****WARNING: REVOLTING CONTENT. SEE TITLE. AVOID READING NEAR MEALTIMES*****
Bernie's been reading the book of James, you know, the one that is all about rejoicing when trial beset you?
Hallelujah then already.
Today started as predicted, with "locally heavy rain." Around here, that is around an inch or two in an hour. I like rain, so that was OK. I even considered running out in the storm to get the newspaper. When I opened the front door it looked like a shower going full blast. I decided to postpone the trek to get the paper because THERE WAS A BIG BOX LEANING ON THE FRONT DOOR!
(One of the oddity of life in Texas is that a front door is rarely used by the home owner. Instead we enter and exit our home through the garage door; rarely do we go anywhere without the air conditioned comfort of a vehicle wrapped around us. Things left by the front door may remain there for weeks before we venture to leave the house via that route.)
Presumably the box had arrived sometime yesterday. I knew exactly what was in it: a Fleur de Paris hat.
For those who have a good memory for my nattering, Fleur de Paris Millinery Shop in New Orleans was the place where I became infected with millinery madness. The place where I first knew uncontrollable lust (sorry, I mean outside of lusting after my husband of course....)
I saw a hat on my first visit that I dreamed about for two years before I triumphantly returned and purchased it in honor of my graduation from Library school. Fleur hats are expensive. See for yourself on their website. Their day wear hat collection is quite eye opening.
A couple of years later I returned and purchased another hat, a straw one. Just looking at the huge pink and black lace hat boxes in my closet always brought back fond memories.
Scottie style cap. Only it was fancier, and at a price that I simply could not afford at the time.
I dreamed about it though. Imagined my next trip, where I would close my eyes as I handed over my credit card...wincing at the price yet knowing my craving and lust was about to be fulfilled.
One night about a week ago, I just couldn't fall asleep. Rather than toss and turn, and disturb Bernie's sleep, I got up and decided to check my email. Nothing there. I frequently "window shop" on ebay, as it is a fun way to look at things in off moments. "Fleur de Paris" I typed in, not a typical search, but one generated from a dreamy state.
Up popped a hat. Fleur de Paris...Scottie style. Oh be still my heart! Someone had bid 99 cents and there was a note that the reserve had not been met. I bid $30...the reserve had not been met...bid $35 and I was IN! Reserve had been met, and there were three days left in the bidding.
I told Bernie. We talked it over, what was the most I would be willing to bid. Jeff has always advised deciding your highest amount, put that in and walk away. I put in, wincing, $150.
Three days later the bidding closed.
I had won the hat.
So it was that early early this morning I was waking Bernie up trying on a new hat while dressed in my comfy baggy pajamas.
You know what? That hat looked good even with that outfit!
By the time I coxed myself into putting the hat back into it's chic little pink hat box, the rain had stopped so I sloshed through the puddles to get the newspaper. While I got the coffee going Bernie feed the cats, and then Bernie and I read the news paper over our cereal and juice.
While we were eating, Hart hissed at Tiggie.
And Tiggie stood down.
Reading the paper over breakfast is always a dicey concept; the journalists and columnists must write between meals. There was a column about a mother whose 4 year old daughter regularly poops her panties right after being put on the toilet. You'd think I'd have enough sense to flip the page, as I don't have any children still needing toilet training (Thank you, my darling children for sparing me that woman's trauma.)
But like passing road kill on the highway, I just had to look.
Then I looked over at Tiggie. He was doing a very vigorous job of washing under his tail.
Double eww. I made shisshing sounds at him, and he moved along.
Finished with the paper, I moved to the living room, and plunked down in our big arm chair, propped up my feet and started to plan my day. I could swear I could smell poopy pants in my mind.
Bernie came over to say something to me, and wrinkling his face, went to get a paper towel. He started wipe up something on the coffee table.
We looked at each other...our cats have excellent litter box skills.
What the heck??
Tiggie, as always, was right there next to Bernie. And smelling to high heaven. Flipping the cat over, the source of the odor was plain to see. Fecal material was matted into his fluffy fur.
Now Tiggie has the sharpest, fastest claw west of the Pecos, as they say in western novels, and you don't mess with Tiggie if you know what is good for you. Bernie's arm was now sporting blood.
I went to find where Tiggie rocketed off to, and discovered that apparently he had been attempting to deal with his dilemma privately throughout the house. There were "skid marks" every where.
Triple eww...where do I hit the reset button on today?
While I cleaned the carpet, Bernie found and took Tiggie outside for a clean up. With predictable results. I went outside to help, neglecting to using insect repellent. The mosquitoes had me for their breakfast.
I applied an after bite product, and took another peek at Tiggie's rear. A red bulge, like a hemorrhoid was on the top of his anus. Oh great, a cat with hemorrhoids. Does it get better than this?
(Oh of course it does.)
I decided that we (that would be me; Bernie needs to work) should take Tiggie to the vet. So leaving Tiggie outside in wet garden, I showered up, and got ready to go. Bernie took a break, rounded up Tigs, and with just few more scratches and claw marks, got Tigs into the cat carrier.
That was when I realized I hadn't yet called the vet.
So I called, and called, and called...busy line, and finally, yes they could see Tiggie at 4 pm.
Great. Just great. Tiggie is howling in the carrier, and Bernie is having horrible flashbacks about the last two times we have had cats in that carrier. Both cats were dead hours later, dying in horrible hemorrhaging deaths as Bernie, all alone, struggle to comfort them.
This is not good at all.
I called other vets; all the lines are busy.
So as I write this, with thunder rumbling all around us, Tiggie is in his carrier, with a pinch of cat nip and a towel, and I am praying that he will take a nap, and everything will be OK after we see the vet later on today.