Miss Boops Meets the Penguin
[Originally posted at lori-and-al.com.]
A New Life
We put an offer on a house in Philadelphia today. I don't want to say much about it here yet, for fear of jinxing it, but we're very excited.
I'm really glad I came out for this little house-hunting trip prior to the move (especially as it ended in us making an offer), but now that I'm here, I wish I could stay. I know that there's a bunch of stuff yet to be done in California, and Annie to retrieve, but I was just starting to get used to the idea of living in Philly. At first it felt like some weird vacation, but now I get it: this is home.
At the same time, I am eager to return to California because I miss Annie terribly and am nervous that *she* is nervous. She didn't seem to cope well at all with my last week at work, which involved me leaving the house between 8 and 9 each morning and not returning until between 10pm and 1am, and now I've abandoned her again. I have a feeling she's not going to be too excited about me returning to take her to the vet on Monday, and then on a scary plane ride on Saturday... Hopefully she'll be able to adapt to the apartment, and then again to the new house (which, if we get it, we'll probably move into in November).
It is with these mixed emotions—joy, excitement, worry, confusion—sore feet, and a strong desire for sleep that I box up my old life and unpack my new one. I hope it all works out.
[Originally posted at lori-and-al.com.]
Hello Youse Guys!
Greetings from the Borders at Chestnut and Broad in Philadelphia, where I've stopped to check e-mail and upload a couple about town II photos. (Speaking of photos, one of my photos of some interesting urban textures I noticed at the San Carlos Caltrain station was posted on Lalaland on Saturday. Fitting, as it was our last day in California!)
Al, Annie, and I all survived the move intact, though for Annie especially it was a bit stressful. She'd never been on a plane before, so there were all kinds of crazy new noises to contend with... not to mention the extra security screening she and I were subjected to at SFO. They actually needed to *manually search Annie*, even though I'd carried her through the metal detector. What did they think, that I'd strapped plastic explosives to her belly? (Of course I didn't say that to the inspector, or I would have been led away in cuffs I'm sure.)
Anyway, Annie seems to have adapted to the apartment quite well, and I'm just starting to develop a routine. (Well, I'll wait until the end of the week to determine how "routine" it is.) So far I've got more things to do than I can fit in a day. How did I ever find time to work before?
Practice Run
I think Annie is trying to warm us up for parenthood. Actually, she's been doing this to me ever since I moved in with Al three years ago. It was a giant step for me to become a pet owner, to know that I was responsible for feeding and watering and caring for another creature. As I bonded with Annie and got up to feed her in the morning and took her to the vet for checkups and shots, I became a little more confident that I could care for a child. I still occasionally forget to put fresh water out for her (food I can remember, but for some reason water not so much), but she loves me anyway.
Lately, however, Annie seems to have implemented Operation Crash Course in Parenting. She's taken to waking up in the middle of the night and walking around the bed crying. She gets up at 3:30am and attacks her (timed) bowl in the living room, trying (noisily) to pry it open. She follows me around all day, begging for food in the most pathetic squeak possible. She suddenly wants to sit on my lap all the time. She won't listen when I tell her it's time to stop crying, that dinner isn't for another 2 hours.
It was during one of these "Annie, stop crying. You've already had your turkey" speeches that I realized I was talking to her as I'll probably end up talking to my child: Calmly, reasonably... and expecting her to care. I try to remember when I get so exasperated that I practically start pleading, "ANNNNIEEEEEEE, STOP CRYING!" that it's not going to work with a baby any more than it works with Annie. I can try petting, soothing, or feeding the baby, but reason isn't going to work until the kid is at least three or four years old (if I'm lucky). Pleading probably won't either, for that matter.
The good news is that when Annie's not on a crying jag, or begging for food, or otherwise being ornery, she's utterly charming. She's taken to flopping on the floor next to the bed, or in the middle of the kitchen, or at my feed in the living room... in short, wherever I happen to be. She just chills out and enjoys keeping me company. Now, if I can get that from our baby, I'll be one happy momma.
Addendum: It occurred to me that Annie probably thinks I'm talking to her when I talk to the belly, since I use the same tone of voice. She's going to be *really* confused when the baby comes...
Ode to Annie
Yesterday afternoon I took our cat, Annie, to the vet. She's been coughing for about a week (like cats do when they're trying to eject a hairball, but no hairballs ever came out), and she started eating about half as much food as she normally does (very strange for Annie, who is not a self-regulator when it comes to food). I figured she might have bronchitis or even pneumonia, since she was acting like I do when I get pneumonia.
So the vet's office is only 8 blocks away, and it's tough to get a cab without walking at least halfway there, so I figured I'd just walk the whole way with the cat carrier. How hard could it be? As it turns out, much harder than I'd hoped—probably because I was lugging around extra pregnancy weight in addition to the 10-12 lbs. of cat and carrier.
The most comfortable position to haul the carrier, for both of us, turned out to be held out in front of me, like a tray. The only problem with this position was that I couldn't see where I was going—a dangerous thing when you're pregnant. (I already fell off a curb on our last visit to San Francisco, and my vision wasn't even obstructed then.) I shifted the carrier from one side to the other so I could see, which wasn't quite as efficient weight-distribution-wise, but it was better than any other position I tried.
I'd made it about four blocks when a businessman who looked like a thinner Dick Cheney passed me, smiled, and uttered what would have been the caption for the photo had he taken one just then: "Precious cargo." It was obvious from his glance that he meant both the cat and the belly, and I smiled back at him. A few steps later I had to stop and rest. I was beginning to regret having stashed a library book in my backpack in case there was a long wait; the hardback, combined with my water bottle (never leave home without one when you're pregnant), were adding another few pounds to my load. I ended up having to stop for rest three more times before I made it to the vet—good thing I'd left early. I resolved to take a cab home.
As I finished filling out the paperwork for a new patient at the vet's office, Annie popped her head out of the top of the carrier (which I'd unzipped a bit upon arrival, so she could see me if she wanted to) and began to cough—this time with her tongue hanging out, which I'd never seen before. "Uh oh," I said. "Uh oh." The receptionist was on the phone immediately, and I heard her say, "Dr. Vine, your 4:20 is here, and she's not doing too well." Annie and I were ushered back into an exam room asap.
Dr. Vine was about my age, and really nice. She asked questions about Annie's symptoms, and she listened to all the answers intently. She then listened to Annie's heart and lungs (she said her heart sounds were muffled, possibly due to fluid around the heart) and felt her abdomen. "I can feel something in her belly," she said. "It might just be a poop, or a bit of undigested food, but it might also be a mass of some kind. Do you mind if I take some x-rays?" I said no problem, I'd brought a book, so I could wait the 20 minutes it would take to develop the film.
After reading for a bit, Dr. Vine came out to tell me she had Annie's x-rays ready. She showed me what she'd felt in Annie's belly—a huge mass that was squishing her intestines down (which explains why Annie's been crying when she poops lately—it wasn't hemorrhoids)—and said it could be related to any number of organs in the area, including the liver or pancreas. Then she pointed to the x-ray of Annie's lungs. "All of this should be black," she said, outlining an area that was almost completely white, except for a small, oval-shaped space in the middle.
I'm not sure when I realized that this was Very Bad and started to cry, but it was probably right after Dr. Vine started outlining my options. She got me a tissue, and then took one for herself. I think perhaps the fact that I'd been so calm up until that moment and then broke down got to her. The tumor was so massive, and the fact that it seemed to be spreading to her lungs, made surgery and chemo the pipe dream option (one that I probably wouldn't have considered anyway, since it would have made Annie's life miserable). That left two options: tap her lungs so that she could come home with us for a couple days, or euthanize her right then.
I opted for the tap, since I was so shocked and saddened that I didn't think I could cope if I didn't have time to say goodbye. I know that she only has a couple days—a week at best—but in the last 24 hours I've had a chance to tell her how much she's meant to me, and that has meant all the world. Annie has been an amazing companion; Al and I were just saying the other day how she's "so my cat," even though Al got her long before he met me. She follows me everywhere, seems sad when I'm not around, has gone from a don't-touch-me cat to one who actually *wants* to sit on my lap, and gives me someone to talk and sing to when I'm in the house all day alone. And perhaps most importantly, Annie helped me prepare for parenthood. Before I met her, I was afraid of taking on a houseplant, much less a pet or a child. She showed me that along with responsibilities come rewards. Thank you Annie, for everything.
[Incidentally, I didn't have to take a cab home. I called Al from the vet's office in tears, and he came to meet me right away. He carried Annie home tray-style, while I watched for potholes.]
Too Sad To Write
Annie lost her battle with cancer yesterday, and I haven't been able to gather my wits enough to blog. Please bear with me while I work through the grief; normal programming will resume shortly. Thanks.
The Promised Pictorial
I mentioned that there would be an upcoming post with Annie photos; this is it. A couple weeks before she died, I had the idea to create a catalog of Annie's various poses and positions and our names for them. It was something I figured I'd work on eventually; I didn't realize then that I wouldn't have time to take pictures of any as-yet-unphotographed poses.
In going through all our Annie photos to work through our grief and create a screensaver for the Mac laptop, I found examples of many of the common poses, as well as several moments that were just plain sweet. I've compiled them here.