If You Need Me, I'll Be At Big Daddy's

The cat's still diabetic after all.

The cat, you may remember, got diagnosed with diabetes back in April - which, in an odd way I won't go into, is kind of what kicked off this whole life-transition thing I'm going through. But last week, when I took him to the vet for yet another "glucose curve" (I put it in quotes because even though we've done it six or seven times by now, I still haven't bothered to learn exactly what it means; I bring him when I'm told, and I believe that ought to be enough) she said he wasn't diabetic anymore. Which was exciting. Because the whole reason I have cats and not dogs in the first place is the same reason I don't have kids: I don't want to take care of anything that won't take care of me, at least a little, back.

Also, in an odd way I won't go into, kind of what kicked off this whole life-transition thing I'm going through, now that I think about it...

Anyway, I've always said that cats are just like houseplants (not that I've got a real good track record with those things either, but you know): you put a pile of food on the floor and leave the toilet seat up, and they are fine all by themselves for weeks on end. Easier than houseplants, actually. I haven't met a houseplant yet that could get itself a drink out of the toilet.

But now this dolt of a four-legged beast needs a shot in the shoulder twice a day, and it's putting a good-sized cramp in my renascent style. Not that I have much of a style these days, you understand, but the occasional plans I do make keep getting sidelined. I'm late to almost everything, and to make it worse I have to tell people it's because I had to give my cat a shot. I could make something up, but what non-psycho reason could I possibly have for creeping out of my summer-camp reunion at the crack of dawn?

So I tell the truth -- which is something I generally like to to do in the first place -- and people look at me like I'm going to pull the damn cat out of my coat and throw it at them.

I was positively giddy when the vet told me the diabetes had reversed itself. More giddy, in fact, than I had any rightful cause to be. It's not like I have plans to go to Belgium for the weekend or anything. It's not as if I actually have dates. But I do need to spend some time in Massachusetts in a little while, and it would be so much easier now that I'd be able to go ahead and leave both cats in Maine...

But it turns out my vet's an idiot. It turns out that, when she said the curve was normal, what it actually was was normal-for-a-cat-who's-on-the-proper-dose-of-insulin. And when I brought him to this vet, here, today -- for the follow-up, just-making-sure-he-really-isn't-diabetic-anymore-appointment -- this vet, here, today, told me he was.

Balls.

So the poor old thing has got to go back on the junk. So does the cat. But not tonight. Tonight, my friends, Vacationland had best look out, because this poor old thing's Rock Star hair is coming down.

See, it took a month, but I finally found a bar that has a pool table. Well, I didn't finally "find" it so much as I finally asked. At the little store that sells me gasoline, and diet coke, and cheese in those moments when I have a cheese emergency and can't make it all the way to town. The store's called Boonies, by the way, I shit you not. And the Very Nice man that works there told me where to go (you turn right at Mousam Lake; I've never turned right at Mousam Lake before!). I drove by it this afternoon to make sure I'd know where I was going when the time came, and know what?

Not only does it have a pool table (presumably; I haven't been inside yet; but I'm assuming I can trust the Boonie guy), it also has a gas pump in the parking lot. And barbecue. And chickens out back in a fenced corral. It's going to be my local for these few months, I just know it. Even if it's 35 minutes away...

I'm going there right now and getting hammered. And if I can't drive myself home, well, I also saw a '57 Thunderbird out front when I drove by.

Whoever belongs to that can give the cat his damn shot in the morning.



Don't worry. This is another of those "fiction" moments. You'll get used to it soon enough, I swear. I'm not really going to sleep with Mr. Thunderbird.  

He's probably like 85 years old.