In the beginning, was Nicole, and Nicole was without a Cat.  That this was so is almost impossible to conceive, now.  But it was.  Thus, when finally we moved to an apartment that allowed pets, we sought a cat for her at the local Humane Society shelter.

In the lowest tier, in a cage by herself, was a beautiful, 3-year-old Calico with a strong voice (though not so strong as the Rex across the room).  Unlike the other cats, she was willing to interact with me.  After a few minutes, I drew Nicole's attention to her.  Immediately, as with every other cat, Nicole became the center of attention.  But that was OK.  The objective was to obtain A Cat For Nicole.  A brief time later, we decided Tabby would come home with us.  During the adoption process, we learned apartment-dwellers couldn't adopt without confirmation that the apartment allowed pets.  Naturally, the apartment office was closed for the evening.  So we had to leave her.

That really bothered me.  I'd found A Cat For Nicole and didn't want to lose her. So much did it bother me, that I took the next day off and went back.  It was a near-run thing.  I walked into the room, right through a family that was discussing Tabby, removed her from the cage and carried her back to the desk.  She responded by clawing her way to my shoulder, shedding all over me, and yelling in my ear.  I was so proud and happy -- I'd saved Nicole's cat for her.

We got home, and Tabby inspected the premises.  It felt distinctly like an interview, and I wasn't giving it.  "Litterbox in here? -- OK."  "And meals are how often? -- Uh huh."  "Nice view, though."  She settled-in quickly, and soon began to inform us of our shortcomings.  She sneezed a lot, and soon went to the Vet for a course of antibiotics that did little good.  We concluded she had allergies, and just put up with the sneezing fits (I once counted 22 consecutive sneezes), and the enormous quantity of mucous (she once wrapped a strand 3/4 of the circumference of her head, and was frequently dizzy after a fit) that led to any early nickname "Snotty-Cat."  She also had an unfortunate, though infrequent, habit of urinating outside her box.  But she was beautiful, and would always interact with us, was amazingly affectionate when not chastising, and she was our cat.  Which was one of the weird things about her -- Nicole is Cat People, but Tabby always paid at least as much attention to me, as to her.

After a while, we moved.  And we decided that Tabby needed a companion, because we were working long hours.  That was how Cairo became Nicole's Cat.  And shortly after that, we acquired Sani & Piper.  There are stories -- like the time Tabby visited me in the shower, and fell-in; or the time she escaped the apartment and the first we knew was a neighbor informing us of the "beautiful, but very scared looking, cat crouched against the door;" the fly-catching lessons she gave the other cats; her unerring ability to walk across a person in the most-painful way possible; the months-long argument about midnight feedings with its consequent SuperSoakers, yelling-matches (from both sides), door head-butting, and chases through the apartment (I lost that argument, and thus rarely slept through the night for 13 years); the Campaign to Switch from Canned to Hard Food; or recuperation from general-anesthesia that left her so hilariously "drunk" she couldn't sit upright, and furious about it.  Somehow, she became my cat.  Nicole says it's because I'm the one who rescued her.  I like to think that.  But sometimes I think it was just Tabby's contrarian-nature -- she decided that she wouldn't bond with the Cat Person, and I was just the only other alternative.  Mostly, I don't worry about it.  She was my cat, and she was never other than affectionate and demanding.

Back in mid-June, she had a rough-patch.  I knew then, that I should enjoy her company as much as possible and prepare for the inevitable.  Last week, she stopped eating again.  We went back to the Vet (Fowlerville Veterinary Clinic, still can't say enough good things about them) on Thursday.  Blood-work still indicated a possible kidney problem (kidneys must be 75% nonfunctional before the test definitively shows a kidney problem).  Urinalysis showed no urinary-tract infection, but she'd just started her last course of Zeniquin, so it wouldn't necessarily.  Back in June, we treated this same set of symptoms with subcutaneous fluid and antibiotics.  She was already well-into the antibiotics, so we gave her subcutaneous fluid.  Then we took her home, along with an IV bag so we could continue the sub-q fluids ourselves.

In June, she responded within a few hours.  Friday afternoon, she still wasn't eating.  She'd spent the morning on her heated pad.  Early afternoon, she started to follow me around, wanting to snuggle.  So I sat and held her and thought and tried not to cry.  It became heart-breakingly obvious she wasn't going to get better.  Things would be downhill from here.  I knew she wouldn't make it through the weekend, and the Vet's closed on Sunday.  So either I let my cat starve herself for 2 or 3 more days, or I euthanize her before Sunday.  Dad had just been talking about how a beloved dog had "one last good day" before making the Last Ride.  When it was Sani's turn, I'd counseled Nicole about how hard it would be to live with him for days, knowing he had an appointment.  On Friday, she reminded me of that conversation.  It seemed to me that Friday was still a good day, but Saturday might not be for her, and certainly wouldn't be for me.  So I called the Vet to find out if there was anything left in the bag o' miracles.  There wasn't.  So I made an appointment for late in the afternoon, and then quit worrying about it.

Tabby's always, even after she became blind, firmly held the conviction that she should be allowed outside.  We, of course, forbade it because she was totally unequipped to survive outside.  So I did the best thing I could think of, that afternoon . . .

I should be out in the garage, staining a door.  I have house-guests, and no door on my upstairs bathroom.  I should be finishing the laminate floor, on which I've been working for the last week. I should be tailoring a resume for a job in Lansing that actually interests me.

Ash is a kitten, about 3 months old.  He lives with us, now.  He's a dilute gray classic (whorls, not stripes) Tabby.  Technically, he's a neutered male, but we don't talk about that around him.  He weighs all of 2¼ lbs. and can't make up his mind about whether he's a long-hair, or a short-hair, because he has both.

We went to Petsmart on Saturday.  With the economy around here in a state of disrepair perhaps worse than the roads', there were dozens of "rescue" animals there.  We didn't plan to obtain another cat so soon.  But he was there and, for various reasons, it's not a bad time.  So we brought him home.  I wanted to call him "Poopyfoot" because his back leg was coated from a mis-step in his litterbox.  Nicole said "No."  I suggested "Malodorous."  Nicole suggested I think along different lines, although we both seriously considered "Mal."  With a nod to Joss Whedon's Serenity.

Unfortunately, he's not well.  He wasn't eating much, and left a very watery (with bubbles!), bloody stool in his litterbox this morning.  He's been to the Vet.  I was afraid he had a runaway gut-bacteria problem (try googling for "campylobactor").  Dr. Morgan thinks it's unlikely because (take note, future kitten-people), "all kittens come with parasites."  There are two likely candidates, but we need a stool sample to determine which.  He also probably brought fleas into the house, although we found only flea-dirt, no actual fleas, on him.  Regardless, every cat gets dosed with Frontline.  In any case, either condition is unlikely to persist, and both are easily treated.

We're gradually introducing Ash to the other animals.  We placed him in a crate, and allowed Tabby & Ember to wander freely around.  We offered all 3 food, so that they'd associate each other with something positive.  Tabby ignored him.  Ember hissed and stalked around outside the crate, but nothing serious.  Ash returned the hissing, but appeared more anxious to join her than to engage in conflict.  Not surprising, given that he just left his litter, and the only adult cat he's encountered was his mother.  When we bathed him ("Mr. Poopyfoot" needed it), he really didn't like it.  Ember came running to investigate.  Far from being aggressive toward the diminutive interloper, she appeared genuinely concerned that he was OK.  She didn't interfere, though.  When we repeated the crate operation tonight, Ember stayed in the next room.  Perhaps because India was allowed in.  Ash is much less patient with India than is Ember.  Whenever the dog got too close, Ash took a swipe at her.

Tabby's declining to eat, again.  Tabby had 2 courses of Zeniquin, then urinalysis.  The urine sample returned negative -- no evidence of infection.  Dr. Morgan decided, and I completely concur, that her kidneys have degraded to the point where her urine is simply insufficiently acid to prevent bacterial infection. We believe, therefore, that her current state is confirmatory evidence of recurrent urinary-tract-infection.  She's started another course of Zeniquin, and will be receiving it daily for the remainder of her life.  The plan is to keep her comfortable for as long as possible, and make "as long as possible" last as long as possible.

I really enjoyed The Canon.  Enough that I listened to it twice.  Enough that I intend to acquire a printed copy, so that I can study some passages at leisure.  Enough that Nicole & I sent a printed copy to a nephew as a birthday gift.  I think I get my point across.  I don't know of a better general introduction to the current state of scientific knowledge and, more importantly, to science as a method of thought.


After I finished that book, I switched to fiction -- Robert A. Heinlein and Spider Robinson's Variable Star.  This isn't, as it is sometimes marketed, a "lost," "new,"  or "unfinished" Heinlein.  It is a novel written by Spider Robinson from an incomplete outline and story notes of Heinlein's.  Having said that, the flavor is strongly Heinlein, especially the opening and the structure of the ending.  More to the point, it is good.  I actually have a printed copy, and had read it twice before I found the audio-version.  I wanted to hear it mostly because it's read by Spider.  I usually enjoy hearing a work read by the author, especially an author with a very strong "voice" in print.  Speaking of which, I was surprised by Spider's voice.  I hear something like a young Carl Kasell, with occasional hints of Frank DeFord.  I learned stuff, listening to Spider read.  There were a few places where I thought, "Aha!  That's what that meant."  Nothing earth-shaking, but a better understanding of his intent in those passages.  Well-worth the price of admission.  I listened to it twice.

Back to non-fiction, for David Shenk's The Immortal Game.  The game of the title is both a specific game and chess in general.  The author states that Chess has undergone 4 phases: Romantic, Scientific, and two other very recent phases that he names but doesn't explain.  Everyone begins as a romantic-style player.  Yer buckles on yer swash, briefly contemplate the concept of "strategy," and "have at you!"  It's all about being clever, deceptive, tactical, sneaky, and smarter than the other guy.  The Immortal Game is generally considered to be the epitome of romantic play.  The winner sacrificed a Bishop, both Rooks, and the Queen.  He was clearly losing, right up to the point where he won.  The book is an analysis of that game, a history of chess, and a history of the author's involvement with chess.  All three are interesting.  The author, like most of us, never made the transition from romantic-style play to studying the game.  Thus, he isn't and can't be a "good" player (meaning ranked and taken seriously).  The book ends with him struggling with his desire to play chess, but strong aversion to the mind-bending (perhaps breaking) study needed to be competitive.  Finally, he realizes, through New York City's chess-in-the-schools program, that the game isn't just about competition.  It's as much about mental exercise, focus, and disciplined thought as it is about winning.  And that insight allows him to shift his mental perspective and stop worrying about being "competitive" and just play.

The current book is Legacy of Ashes.  It's a history of the CIA.  Gah!  If even 1/4 of what is in this book is accurate, then the Agency hasn't gotten nearly the abuse it deserves.  Truman wanted a newspaper.  The agency responded with something along the lines of, "Right.  Of course.  So  -- what do we blow up today?"  Populated by former OSS wartime operatives, they just didn't get the idea that "intelligence" doesn't equal "covert operations."  Presidents either ignore the agency ("Why can't you tell me something that isn't in Time magazine?") or despise it (Nixon thought he lost the famous TV debate against Kennedy because the CIA secretly briefed Kennedy's campaign).  At the same time, Presidents desperately wanted covert operations, because the alternatives were open war or doing nothing.  End result, the only way the agency received any sort of positive attention was when it did something simultaneously covert and spectacular (e.g. overthrowing Iran).  Needless to say, those projects did nothing to further the agency's actual intelligence activities.  Plus, the agency is notoriously bad at analysis -- they missed Sept. 11, they missed the collapse of the Soviet Union, they insisted, until after the invasion was fact, that the Soviets wouldn't invade Afghanistan.  The only major publicly-acknowledged success was the Cuban missile crisis, which wasn't really a success because Kennedy failed to listen when his DCI warned him the Soviets might be putting ballistic missiles on the island.  Mess.  Glad they ignored my resume.