I just had a rushed, fairly disappointing lunch of Lean Cuisine spaghetti and some sautéed spinach, and really, I don’t see how Lean Cuisine spaghetti could be anything BUT disappointing, but I am broke and here’s why.
My little black foster kitten is sick, and I keep spending money on food and different food and oh, look, different food, per the shelter’s instructions. And because he’s not feeling well in his stomach parts, I am also plowing through the cat litter.
This I do gladly, because I want him to get well and feel comfortable when he’s, you know, pooping pudding 86 times a day, but it has resulted in me having $54 till next Wednesday, so I went to the grocery store and got 5 for $5 Lean Cuisine, and that is why I’m having disappointing spaghetti.
You know what I really wanted? A cheeseburger. A giant, disgusting one, with fries.
Anyway, despite switching to dry kitten food and then higher-quality kitten food and then canned and so on, the little black kitten’s intestines are not up to snuff. This can be dangerous for cats this young, so for the third time in 10 days I’ve taken him to the shelter so they can maybe figure out what’s wrong. Because now he’s losing weight and this is most def not good.
In the meantime, he still had plenty of frisk and was running around here like a crazy person, if a crazy person weighed 1.3 pounds and had a teensy fur suit on.
I do miss him. Milhous does, too. The little kitten got vaccinated, so I let them play in real life, not just under a door, which is probably not what the shelter wanted me to do, but he has no mom and no siblings and I felt he needed to learn to cat a bit. I hate that he’s alone in the world AND sick.
Last night, the kitten was away at his shelter, and I was stressed out and plowing through my migraine meds, and while I was lying around stressing about a cat who doesn’t even belong to me, I heard a faraway meow.
What the hell was that?
“meow,” said the faraway meow.
Seriously. What the hell was that? Iris and Lily were lounging inertia-ly within my sight, so I knew who it was.
My fear was that somehow Milhous got in the crawl space, and I don’t even know if I HAVE crawl space, but doesn’t every house have crawl space? Also, say “crawl space” one more time.
Milhous is a get-in-things cat. You open a drawer, he jumps in. You look in the closet, suddenly he’s in the closet, surreptitiously looking at gay cat porn. He’s an observer. This left me many places to look for his punk ass.
I searched the dryer, the dishwasher, and even, gasping in panic, the fridge. All places he’s leapt into while I was trying to get shit done.
After going outside and walking the perimeter of my house in my sexy Auschwitz Collection striped pajamas and NC State t-shirt, looking for the mysterious crawl space, and after coming back in and searching every drawer I could think of, I heard…
a purr. A purr! Coming from the corner cabinet in the kitchen, the one that has a lazy Susan situation in it. I’m certain I’d already opened that door looking for him, but that blond Curious George asshole had lazy Susaned himself all the way to the back of the cupboard and then had the nerve to enjoy his captivity, to Stockholm Syndrome himself enough that he began PURRING.
It was helpful, though, and I let Patty Hearst out and he rubbed against my ankles contentedly.
All this to say I have enough cat drama in my life without a sick black kitten. I hope he’ll be okay. I hope if they switch to prescription food that they pay for it. I hope he will be a little black success story.
Meanwhile, my tip jar is on the right side of this page, I think. I redesigned lately and I’ve not looked. Here. Let me plunk it in the page, if I can.
Oh my god, I could not get that to work, and you know what I want? A cheeseburger. And maybe a nice vial of absinthe. I think you can copy and paste that address up there if you want to tip me, which you probably don’t. There’s also a place to click on the right of my blog–I looked.
I have a headache.
I will alert you to the kitten’s health as soon as I know. I called earlier today but they didn’t have anything new to tell me. This all makes me very panicky and very GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT about everything, and I realize that to the shelter, he’s just another of a hundred kittens they see a day, but I know the guy personally. I’ve gotten invested. I’m not keeping him, but I do care deeply about him, you know what I mean? He’s real. He’s a little life.
I should probably not foster. Remember when I was done fostering? I should have stuck with that.
I will talk to you tomorrow, or sooner, if I learn anything.