Friday, June 25, 2010

I'm only trying to help

Any means of concealment will not stop his heightened sense of hound-dogging.

WHO you ask?
The cat, Santana.

He has great big eyes that seem to never blink, he stares deep into your soul. Tilting his head slightly to one side and his ears cupped forward to capture your tender words. When you stroke your palm over his shoulders and scritch his head you are left with a feeling of peace and calm.

The way he stares at you it's as though he's waiting for a conversation, and if he could he would offer you advice. The comfort of his company and his rumbling purr are all that he has to offer instead.

He is a big muscular boy, lean and without the flab that you'd typically find with this breed. When he runs and plays those muscles ripple under thickly wrinkled skin.
I know, some people are completely turned off by these nudists but once you have held one I believe that they can convert you immediately. The texture of these oddities can remind one of many luxurious fabrics like velvet and some even say it is like holding a newborn baby.

Santana is the type of cat that takes your heart and stretches it out like warm taffy, stretches it out as far as possible and then winds the taffy tightly around his long knuckled oval paws.

I use taffy not only as a metaphor but as a symbol of one of his triggers of hound-dogging.

Something isn't right in this cat's head when it comes to sweets!
Generally you would expect a few things when it comes to your domesticated pets. Dogs, well dogs will beg for everything because dogs are like that. They will Hoover up the floor of every tasty morsel they find and they even like less than tasty morsels such as: cat box crunchies (turds coated in litter), remains of just about anything rotting in the yard or garden and even rocks.

Dogs are the most notorious patients in veterinary offices for having surgery to remove strange items from their stomach, causing dangerous blockages that will kill them. I'm talking about things as bizarre as kitchen knives, dozens of pairs of socks, your kitchen rugs and even Wii game controllers.

Cats though, cats are what you would think are dainty even picky eaters.
Kibble, maybe a treat of a can of tuna and a lick of cream but not this guy.
No sir, no way he has a sweet tooth or rather a snack craving and the lure of filling his tummy is very strong.

My cats are very well fed, we use a combination of a high end kibble as well as freshly prepared raw meat diet. This preparation can take quite a bit of time for the especially spoiled rotten and persnickety eaters, but I do not mind the effort because these are most certainly the only 'children' I will have.

(okay, so shoot me - I'm the weird crazy cat lady)

Santana is one of those, he's not all that keen on working with the bigger chunks of meat (what we like to call prey-model, this is basically large hunks of meat still attached to the bone or even the entire critter). Instead he wants me to process it through my meat grinder into a finer more palatable meal closer to the texture of hamburger. It still has the bone in it but he's not challenged with crushing it on his own, I suppose the savage beast in him is quite tame unless he can smell ....flour, sugar, honey and high fructose corn syrup!

The minute he hears the crumple or crinkle of the wrapper or bag your snack has come in he is snapped into command of execution ..'Aten-Hut'!

Those shoulders hunker down low while his bum comes up and his tail swings out straight from his body, balancing him for the pounce - he has his 'prey' in sight and the prey this day is the golden yellow sugar cookie I'd picked up earlier in the day to have as my late night snack.

This cookie is wrapped tightly in clear cellophane and has been hidden from view and scent because it was jammed down to the bottom of my over the shoulder nap-sack (that I'm grateful for the fashion world for taking back on). My bag had been tossed over the bedpost and then covered up with a mountain of other junk, my discarded clothing, a bath towel, a portion of the bedding...many layers of material that covered the scent trail from him. He knew it was in the room but he just didn't have the opportunity to hunt yet.

I'm not always a chocoholic, deep down I really like a simple cookie. Sugar cookies have always been a favorite of mine, especially if they have been rolled in large raw sugar on the top. I love to see the granules that scintillate as they hit the light, they remind me of tiny baguette diamonds or quartz. Imagine eating something so decadent as gemstones that taste so divine!

When I finally decided I was ready for this treat my mouth was watering, I'd pulled my bag out of the heap and laid it on the bed for a moment to go and fetch something. I don't remember what, I forget half the shit I'm doing anyhow and when I came back I even forgot that I wanted the cookie and went back to goofing around on the computer.

Cats coming and going about I didn't pay any special attention to the fact that my special sweet(s)heart was missing in action until I heard a rustling sound. Then I heard a sort of a wet slurping chomping masticating noise and I peered down to the floor only to see that a trail of cookie crumbs are scattered all over the floor leading to find him in the corner wit his prize.

He's huddled over the bundle and he's gnashing holes into the plastic, a paw holding down a corner that he has managed to unfold. With each successful mouthful of Saran Wrap he yanks free, a large chunk of cookie releases and he shakes it vigorously in his teeth to give it the final kill, chews and swallows.

"Santana!" He looks up, guilt in his eyes and crumbs on his lips, he stops and backs away from his cookie destruction.

"Why, why do you keep taking my cookies?"

There's a 5 quart bowel of food only feet away from this bakery butchery but I know the pussy will continue this bad habit forever.

Maybe it's because I toss animal crackers for him to fetch? Or have him sit up and beg for blackberry jam on toast?
I'm not going to lose weight by having snacks in bed ...and maybe he's just saying,

"I'm only trying to help you"

Thursday, June 17, 2010

don't look up, chuck

My mind is so youthful and silly but my body is decrepit, my long dark brown hair now has shimmers of silver threading through it, the smile lines near my eyes are growing deeper and each morning as I slide off the bed to stomp towards the bathroom I hear my joints crackle and creak.

I remember distinctly something my mom did every morning she woke up and sat upright in the bed and then she belched soundly before heading off to start mom duties.

This really cracked me up, thinking what a piggy she is and why would she burp after sleeping because she didn't have anything to eat during the night.
Now I know from first hand experience, it's sort of a bugle to announce the new day. Sort of "Reveille" to the morning!
The compression you create from sitting upright and all of the trapped gas erupts from your mouth. You really don't have much control over it and it rather surprises me every time it happens.
I suppose that it's better than the alternative that every guy I know seems to do, which is to fart with such abandon you'd guess they have nearly sharted the bed!

My husband sometimes gives me those looks of disapproval when I'm ripping some gaseous emanations from my pie-hole but more often than not finds himself rating me. If he had index cards handy I bet he'd be numerically scoring me such as they do in the Olympics. He also has another rating system in which he measures the belch by "inches".
I might have a gut wrenching thunderous explosion that lasts more than a moment and he'll say,"oh that's a 4 incher". The longer I can stretch it out, the more hollow and reverberating the better the rating.

One burp I don't care to experience however, is the tomato sauce based burp. Over the years, as I've gotten more bling-shine in my hair, I have figured out that I have a strong sensitivity to nightshades (this is the family of food that includes Potatoes, tomatoes, sweet and hot peppers, eggplant, tomatillos, tamarios, pepinos, pimentos, paprika, cayenne, and Tabasco sauce are classified as nightshade foods).
Let me inform you that this pretty well SUCKS DONKEY BALLS. Some of my favorite foods have these ingredients, if not a majority in a single recipe!
I'm from the Midwest where you have meat and potatoes in the winter and BLTs in the summer. These days I live in central Texas and guess what, everything down here is peppers, peppers, cayenne and BOY do I love Tabasco on everything else.

A few years ago there was a morning that I woke up with gastrointestinal stress (yeah, I said it - I was farting and burping), in addition to that I was experiencing stomach cramping that rode very high in the gut. All day long I found myself in discomfort and every hour I stayed awake the worse it seemed to be.

After the first couple of hours of pain I decided to start eating Tums, I'd already taken a heartburn remedy but no relief was in sight.
Whenever I applied pressure to my mushy tummy there was a little bit of alleviation ...but the pain sort of traveled to my low back. It started to feel like I'd been kicked in the kidneys and the kicker decided to lay right across me and jam their knuckles in as deeply as possible.

All day long I'm in agony but refuse to go to the doctor. You ALL know how I feel about going to a physician and this just seemed stupid because of a tummy-ache. Seriously it couldn't be much more than a little stomach flu but I couldn't bring myself to lay down and rest because the symptoms escalated to the most dreaded, puking.

There is nothing worse than barfing your guts out iif you ask me, give me a fever or you can even give me the shits but don't have me upchucking.

The day turned into night and I'm pacing the floors and leaning into furniture to get as much pressure into my stomach to ease the pain, the pain was moving then into my chest and my heart was racing and I was sweating.

During all of this I'm being told what a hard-headed ass I am and finally at the usual bedtime my husband says to me, wake me up when you are ready to go to the E.R because I'm done telling you to go.
A couple of more hours passed, I'm weeping in pain and have now begun crawling on my hands and knees because the very effort of standing was too much for me.
Retching and heaving, the sweat pouring off of my brow I finally give in and weakly call up the stairs ...."help"
my voice is tiny and it sounds so very far away from that I don't even recognize it.

There's no answer from up above, the bedroom door is shut and the husband has on his 'white noise' to drown out the rest of the world. He's cozy in his cocoon of sleep while I am certain that Death is visiting my living room.
I cry out again, "help" this time a little bit louder but again there is no response so I begin my ascent. I climb, hand over hand, knees roughly hitting the hard wood steps and I can see small dust bunnies made from cat hair blow away from my palms. The lights are out except for a small nightlight at the top of the landing and the warm golden glow from the lamp left on downstairs.

It felt like eternity creeping up those stairs, each palm stomp and knee thump just added more pain to my stomach but I finally found myself at the door where I reached up and eased the door open.
I cry out "HELP" and instantly he's awake as I scuttle up onto the mattress. The lights are still out, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan as it spins the only sounds besides his breathing and my huffing and puffing.
My head collapses onto his forearm, hot and wet from the exertion and I tell him to please take me to the E.R. There's something wrong and I can't avoid the truth any longer.

He helps me back down the stairs and starts the car ready for our drive to the hospital, which I should mention we have NO IDEA WHERE IT IS! We have only lived in this location for a short time and never needed to visit the place in the past therefore we don't really know the true whereabouts other than the direction.

The nausea is building up and burbling out of me, hot rank burps that burn my throat. I've got the seat reclining all the way but I'm doubled over clutching myself in a tight hug, wishing that we were there already and wondering why I'm such an idiot.
He's racing along the highway going far and above the speed limit, our headlights piercing the dark night. Beacons to assist us on the journey to heal me.
Exiting the ramp where there is the familiar "H" for hospital the husband turns and starts heading the wrong direction. After about a mile and a half I snap at him, you are going the wrong way..HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT TURN AROUND.

He continues for another mile and agrees at last, he makes a sharp and unexpected turn (unexpected to me) and I'm smashed into the door and again snap at him to get me there all the while I have the windows rolled down to try and capture cool air, gulping back the vomit that's rising up my esophagus and threatening to spill over onto my lap, the floor to splatter the interior of the auto.

We finally arrive and I burst out of my door like a bottle rocket, scramble through the doors which open to me with that swooshing sound- so inviting and promising of healing. I doubt the car had come to a complete stop before my feet hit the pavement, he had pulled right under the canopy where the ambulances park and I say.."park, come"

When I get inside the smell of the industrial cleaners assault my sense of smell and I can feel another burst of barf about to expel but I choke it back and tap, loudly, on the window of the check-in window.
Oh so grateful am I to be immediately welcomed and pulled around the corner to have my vitals taken. No nonsense and fantastic service they rush me back and immediately put me on an IV of medication to stop the vomiting.

My gratitude cannot be expressed and soon the doctor is in with me behind the curtain to explain what is wrong. I'm on my side curled into a fetal ball, the IV lines tangled from my inner arm under my shoulder, around my back because I've tossed and turned on the gurney to find some comfort.

The verdict is in, my gallbladder. They want to get me in for an ultrasound and see how bad it is...Oh it's bad alright. I have a number of little stones floating around inside (too bad they weren't diamonds that could be dug out) and my gallbladder showing signs of illness.
The technician doing my ultrasound states to me that she isn't supposed to say anything and it's for the doctor to report but guarantee that my morning would be spent in surgery.

Sweet pain killers administered..I'm whisked off to have my belly to be filleted and I hear someone telling me to count backwards from 100...99...98...97..ZzzZzzzZ

I hate barfing and every time I do I'm reminded of the misery of that day - when the doctor came to report to me about the procedure he asked how long I'd been having problems such as heartburn. My answer was and still is, I didn't have very bad heartburn at all just once in a while after a rich meal.

He says to me, " I can't understand anyone tolerating as much pain as you had because you could have died tonight, your gallbladder had gangrene and was on the verge of bursting"

ya know something, I'm an idiot.