So you might have heard that my furry friend, Billy Bob, has cancer. Well, technically he has two kinds of cancer. Intestinal cancer that spread to his kidneys. We’ve done 9 months of chemo (me, dragging the poor cat and my children to the vet every other Wednesday – we have seen all of Chatham’s and Madison’s pets, cats, dogs, rabbits, ferrets, birds that won’t sing, and no joke – a limping pig) and both my kids are experts at Angry Bird. So after the cancer spread we decided it was time for him to come home and stay home. So we’ve now been doing kitty hospice care, me administering sub-cutaneous IV fluids and Brian heading downstairs every morning before the kids to make sure Billy hadn’t met his demise during the night. Drama, right? We seem to be good at that around here.
Well the day after St. Patrick’s day Billy didn’t seem to be doing so well. He was acting like a cat with a hangover, meowing, complaining, wandering a bit aimlessly and then settling in under my desk chair and staring at the wall instead of enjoying the view of the gorgeous spring day. He’d sit under there, meow, come find me, meow, and head back under the chair. So we put a call into the vet. Maybe this is it – death watch for a pet isn’t quite as dramatic as death watch for humans but it’s no fun either. Finally, at 7:30, the vet calls back and I explain it all to him while Alex is enjoying an ice cream sundae and Brian is out with Katie at her school for “Special Person Night” (obviously Daddy is way more special than Mommy – whatever). I explain all the things I’ve seen during the day and check check check, it seems to the vet as well that Billy is checking out. We talk about bad days and good days and maybe the next morning, Saturday, will be time for us to bring Billy in so he doesn’t get any more uncomfortable. As the good doctor and I are making this arrangement, with a ten a.m. appointment no less…. Billy Bob saunters out from our back room where my desk is located. WITH A BABY MOUSE IN HIS MOUTH. Alex tells me that it’s a toy mouse. I am doing my very best not to jump on top of the counter top because I know it is NOT a toy, and back myself into the front hallway. Billy follows me there, CRUNCHES the mouse in his mouth (DISGUSTING) and spits it in front of me on the rug (which I later disinfected, so you can still come into my house). He looks up at me and I swear I was ready for him to flick his furry paw under his chin or raise a furry middle finger at me. I interrupt the kind sympathies of the vet to explain the unexplainable (as well as the fact that we are having our basement refinished and I don’t live in a rodent-infested hovel, or at least I don’t think I do… that scene in Ratatouille when the old french lady shoots up her house and finds the rat colony really does haunt me…) It wasn’t a hangover (most likely). Billy was Lassie, keeping guard and trying to explain how stupid I am. Or one of the plague victims from Monty Python – “I’m not dead yet!” And god bless the vet, he tells me that it seems Billy has bought himself the weekend.
I couldn’t agree more.