clothes I already meant to sell and the bulk of my "semi-formal" stuff. It's not like I go anywhere to wear the shit anymore and, even if I did, I'd rather have them taken care of than a closet full of shiny things.
As much of each paycheck as possible (assuming we can meet expenses and have ANYTHING left over) will go into the "vet fund".
All money will go into my paypal account, making it enough of a pain to get to that I won't be tempted to use it for other emergencies.
I'm also making a request...
I do not want loans. This is not a request for charity. No obligation to anyone.
My birthday is about two weeks away. I know at least a couple people on here usually get me a gift if their finances allow.
This year, please don't buy me anything if you planned to.
Instead, add the price of whatever to my vet fund. If for some reason I end up not needing it, I'll donate it to my vet. Whenever someone donates money to them, they put it aside to help people who are low income/hit with unexpected expensive conditions or to treat strays that people bring in. One of those donations is what allowed me to get everything Mouth needed today.
(Or go to the paypal site and send money to hannah(dot)henchman(at)gmail(dot)com. I can also accept credit card payments through them.
Everyone else just think of me and the creatures, pray, send energy...or just continue to be the awesome, supportive friends you always are.
Now, I'm gonna go strap on my set of brass testicles and call the vet.
I can't wait any longer.
**Edit 5:07--Called the vet. His bloodwork is done and in the stack to make calls about but the vet tech was busy. Since she didn't call immediately, either it's not serious enough to warrant immediate attention or she wants to discuss it with me in detail. So I'm just going to hope for the best. Meanwhile Mouth has perched himself on my lap and it bitching at me about worrying so much. Worry less, pet more is his motto.
As I mentioned in my previous post, Lou died Saturday night.
She'd been sluggish and a little off since Thursday but I wanted to hold off until her vet appointment (today) if possible--With the meds and such, it wasn't unusual for there to be "off days."
But, by Friday evening I was worried. I kept an eye on her and, other than sluggishness nothing seemed overly wrong.
Saturday afternoon she was bad...heart-rate and breathing very slow, no interest in food, all that stuff.
About 10:00, I checked her breathing and pulse again. Her pulse was actually slower than mine at that point (which was pretty fast for a human since I was scared). After we put her on the couch, she had what I think was a mild heart attack. I called the emergency vet in hysterics.
We rushed her over there and after looking at her, the vet said it looked like either renal failure or congestive heart failure...that she could try giving her fluids and a couple other things but it didn't look good.
I was going to try anyway, but when the vet weighed her, she said she weighed 3 1/2 pounds, meaning she'd lost over a pound in the last month (not even mentioning the 4 pounds she'd lost in the last few months).
I just couldn't put her through it anymore. I knew she wasn't going to make it...a day maybe, even a week or a month...but in what kind of condition? Beyond that, I just knew it...I know what death looks like.
I couldn't stay with her while she was euthanised. I thought I could but realized pretty quickly that I couldn't, not because of squeamishness or watching death, but because sitting by allowing someone to "kill my cat" was beyond me. The vet agreed that, if I was that upset I shouldn't because she might feel it and be upset by it. That made me feel better.
Rob stayed with her though, which also made me feel better. I couldn't have let her die with a stranger, kind though she was.
The vet was very compassionate and understanding...I'm also pretty sure she gave us a break on the bill. The amount we were charged barely covered the emergency visit fee.
I'm sure she was confused when her comforting, "I know she seems like your baby but you have to think of her more as your grandma..." led to more sniffling.
Poor woman...drug out of bed, yelled at on the phone and having to deal with a sobbing wreck.
I bawled incessantly...at the vet's office, on the way home, for quite some time afterwards. I started crying today at the vet's and at my therapist appointment. I'm just tired of losing people/creatures that I love--I was looking back through photos on the computer for one of Lou to include in this post and saw how many people in pictures from even a year or two ago are gone now--either through death or just not being part of my life anymore. It sucks...just straight out sucks.
Of course, nothing sad in my life would be complete without a bit of morbid humor. Rob drove back from the vet's office because I was totally incapable. After leaving EC, we passed a woman hitchhiking and Rob muttered the usual, "Sorry, can't do it." (Yes, we do sometimes pick up hitchhikers...rarely, but sometimes).
Between sobs, I blurted out, "I don't know. We could always put her in the back with the dead cat."
The idea of a person trapped in a car with Wailing Girl and a dead cat made us both laugh.
We got her home. I petted her one last time. Rob dug a hole for her.
Yes, we had a pet funeral...don't knock it; it helps.
I piled rocks and flowers on the grave. Eventually I'll put something different there, but, for now, I think it's suitably pretty...
Most Southerners, morbid bastards that we are, have collections of photos from funerals. I have one other quirk--I have photos of myself from almost every funeral I've ever attended. It actually embarrasses me that I do this...It seems like it must look like inappropriate egotism or vanity...or at least strange.
Really it's that I need to see myself IN that moment--Need to look back while grieving and say, "Yes, there I was...This did indeed happen to me. I remember what was going on at that moment." I need to see my tension and control, my puffy eyes, the odd smile that happened in spite of hurting, the people who helped me get through it.
No reason it should be any different with animals. There I am...
Yeah, I looked rough. I felt worse.
So that's the death part...Now, the story of Lou.
I wish I could show you the photos of her life...from a little fluffball, to her brood of kittens, to her senior years. Unfortunately until this year I mostly used film and I'm without a scanner.
But here she is....
I got Lou the summer before I turned 15. I got her from "Lamb's", a gas station in Camden. Mom and I went in there and I saw this little black fluffy kitten running around. Of course I chased it down and loved on it, not having learned yet that me petting strays usually leads to them no longer being strays. The cashier said it was a stray that they'd been letting live in the store until they found a home for it.
Of course I started giving Mom pleading looks. She sighed and said I could keep it if it was a boy. I made a pretense of lifting its tail and saying, "Yep, a boy." --Figuring I had a 50/50 chance of being right and even if I was wrong, it's not like she'd make me RETURN it.
So, probably because of my adolescent Anne Rice obsession, I named "him" Louis.
A few days later my sister stopped by. She scooped up the new arrival and gave it a once-over, after which she pointed out that "he" was most definitely female.
Mom glared at me and grumbled but, as I figured, was already attached to her as well. The name Louis also stayed--for some reason it just fit. When she was particularly obnoxious, it became "Lucifer"...Over time, she mainly became "Lou."
One picture I did find on the computer: This is me at 16, threatening to cut her tail off....
She had a knack for getting outside and loved to lead the silly humans on a chase around the yard...staring at us and then hauling ass when we got a few feet away (chasing a black cat in the middle of the night...fun). On one of these forays into the outside world, before we could get her spayed, the little tramp got knocked up.
Since first litters are generally small, we figured we'd be able to give away a couple kittens, keep one (a boy--one certified as such by someone other than me).
Lou pregnant was funny. Never a large cat and then a lanky adolescent, she looked like a furry black football with legs. She also developed an unnatural attachment to my red satin bathrobe, pulling it out of the closet and nesting on it.
Thankfully she chose instead to give birth in the bathroom closet on nothing that required dry cleaning...to five boys and one girl.
The kittens and Lou were promptly moved to my bedroom and I often woke up covered with seven furry bodies. I quickly learned to not move on waking, instead checking to see where everyone was and carefully removing my bedmates before rising.
Mom took to calling me Mama Goose, since every time I walked through the house I was followed by six kittens and Lou heading off for a few moments of freedom from her brood.
Of course the whole policy of keeping one kitten didn't work so well. Mom broke the rule first...seeing two identical silver tabbies whose facial markings looked like treasure trolls.
"But they're twins! We can't separate them!"
These two would eventually become Lump and Mouth...Lump because of his chronic obesity, Mouth because of his vocal nature. Both of them being huge, we joked that Lou must have mated with a raccoon.
I was obnoxious in my screening process for adoptive parents for the other four. I insisted on seeing the person's house--required that they be indoor cats, not de-clawed, go to people with enough money to give them stable homes and proper care.
In spite of this, I managed to find homes for three of them.
One night, holding the last one on my lap, I announced to Mom, "His name's Edgar. I'm keeping him."
She said, "I figured."
I could go on endlessly about her offspring...but this is about Lou.
The role of matriarch suited her. She was queenly, with that Siamese or Abyssinian face shape and truly cat-like natural elegance. She also established dominance over her offspring and every other cat who has lived here. She would keep to herself until one messed with her, then give them a couple offhand swats that allowed no further argument. You could almost hear her mutter, "Bloody upstart peasants!"
Though not a lap cat, she was affectionate...not pushy but obviously happy to be cuddled. I loved simultaneously scratching the base of her tail and under her chin because she would get cross-eyed and, while trying to arch herself in two directions at once in a veritable love frenzy, eventually lose balance and topple over.
She had a certain sweetness that's hard to explain...and a lot of patience with my innocent "tormenting".
She was vengeful. Mom would punish her for running outside or digging in the flower pots and Lou would immediately jump up, clear off a shelf of her ceramics and haul ass.
She was a cat...meaning she was all the wonderful, infuriating things a cat should be.
Edgar disappeared the same week my mom died. Since he was the one who always gravitated towards me when I was sad (If I cried, he would reach up and bat at the tears with his paws), this seemed particularly cruel.
I've always felt guilty that when I went to Gboro, I could neither find homes for them or a place to rent that allowed pets....A few of you may remember my stress over the cats and efforts to figure out how to deal with the problems involved then. None of the no/low-kill shelters would take them--they were already to old to be considered adoptable. We made do as best we could--whoever lived here took care of them and, when no one was here, we had people come by and take care of their basic needs.
Lump died while I was in Gboro. I still feel bad that I wasn't here for him.
I think Lou developed hyper-thyroidism the last year I was away and when I first came back I had no money to have her treated.
Once I could, she improved immediately...gained weight, grew her hair back, was playful and happy.
About four months ago she started declining again...nothing we did helped. I've been dreaming about her all month, knowing that she was coming to the end of her life.
The last few weeks, she and Mouth were inseparable. The ate and drank together, slept beside each other; I'd even catch him grooming her or just resting his head on hers.
It was touching--Like he was taking care of his mommy in her old age, in spite of his own health.
I know cats don't think life people, but that's how it looked and, ever since she died, they've been, for lack of a better word, somber. I know they don't "understand" exactly but surely they know something is off....her smell, the smell of sad humans, etc.
A photo of them together from about three weeks ago...
I miss her...keep thinking I need to give her meds to her or expecting to see her sleeping on the coffee table when I walk in. I've glanced over several times at the black pillow she always slept on or at the vacuum cleaner hose, seeing a black shape out of the corner of my eye and thinking it was her before remembering...
But she had a long and happy life, was loved and died peacefully surrounded by love. I will always remember her for being a comfort who came into my life during one of the hardest times in it and who, along with her children, was a true friend to me through all the good and bad times since.
Requiem aeternam dona eis et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Bye, Queen Mother Lou...I'll miss you.
***
But it's not over yet.
Still mopey and shaken by this, I had to take Mouth to his vet appointment today.
Beyond the suckiness of having to explain that I was only bringing one cat of the two I'd made the appointment for, Mouth of course has the same disorder she did and I was scared of what his test results would show.
His hair is coming back and he seems to feel a little better but, even without my new paranoia, his improvement wasn't as much as I'd like to see. He's alert and seems to feel fine but has too many of the same symptoms she had near the end...drinking more, losing weight...
It makes no sense though...It took her at least five years to develop those symptoms while he only showed enough to cause me concern in the last three months. One of the things I was thankful for when he was diagnosed was that I already KNEW the symptoms and caught it much earlier.
So I took him in this morning, explained about Lou and got a very sympathetic reaction--My favorite vet tech looked like she was going to cry. The kitties, especially Mouth, are favorites there.
They took Mouth back to get his bloodwork done. A little later they called me back and asked that I wait in one of the rooms.
I almost fled when I saw it was a "tissue room"...I've noticed that, in hospitals and vet's offices, if they take you into a room with chairs and a prominently displayed box of tissues, then you're about to get really bad news.
The vet tech came back and told me that the medicine didn't seem to be working, that he had lost another 3/10 of a pound and his heartrate hadn't changed. His previous bloodwork also showed some minor liver abnormalities.
This could mean anything from a correctable/manageable bi-product of hyperthyroidism to related (or unrelated) untreatable organ failure to malignant tumors. Any diagnosis is complicated by his age.
Yet again, I was given a slight break on the bill (on top of our usual long-time customer/bad luck with felines discount) so that she could do all the tests she wanted to and stay within my maximum budget.
I should have test results in the next hour...I'm scared. I jump every time the phone rings and keep getting teary-eyed when I look at my babies.
I know that to some of you this will seem excessive but I know other people on here are the same way about your animals that I am about mine. Either way, I'm a nervous, sad girl right now.
Not knowing what the deal is yet, I don't have much for my mind to chew on...even though it IS all I can think about.
I have decided that I have to have an "emergency vet fund". Between Mouth, Lou and the water pump, we've had $500 in unexpected expenses this month alone. We managed by the skin of our teeth + our vet's willingness to accept post-dated checks.
I cringe to think how things would have turned out this weekend if it hadn't been right after a pay day. I can't stand running the risk of having to let them die because I can't afford treatment or, if treatment is extremely expensive, chances of survival iffy to nonexistent, etc...having to watch them die a painful death.
Tomorrow and Thursday I'll be posting auctions for clothes I already meant to sell and the bulk of my "semi-formal" stuff. It's not like I go anywhere to wear the shit anymore and, even if I did, I'd rather have them taken care of than a closet full of shiny things.
As much of each paycheck as possible (assuming we can meet expenses and have ANYTHING left over) will go into the "vet fund".
All money will go into my paypal account, making it enough of a pain to get to that I won't be tempted to use it for other emergencies.
I'm also making a request...
I do not want loans. This is not a request for charity. No obligation to anyone.
My birthday is about two weeks away. I know at least a couple people on here usually get me a gift if their finances allow.
This year, please don't buy me anything if you planned to.
Instead, add the price of whatever to my vet fund. If for some reason I end up not needing it, I'll donate it to my vet. Whenever someone donates money to them, they put it aside to help people who are low income/hit with unexpected expensive conditions or to treat strays that people bring in. One of those donations is what allowed me to get everything Mouth needed today.
(Or go to the paypal site and send money to hannah(dot)henchman(at)gmail(dot)com. I can also accept credit card payments through them.
Everyone else just think of me and the creatures, pray, send energy...or just continue to be the awesome, supportive friends you always are.
Now, I'm gonna go strap on my set of brass testicles and call the vet.
I can't wait any longer.
**Edit 5:07--Called the vet. His bloodwork is done and in the stack to make calls about but the vet tech was busy. Since she didn't call immediately, either it's not serious enough to warrant immediate attention or she wants to discuss it with me in detail. So I'm just going to hope for the best. Meanwhile Mouth has perched himself on my lap and it bitching at me about worrying so much. Worry less, pet more is his motto.