Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Hey! You know what sucks in the life of Trillian this week?! (I know! It’s been ages since we asked that question, so you know it must be something really sucky.)
Animal illness and veterinary care costs.
Furry Creature’s sick. Really sick. As is so often the case with cats, one day he was his bouncy, fluffy, cuddly self and the next day, actually, the next hour he was barely able to move and nearly unresponsive to anything I said or did.
This is torturous and devastating for people with pets. (and obviously not much fun for the pets)
Because these things never happen during normal business hours I had to rush him to two different animal emergency hospitals. One which claims to be a cat emergency hospital specializing in urgent feline health care refused to even examine him because they’d have to call a vet in on a Sunday. (you heard me)They only have assistants working on Sunday. Even though they claim to be open to serve cats in urgent need 24 hours 7 days a week. Then I got him to the second hospital where Furry Creature’s doctor had been able to get him admitted. Apparently it helps if you know someone who can get you on the list. I didn’t realize animal emergency clinics have velvet ropes, but now I know they do. But. They were nice there. They saved his life. I’m going to be hopeful and assume they would do this for any animal, even animals who don’t know someone who can get them on the list.
They saved his life and kept him alive until Monday morning when he could be transported to his regular vet’s clinic.
It’s been a rough ride for all of us since then. Mainly rough on the furry creature. Lots of tests. Lots of probes. Lots of time away from home.
He was finally strong enough for exploratory surgery.
The preliminary results look to be: Cancer.
Biopsy reports will give the ultimate answer to the question: What’s wrong with him?
The vet has told me to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. She said everything points to cancer.
If I find out it’s cancer I have to start the "what's best" for Furry Creature dance. If the situation is advanced and chemo will only buy him a few months, I can't put him through it and the affiliated trauma and pain that includes, it's not fair to him. But if it's treatable with an optimistic outlook, I have to come up with $700/month to give him what he needs, or, kill him because I'm poor.
Life just keeps ripping me and my heart to shreds and making fun of me, taunting me, by dangling things I can't have or afford in front of me. Things like a husband, a better job, car, a home, healthcare for me and my cat...you know, normal stuff most people need and acquire in their lives. But not me. I come tantalizing, ring on the finger, new commute figured out, make and model in mind close and then: NOPE! PSYCH! Ha ha! We were just teasing you! You can't have that! Or, you can't afford that!
Kick her when she's down.
Oh yeah, that's right, she's been down a long time, now. She's down pretty much all the time. It would be difficult to kick her when she's up. Might be able to catch her on a nonplussed day, but still, it's apparently more fun for the Universe to kick a dying horse than, well, other less dying horses with soul left in them.
The one really dependable mood lifter and good time, the one male who isn't my father who's never let me down, abused my trust or broken my heart, my daily source of affection and laughs, is probably deathly ill.
Prematurely.
Oh sure, I knew he was slowing down a bit, easing into midlife, but still every bit the young cat he was when he laid claim on me at the shelter.
I knew this would happen, eventually. Apparently eventually is a lot sooner than I realized. I thought we had a few more years together before I’d face something, well, bad with him. I know all the conventional wisdom and the practical and humane logic of the situation. I won't allow him to suffer or endure pain just because I need him.
Give him the medication and hope he's stronger than the vet gives him credit for being and accept the "best choice" if he's not.
I know it all. I know the wisdom meant to console. I know all of it. But it doesn't make it hurt any less. Because what's best for him is what's worst for me. Through all the good and bad, the crap and the joy in my life over the past few years, that cat has been with me. All you cat haters, shut up. You don't know what you're talking about. If you'd had the chance to meet my cat (or bothered to spend time with any cat) you might take a different opinion of cats. My cat has a sense of humor. Yes. Really. He does. And so many times, so many heartbreaks and disappointments, so many tears, so many lonely nights, that cat has purred and cuddled his way next to me, and, well, being nice to me. "S'okay Trill, you didn't need him. You're better off without him. We'll find another man and we've got each other, s'okay, Trill. You’re not alone, I’m here for you. Purr purr purrr. Hey! I made up a new trick with the crinkle fish today! wanna see?! Huh? Look! Watch! Are you watching?! I'm going to do the trick now! Ta-dah! Oooops, almost fell off the couch there, ta-daaah!" Then more purrs and cuddles, more tricks, as many as it takes until I fall asleep. I've been lonely for human companionship, but never totally lonely or alone because of him. That cat has filled the voids and empty places in my life. He's the source and object of my daily affections. No, I'm not getting freaky weird, I know he's not the same as a husband or child, but, given that I apparently can't have either of those he's been great at helping me take my mind off that need for human companionship, security, commitment and trust. He's taken the edge off the loneliness.
I've never taken him granted, never, not once. So I did not need to learn the lesson of what it's like without him. I thought I was lonely...and then my cat went away...and I have been even lonelier than I thought possible. Because not only am I completely alone, no Furry Creature comfort, but, I am alone during a major crisis in my life. There I am at 2 AM, walking around, pacing, looking for Furry Creature even though I know he's not there, trying to occupy my mind with other things, trying to sleep, wanting to talk about him, wanting some comfort from the constant upset, fear, worry and concern, and there's truly no one. Furry Creature loves it when I'm up in the night. He loves to play then and he thinks it's grand fun when I'm up at his peak performance hour. But, he's not there. He's not playing. He's tethered to an IV in a hospital, wearing one of those horrible huge cone collars, dangerously weak and losing weight at an alarming rate. And I'm there alone and feeling completely helpless and, well, alone. I mean, I knew he wouldn't last forever, but, he's too young, this is too soon, it's not time, it's not right, it's not fair to him or me.
All those months in the casts with the broken ankle he was a prince among cats. He would not leave me, never asked to be fed and just ate when I could get to the kitchen, never complained when I accidentally snagged him with a crutch (he hated those crutches probably more than I did, he used to stare at them and give them scowls, ditto the immobilizer). I was under his watch. I know he knew I was struggling. I know he knew something was wrong with my ankle and foot. When the pain was peaking he'd insist on laying on it - which, yes, made it hurt, but, he would straddle himself over my ankle, effectively hugging it, and would rest his chin on my leg and purr. Really loud. So the vibration of the purr in his chest and stomach would hit my ankle and foot exactly where they were hurting. If I tried to move him he'd give me that low growl noise, that, "back off, I know what I'm doing here and if you mess with me things are gonna get real ugly" noise. I finally learned to leave him alone to do his stuff and after about five minutes he'd get up and assume his watch over me from his usual position next to me on my pillow. Animal-human bonds go beyond anything explainable with regular logic. How’d he know when I was having pain spasms? How’d he know where it hurt?
But, now, there are no tricks. He's trying to cuddle me from behind that horrible huge collar thing, and he purrs sometimes when I visit him, but it's him who needs some sort of hug and purring vibration. The problem is all I know how to give him are pets and cuddles and pleas for him to pull through this.
Because, people let me tell you 'bout my best friend. He's a warm hearted kitty who'll love me till the end.
People let me tell you bout my best friend, He's a one boy cuddly toy, my up, my down, my pride and joy.
People let me tell you 'bout him he's so much fun Whether he's chasin' 'round the room or whether he's sleeping in the sun. Cause he's my best friend. Yes he's my best friend.
Yes. I over the years I have amassed a huge catalog of songs altered to fit Furry Creature. He's the kind of cat who incites and inspires that sort of thing. I think he'd sing along if he could. He knows his songs, or, he knows I'm singing to him, about him. He always comes running to me when I start singing one of his many songs. He doesn't seem to care that I sing really badly and the songs are really stupid. Or maybe he cares a lot and has been quietly enduring this torture for years for the sake of the food and the warm bed. Sometimes at work I sing one of his songs. It makes me think about him and cheers me up on bad days. I do a version of Rockin' in the Free Word that's more popular (in some circles, cat lover circles) than Neil Young's original. He does tricks and cuddles and purrs for me to cheer me up, and in return I sing stupid songs horribly out of tune to him.
See? This is why I need him. No man is ever going to do that for me or put up with my bad singing. Even if I fed him.
I don't blog about him often because this isn't a cat blog and there are a lot of evil people who think and say really horrible things about cats and the people who like them. Many of these people have the nerve to call themselves animal lovers because they like dogs. If you are one of these people: You're not an animal lover. You're a dog lover. Which is fine. It's a free world. But don't pretend to be some great animal respecting, animal loving saint when you carry around blind hatred and contempt for a species of animal and the people who like them. And don't waste your swutting time or energy telling me some horrible dead cat joke. Like the one an ever so thoughtful co-worker emailed me today. I think this person actually had good intentions - weird, freaky, therapy needing intentions - to cheer me up and make me laugh. Instead I was late to a meeting because I couldn't stop crying. So that's why I don't blog about Furry Creature very often. It’s not that he isn’t blog worthy, it’s that I don't want to incite evil, sick, hateful and above all cruel remarks about cats.
Other than snakes and sharks there is not one species on the planet which invokes so much emotion, much of it negative, than felines. I have suspicions and opinions about people who carry around hatred for cats, and even deeper, darker suspicions about people who take delight in making sick and cruel, often violent remarks and "jokes" about them. I won't go into my suspicions and theories about these people because I don't want to fall prey to more h8ful attacks right now. But. I fail to see the humor in violence or death or blind hatred aimed at any species. I find it interesting, though, that these same people will then go on to proclaim how much they love animals, you know, dogs, and also are big on human rights issues. And yet they find it perfectly acceptable and even funny to spread cruel and violent remarks and "jokes" about cats. I guess hypocrisy is kind of a big word and it's spelled funny, and the definition and concept requires an actual attention span to grasp.
That last paragraph is one I've been wanting to post for a really long time. I haven't because I didn't want to deal with the senseless insensitive backlash. But it's there now for Furry Creature and all the other cats who are cool beyond imagination.
And for the record, I love dogs, too. And rabbits and goats and cows and hamsters and even snakes and sharks because I respect their place on the planet and their lives and in their own ways they’re cool, too. So there.
I just happened to have been chosen by a cat and so I live with a cat. There's not much you can do once a cat chooses you. You just kind of go along with their plan because suddenly it all makes sense and you want to go along with their plan because it works out best for everyone involved. Basically it’s like falling in love. It is falling in love.
If I'd known Furry Creature's "eventually" was actually RIGHT NOW...well...I still would have been chosen by him. It's not as long of a time span I thought we'd have together, I thought "eventually" was a long way away. I thought we'd get to grow older together. I thought some crazy good thing would finally happen and I'd be able to afford a bigger place for us than the compartment and he'd have a nice home with lots of space to run and jump. I thought I had time to put some money away for his older age health care. I thought I’d find someone who thinks he’s as swell as I do, another guy around the place, someone else to share in the daily delight of his antics and cuddles.
Furry Creature likes people. He likes it when people come to visit. He’s always quick to share his favorite toys and offer some affection with anyone who visits. Especially if they play with him. Furry Creature’s favorite thing to do is play. He’s spent a lifetime developing all sorts of games. He and I have a whole repertoire of games, yet he’s always trying out new ideas. Very clever, that cat. Right up to the hour he started feeling ill, he was playing, chasing a mouse and lining up his toys like a row of soldiers.
Hence the quality of life issues. If he can’t play, or doesn’t want to, is that really living for him? The problem, however, isn’t whether or not extending his life with treatments is what’s best for him. The problem is that that’s merely a theoretical exercise because I already owe thousands of dollars to the vet and hospital for the past few days. Future treatments, especially monthly chemo treatments, are simply not possible because I don’t have the money. And no. Pet insurance wouldn’t have covered this because he’s a few months older than the cut-off age for most policies. He had one when he was younger, it paid for his check-ups, but once he hit “a certain age” they canceled his policy. Even though he was the picture of feline health at the time. And that certain age is young by most cat life expectancy charts.
So I’m forced to put a price on my best friend’s life. “Sorry, sweetie, I love you, you’ve always been there for me, you’ve brought me nothing but pleasure, happiness and comfort, you’re the one true love of my life, you’re too young to face this, but I can’t afford the life saving treatments so I’ll be signing off on your injection of death. You should have chosen someone wealthier instead of me. Love ya, it’s been fun. Bye-bye.”
Yeah. Big fun times in the life of Trillian.
3:00 PM
