Stephen the King

This cat, this large boy cat who is bigger than many dogs, has been assailed by tics and twitches of the stomach, eventually losing appetite and hiding, which is the definite signal for vet intervention.  He isn't that lovable, not a cuddler, nor likes being picked up; he is the first at the door to greet me with many chirps and meows, and will go to the dripping bath tub tap to get a drink, getting his head wet, then coming to me into the living area to be tissued off.  He will do this three times in a row for the attention and fuss.

He was sitting calmly at the vet's when I first saw him, the young vet tech said that this was the mellowest cat he had ever, and so I brought him home to balance out my then four girl cats.  However, this tech lied, sort of;  Steve isn't bothered by noise, and if something crashes, he runs towards it to see what happened.  I dropped a glass a week ago, and his insistence at being at the scene of the crime, INSISTENCE, earned him a small swat with the broom as he was fighting my pushes to get his butt out of there; it's broken glass, you eedjit!  And if you have ever dropped an IKEA glass, you know that the Swedish Bork Bork Borkness splinters into a million shards and flies out in exacting concentricity.  It is the devil in silica with the breath of pickled herring.  I should switch to industrial strength Anchor Hocking.

So he is the protector of the house, the ambassador who greets you, he's the dog.  Steve had been declawed, (and it's a butcher job), then abandoned by his original owners to an outside life which you just don't do to a cat without claws, possibly because he can be a son of a bitch; neighbors took care of him through the winter, leaving him outside however, and eventually bringing him in to my vet to see if he could land a home.  They left a $100 fund to entice anyone to adopt him, a kitty bed, and numerous toys.  They cared for him, which told me that under the gruffness was perhaps indeed a mellow personality.  I'm good with rescues, drawing out the oddities while finding the goodness inside, unless they are insane, and yes, there are animals as susceptible to brain chemistry as we.

The first time I combed him, he twitched in surprise as if what the hell is this but I like it.  I stopped before he decided he had enough, but the next day, guess who was sitting at the combing station, which is the toilet with the lid down.  He grew to be fond of me, so fond that one night I dreamt that Alan Rickman was massaging my foot; Alan purred...rrrrrrt, baybay, and I awoke;  it wasn't Rickman, but Steve, having a date with my blanketed foot.   He was launched off with several swears, whacked with a pillow, and hasn't done it since.  Neither has Alan.

The first time Mr. Mellow went back for a physical check, he drew blood on the vet and two of her techs, crapped and peed on the examining table, and told all of us to go to hell.  He now has a flag on his file, but I told them, look, I got him from you folks, how is this unknown?  They gave me the haha smile, we pulled one on you because you understand animals bait.  Sure, but don't enlist me to reform a wolverine.   Steve's okay.  He has a warmth in him that wants to be loved; he recognizes that and has his temper, but is working with me on trust issues.  He's a good boy.  He hates Cracky McCrackhead.

After a battery of god knows the price tests and knocking him o-u-t so they could get a blood sample, he was declared healthy and the loss of appetite was the result of intestinal inflammation.  They gave him a shot of prednisone and 12 tablets for me to give him at home.  Har.  I may be able to get the first one in as it will be unexpected, but the next and next and next, well, I'd rather give him shots.  A friend had wrapped her cat up in 70's curtains like a golden Egyptian cat taco to get a pill in, but they become adept at closing their throats and spitting it out and I can't blame them.  Steve loves chili, so without onions or raisins (I put raisins in), he gets a spoonful.  I mashed up a tablet into a bit of chili, tasted it, and if you learn anything in this lifetime from me besides that IKEA glasses shatter, know that prednisone is one of the bitterest, tongue-killing, dandruff from a bear's ass substance on this planet.   No chili is covering that, and so I dumped experiment #1 down the sink, wondering how drain bacteria reacts to steroids.  Yah.  We pomp it opp, make sandwiches right out of yoo refrigerator, lady.

Yesterday I erred and read through Stephen King's "Misery".  I should not read Stephen, as affable a fellow he seems to be; I don't watch films where people get hurt, I don't read mystery, horror, or crime stories.  The imagination interprets each creak and sigh of the building as a break-in; I go through the victim's terror, what drive does someone have to create horrific pain to another?  Nope, no thanks.  It happens, all this horror happens, and reading the psychological methods King designs for his characters scares the bejeesus out of me to the point of nausea.  But scientific applications don't bother me, I wanted to be a medical illustrator; I'll be the first one to go find your pancreas if it drops out and help put you back together.

King's story stayed with me for much of the night before turning in, but then Steve the Cat came by and butted his handsome head into my shoulder.  Kai was on my lap, and Snowbelle at the end of the sofa, as she is now.  The apprehension left, as the cause of it is dead and scattered, and to further a change in course, I picked up a Garrison Keillor book of verse to read and remember.  Steve stayed with me, for which I was glad to see him on the way back to his old self, and also for his company.

I dreamt of fields and snow.  Large flakes scuttered down, weaving trails in the air then settling into the tall, now yellowed grasses.  Houses were at the far end of the field, and I was visiting my Grandmother in one of them.  She always served peas in milk and butter, and there was a bowl on the table.  It was a simple image, but a memory of safety and love conjured at just the right moment.  There are pleasant memories from long ago that hold us to a steady course, think of one now, reflect upon it as you lay in bed this evening, happy in the knowledge of you, a part of you which stays by your side.  A truth.

Time disappear, silver moon rise.