My Yellow Cat
On Saturday, J calls to tell me that Ada's skin has turned yellow. This is a problem because our cat's skin is ordinarily white. We're not talking about a slight tinge of yellow either: Ada is Smiley Face Sunshine Lemon Highlighter Yellow. This is the most cheerful color on Earth, unless it happens to be the color of your cat, in which case it is indicative of liver failure.
As I was indisposed, J coaxes Ada into a cardboard box and drives her to the SPCA. This makes a great deal of sense. The SPCA is where Ada (or Missy, the man working behind the counter said Oh God please tell me you are changing her name) originally came from. Like all good engineers, J seeks to return the defective item to its manufacturer for repairs.
Do you have money? You're going to want to take her to the veterinary hospital down the street.
The veterinary hospital down the street is a loft for pets, all brick walls and stained concrete floors and huge exposed timbers - like the Concrete Bunker, only with better lighting and fewer books. There is dog art on the walls and a huge chicken-wire mermaid suspended from the ceiling. I would like a chicken-wire mermaid of my own, but I will settle for a live, non-yellow cat.
Veterinarians examine Ada. They draw her blood and prepare her for a sonogram. J hands over sums of money that I usually only see change hands when the rent is due. Veterinarians hold their test results aloft and announce that our Ada has hepatic lipidosis, a metabolic derangement that is causing her liver to shut down. They spend the next 24 hours feeding her through a tube.
Ada's sister Perl could not be happier. She has the Bunker to herself and her owners are suddenly very, very affectionate. J and I sit at home and read to each other from web pages about feline liver problems. We are geeks: we read manuals. We are comforted by an overabundance of information. The web pages tell us that Ada has a 60% chance of recovery. The vets give her a 70% chance, which makes me cautiously optimistic.
J and I visit the pet loft the next morning. I bring Ada one of my tee-shirts, which presumably smells like me. Ada is the color of a Post-It note. Her belly has been shaved and she is wearing a big plastic collar around her neck so that she cannot remove the feeding tube that has been shoved up her nose. I try to interest her in food, but a little piece of tuna ends up on the inside of her big plastic collar. Ada stares at it, cross-eyed. This arrangement is deeply offensive to her dignity. We have to clear out when an English bulldog is rolled in for immediate surgery. The bulldog doesn't make it.
Our veterinarian is a gay and twitchy Ichabod Crane. He stretches his legs by resting a knee on the waist-high counter. He jams his thumb into a desk. He frequently starts sentences that he forgets to finish. I decide that these are the dysfunctions of genius. I hope that these are the dysfunctions of genius. If these are not the dysfunctions of genius, I am going to scream. Ichabod tells us that Ada's bilirubin levels are dangerously high. A normal level is 0.4 - 0.5 is cause for concern. Ada's bilirubin level is 17. She will get worse before she gets better. Ichabod says that he is working to make that transition as easy as possible. He says he is building a bridge and that perhaps we can take Ada home tomorrow. J writes another check.
Tomorrow (which is today) arrives. The veterinarian tells us that Ada is depressed. She is not yet eating on her own. Today I will sneak out of the office in the afternoon and visit my slightly-less-yellow cat and try to coax her into showing an interest in food. I will pet my undignified darling and hand over yet more money. I hope that tonight I can bring her home, but it will probably be another day in the pet hospital. I will burn mountains of money. I will bring barrels of the stuff to the nice people at the pet loft if only I get to keep my cat.
As I was indisposed, J coaxes Ada into a cardboard box and drives her to the SPCA. This makes a great deal of sense. The SPCA is where Ada (or Missy, the man working behind the counter said Oh God please tell me you are changing her name) originally came from. Like all good engineers, J seeks to return the defective item to its manufacturer for repairs.
Do you have money? You're going to want to take her to the veterinary hospital down the street.
The veterinary hospital down the street is a loft for pets, all brick walls and stained concrete floors and huge exposed timbers - like the Concrete Bunker, only with better lighting and fewer books. There is dog art on the walls and a huge chicken-wire mermaid suspended from the ceiling. I would like a chicken-wire mermaid of my own, but I will settle for a live, non-yellow cat.
Veterinarians examine Ada. They draw her blood and prepare her for a sonogram. J hands over sums of money that I usually only see change hands when the rent is due. Veterinarians hold their test results aloft and announce that our Ada has hepatic lipidosis, a metabolic derangement that is causing her liver to shut down. They spend the next 24 hours feeding her through a tube.
Ada's sister Perl could not be happier. She has the Bunker to herself and her owners are suddenly very, very affectionate. J and I sit at home and read to each other from web pages about feline liver problems. We are geeks: we read manuals. We are comforted by an overabundance of information. The web pages tell us that Ada has a 60% chance of recovery. The vets give her a 70% chance, which makes me cautiously optimistic.
J and I visit the pet loft the next morning. I bring Ada one of my tee-shirts, which presumably smells like me. Ada is the color of a Post-It note. Her belly has been shaved and she is wearing a big plastic collar around her neck so that she cannot remove the feeding tube that has been shoved up her nose. I try to interest her in food, but a little piece of tuna ends up on the inside of her big plastic collar. Ada stares at it, cross-eyed. This arrangement is deeply offensive to her dignity. We have to clear out when an English bulldog is rolled in for immediate surgery. The bulldog doesn't make it.
Our veterinarian is a gay and twitchy Ichabod Crane. He stretches his legs by resting a knee on the waist-high counter. He jams his thumb into a desk. He frequently starts sentences that he forgets to finish. I decide that these are the dysfunctions of genius. I hope that these are the dysfunctions of genius. If these are not the dysfunctions of genius, I am going to scream. Ichabod tells us that Ada's bilirubin levels are dangerously high. A normal level is 0.4 - 0.5 is cause for concern. Ada's bilirubin level is 17. She will get worse before she gets better. Ichabod says that he is working to make that transition as easy as possible. He says he is building a bridge and that perhaps we can take Ada home tomorrow. J writes another check.
Tomorrow (which is today) arrives. The veterinarian tells us that Ada is depressed. She is not yet eating on her own. Today I will sneak out of the office in the afternoon and visit my slightly-less-yellow cat and try to coax her into showing an interest in food. I will pet my undignified darling and hand over yet more money. I hope that tonight I can bring her home, but it will probably be another day in the pet hospital. I will burn mountains of money. I will bring barrels of the stuff to the nice people at the pet loft if only I get to keep my cat.