the good, the bad and the Bugly

Well, it's day four of Bug's extended stoner session. Apparently kitty narcotics are more effective than Mommy's Pinot, leaving my munchkin incredibly and enviably out of it. Which is a good thing, considering the five-inch incision on his side that I trust left more than one of you aghast.


For these 96 hours I've felt somewhat like I've been living with a miniature, hairy version of Courtney Love. Completely high and with the pupils of a shark, Bug growled at me while I attempted to cuddle him his first night home. Within minutes he was running around the apartment, jumping onto windowsills with one eye slightly ajar. In the next hour he was sitting completely motionless on the living room carpet, staring at the impressionist print that hangs behind the couch. I could almost picture his black eyeliner running as tears streamed down his cheeks: "Monet is just so damn beautiful, man . . ." He ended the night with an extended study of the silent kitchen sink disposal, in which absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, was happening. The next morning I woke to him studying the interior of a two-liter bottle of still Coca-Cola. I can't imagine what was going on in his little hippie head.


Both the painkillers and Mommy's Pinot have allowed us to ignore the fact that my kid still awaits the results of his biopsy, only a tiny part of a massive chunk of fibrous tissue and blood that naturally I asked to see upon picking him up from the vet. In its formaldehyde bath, it resembled what I imagine a ferret's brain would, so tiny and dense. Of course my own dense brain admonished me for not noticing the mammoth thing earlier. But at least it's out of him. News came late Friday that his chest x-rays were clear, a finding that I celebrated with a beer and an ironic cigarette. Today (?) we will find our if the tumor is indeed a sarcoma or just a tangible bit of bad luck. I am naturally hoping for the latter. The latter doesn't involve the removal of any limbs, which as you might guess, is truly a bonus.


In the meantime, I will take pictures of Bug that I hope will not later come to haunt me. Because as feline moms know, nothing, absolutely nothing, is more fun to show your cat's prom date than young adulthood photos of him wearing protective plastic headgear.