- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
Shortly after we were married, Jeremy and I adopted a female tabby kitten and named her Tiller, after Purdue’s new football coach at that time. We’ve had her for over 13 years, and lately her age has been showing. She’s acquired the nasty habits of vomiting grainy mustard-colored liquid all over our house; her favorite target is our leather sofas. Couple that with huge surprise diarrhea deposits in such strange and unsavory locations as the top of our TV armoire and the kitchen table, as well as litterboxes full of urine-soaked cementlike grit, and I was at wit’s end. We’d previously taken her to a local vet, who’d found clean bloodwork and prescribed some pills that were supposed to help somehow. Have you ever politely asked a cat to swallow a pill and then, when they refused, tried to make them do it? I have no qualms about prying open my boxers’ viselike jaws to shove meds down their gullets, but cats are a total no-go. I’d tried hiding the pills in little hollowed-out pet treats, but she was not to be fooled. Frustrated, I abandoned our medical efforts and simply prayed for divine intervention.
At this point, I told Jeremy that I thought that Tiller and I had reached the end of our ropes, and that maybe it was time to let her move on. There’s really no winning in a situation like this—we end up feeling guilty no matter whether we let the pet continue on in its discomfort or humanely euthanize it. He mused aloud that the cat situation could be a metaphor for our marriage. I found that interesting but didn’t like its suggestion and wondered whether consulting a vet would help us find a good solution.
So things finally came to a messy head, and I phoned another local vet, the father of one of Abby’s riding friends, who made house calls. Dr. Rick showed up to do the dirty deed and, after educating me on differential diagnoses, convinced me to reevaluate Tiller’s situation and try another treatment approach; if the therapy didn’t work, we’d either revise the strategy or call it quits. As predicted, Tiller’s bloodwork was still clean—her problem stemmed from blocked pipes, and an good old-fashioned enema and daily laxatives and antibiotics to squash her urinary tract infection have given her yet another feline life. I’ll be damned.
To add misery to misery, however, a week later, our boxer Lola developed a disgusting bleeding lump on her butt—the horrifically abscessed anal gland. In spite of our efforts to manage yet another gay festival of pet-related biohazard explosion, it’s been tough to confine the mess to just one area—I’ve been cramming twice-daily antibiotics down her throat and dabbing Neosporin onto her ass, trailing her around the house with my trusty gallon-sized spray bottle of Resolve and relentlessly laundering the dogs’ beds and our own bedlinens. We used baby gates to confine her to the kitchen, but she soon tired of her raw deal and went on the lam.
Still with me? After the dog’s ordeal began, I’d happily reminded Jeremy of his cat/marriage analogy and that, with under the wisdom of a professional, the “cat” was given another chance and was feeling better than ever. Huh. And as for Lola’s pustulent ass—it’s no longer freely bleeding but is still a bit swollen and ugly; I only pray it doesn’t explode anytime soon. We’ll have to carefully maintain the “ass” and keep it happy, regularly slathering it with antibiotic salve and—knock on wood--lancing it to let the illness out if the germs run rampant for too long. I’ll spare you any additional analogies here—you know where this is going.
Shortly after Tiller’s first bout with her GI issues, we got sloppy about her meds and special diet, and her problems returned. I find it interesting that, during this time, Jeremy and I got distracted, forgetting to schedule our weekly lunch dates to stay connected. I reluctantly reminded myself of the pet/marriage connection and vowed to not drop the ball again, possibly out of superstitious fear of what might happen next. I got back on my game, paying extra attention to Tiller’s food and communication with Jeremy. As predicted, they both seem to be on track again. Funny how that works… However, as we all know, all pets and people must eventually head to the Rainbow Bridge, even with the best of care. So at that point, it’s only fair to our marriage that all comparisons will have to end, too, as long as we’ve done our due diligence.
Epilogue
Tiller enjoyed several months of relative comfort before her explosive diarrhea and bile-spewing spasms returned with a vengeance, and we were once again plunged into a morass of feline/human misery in spite of our best efforts to treat her. I convinced myself that Tiller was telepathically imploring me to end her suffering and would surely thank me later for easing her passage to the Land of Cream and Catnip. Filled with guilt and self-loathing, I made the second call to the vet to end her life. Coward that I am, I naturally assigned Jeremy the worst job of all--taking our first furry child on her last Earthly car ride; he stayed with her until the very end. I’m still trying to believe that we did the right thing for her as well as for us.
What does this predict for our marriage? Hard to say. I know we did our best—within our definition of reason—for Tiller. With the specter of what she came to represent still hanging over our marriage, we’re enjoying relative good health. An occasional marital enema is still required, but that’s certainly better than silently ignoring a simmering mess waiting to blow.
At this point, I told Jeremy that I thought that Tiller and I had reached the end of our ropes, and that maybe it was time to let her move on. There’s really no winning in a situation like this—we end up feeling guilty no matter whether we let the pet continue on in its discomfort or humanely euthanize it. He mused aloud that the cat situation could be a metaphor for our marriage. I found that interesting but didn’t like its suggestion and wondered whether consulting a vet would help us find a good solution.
So things finally came to a messy head, and I phoned another local vet, the father of one of Abby’s riding friends, who made house calls. Dr. Rick showed up to do the dirty deed and, after educating me on differential diagnoses, convinced me to reevaluate Tiller’s situation and try another treatment approach; if the therapy didn’t work, we’d either revise the strategy or call it quits. As predicted, Tiller’s bloodwork was still clean—her problem stemmed from blocked pipes, and an good old-fashioned enema and daily laxatives and antibiotics to squash her urinary tract infection have given her yet another feline life. I’ll be damned.
To add misery to misery, however, a week later, our boxer Lola developed a disgusting bleeding lump on her butt—the horrifically abscessed anal gland. In spite of our efforts to manage yet another gay festival of pet-related biohazard explosion, it’s been tough to confine the mess to just one area—I’ve been cramming twice-daily antibiotics down her throat and dabbing Neosporin onto her ass, trailing her around the house with my trusty gallon-sized spray bottle of Resolve and relentlessly laundering the dogs’ beds and our own bedlinens. We used baby gates to confine her to the kitchen, but she soon tired of her raw deal and went on the lam.
Still with me? After the dog’s ordeal began, I’d happily reminded Jeremy of his cat/marriage analogy and that, with under the wisdom of a professional, the “cat” was given another chance and was feeling better than ever. Huh. And as for Lola’s pustulent ass—it’s no longer freely bleeding but is still a bit swollen and ugly; I only pray it doesn’t explode anytime soon. We’ll have to carefully maintain the “ass” and keep it happy, regularly slathering it with antibiotic salve and—knock on wood--lancing it to let the illness out if the germs run rampant for too long. I’ll spare you any additional analogies here—you know where this is going.
Shortly after Tiller’s first bout with her GI issues, we got sloppy about her meds and special diet, and her problems returned. I find it interesting that, during this time, Jeremy and I got distracted, forgetting to schedule our weekly lunch dates to stay connected. I reluctantly reminded myself of the pet/marriage connection and vowed to not drop the ball again, possibly out of superstitious fear of what might happen next. I got back on my game, paying extra attention to Tiller’s food and communication with Jeremy. As predicted, they both seem to be on track again. Funny how that works… However, as we all know, all pets and people must eventually head to the Rainbow Bridge, even with the best of care. So at that point, it’s only fair to our marriage that all comparisons will have to end, too, as long as we’ve done our due diligence.
Epilogue
Tiller enjoyed several months of relative comfort before her explosive diarrhea and bile-spewing spasms returned with a vengeance, and we were once again plunged into a morass of feline/human misery in spite of our best efforts to treat her. I convinced myself that Tiller was telepathically imploring me to end her suffering and would surely thank me later for easing her passage to the Land of Cream and Catnip. Filled with guilt and self-loathing, I made the second call to the vet to end her life. Coward that I am, I naturally assigned Jeremy the worst job of all--taking our first furry child on her last Earthly car ride; he stayed with her until the very end. I’m still trying to believe that we did the right thing for her as well as for us.
What does this predict for our marriage? Hard to say. I know we did our best—within our definition of reason—for Tiller. With the specter of what she came to represent still hanging over our marriage, we’re enjoying relative good health. An occasional marital enema is still required, but that’s certainly better than silently ignoring a simmering mess waiting to blow.