I get a lot of questions about Destiny. People want to know how she’s doing, and apparently “she’s retarded” isn’t the answer they’re looking for. So, here’s your friendly cat update:
Destiny is doing better than we expected she’d be doing. She is no longer crapping outside of the litter box, which is a nice, unexpected bonus. She is back to vomiting up her food because she eats too fast, as opposed to because she has vertigo. Although, she probably still has vertigo to a certain extent. She’s just learned to cope with it better. We no longer have to keep her confined at night, but she still cannot climb stairs. To keep her from trying to climb stairs anyway, we invested in a baby gate, and let me tell you, it’s a good thing no one was listening to our conversation in Babies R Us, because they wouldn’t have known we were talking about a cat, and they would have been HORRIFIED:
The Man: You want to get that one?
Me: Sure, what’s wrong with it?
The Man: Well, it’s a little cheap.
Me: We don’t need a real good one.
The Man: Yeah, but it won’t fit quite right.
Me: Oh, come on. She’s brain damaged. It’s not going to take much to keep her out.
The Man: Let’s get this one instead.
Me: Oh, all right. If it will make you feel better.
Anyways, she’s all right. She travels a lot better, falling down much less often, and is almost back up to pre-stroke speed. She still cannot jump onto furniture, and probably will never be able to again. She eats well, is down to 1/2 prednisone every other day, and seems to have the same personality as ever. By which I mean: she’s cute, but dumb, and now she’s wobbly into the bargain.
This next thing falls under the header of Too Much Information, but hell, it’s the internet. I went to Special Op B’s house last Friday for movies and wine, and we got to talking about the ongoing babymaking efforts. I told her an amusing story about my sister-in-law, who runs a spa/alternative healing place, offering to give me a colonic because, according to her, my transverse colon is probably squishing my uterus. I told B that even if that was the case, having my SIL give me an enema is not a line I’m willing to cross. So Special Op B hands me this big bottle o’ pills, telling me that they would basically do the same thing over the course of a week. Why does B have enema pills sitting around? I DIDN’T ASK. So, being me, I took the pills as directed. Mostly, they give me gas. There you go.
Saturday I went to see Mackers, and we ended up embarrassing her pre-teen daughter by hand jiving to several oldies songs in a restaurant. And doing the robot to Daft Punk. And singing Cake real loud. And basically, acting like pre-teens, which is apparently NOT COOL after you reach a certain age. We ate lunch, we went shopping, we had fun, and it was entirely too short of a time, but dark comes early this time of year and with hunting season, the deer are on the move.
I’ve been transcribing reports all week for Dr. Mom, and it’s okay. It’s pretty easy work. Sometimes I have to stop and look up words, because she uses words and terms that I’m not familiar with – she’s pretty good about spelling drug names and such, but sometimes I have to puzzle things out. The only thing is that sometimes I get bummed out because the people are SO messed up that I feel badly for them. There was one lady today, her list of symptoms (both physical and mental), was like 14 items long, and man, I felt sorry for her. But other than the occasional bummed-outedness, I like doing it.
So, that’s my life right now. I’m gassy, I have a retarded cat, my friends are weird, and I have a decent job. What else can you ask for?
I’ll tell you what: a fireplace. Because I am freaking COLD.
She’s not dead, she’s laying in a sunbeam that I had to block so the picture wouldn’t be overexposed.