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09 November 2004 - 10:46
El Gato Wallace has not been well. Through the weekend the ginger whinger was lethargic, preferring to sit, stoically, at the top of the stairs rather than fly through the air, ninja style, at our ankles... slicing and ripping as he went... Seriously? I should have been relieved for the respite. But no. Our wee man was in pain. That silent brooding kind of pain that seems to speak louder than the whining, searing, instant advil-cured type. Like zombie pain. Yeah. Zombie. The shufflers... you know, when you can out run them, and you can bash heir brains in, but no matter how many you take down, there are literally thousands of millions more, and you know that you'll be gotten sooner or later? And it fills you with a sense of foreboding, because you know that you can live with this pain, but it's going to make you so miserable for the rest of your living days, because it's only just under the surface, lurking. Lurking. Not even ready to pounce. Just waiting, and biding it's time. Knawing at you. Gently, yet ferociously, never far from your consciousness. And the external reaction is to slow down. Quiet down. Internalize. Your brain is dealing with the suffering, and so your motor skills are limited, your vocal skills are limited. You moan. I think George Romero must have had a hangover of biblical proportions when he came up with the idea for "Night of the Living Dead." Anyway *shakes self*, Wallace was in bad shape... the only tell-tell sign of any kind of physical illness was the pool of cat vomit deposited on the kitchen tiles on Friday morning. Which luckily I didn't see. Otherwise there would have been an additional pool of procrasto-style-vomit as a sde order. We ummed and ahhed about whether to take him to the vet... he wasn't being vocal, he wasn't yowling in pain. He just sat. His winter coat puffed out to the max, like a ginger Michelin cat. For two days he ate approximately 10 Iams bits. No more vomit. And sat. Watching. Listening. Temperature normal. I tried picking him up, but he would freeze himself, like a tantruming toddler. Star shape. He was replaced in his spot. He sat. Stoic. (I like that word today) For two days. Then from nowhere, and without warning, he returned to normal. Legs, hands and other extremeties were attacked without warning. His craving for human flesh, apparently resored. So, for all my asinine talk of zombies, there may be a convoluted theory in here somewhere... Zombies lurch and lumber because of rigor mortis, right? They stiffen (heh)... and then apparently soften... allowing for a more fluid movement... My cat is undead. It's the only reasonable explanation. It also explains his need to soak himself in every available water source. To keep himself fully hydrated for the next attack... ...and after 6 pints with 30th Birthday Boy, Lizerbef, my Jen and a waitress who looked (and arguably acted like) Shannen Doherty, I feel like I could join my cat today... Well no shit Sherlock....
   My life is rated NC-17. What is your life rated? |
