Playing Dress Up

Happy Halloween! I am not planning to take Buster Trick-or-Treating tonight, but I did dress him up for a costume contest at the local pet store last weekend.

I didn't dress him up as a handsome devil, because that's his every day costume. Plus, my nephew was dressed up as a "speed demon" and I didn't want to get the two of them confused.

I almost dressed Buster as Snoopy in his Bloody Red Barron garb, but that was going to require a trip to the store. In true Crow family tradition, I'm a firm believer that Halloween costumes can be made from what you've got at hand.

So, I dressed Buster as a magpie! He's black and white and he's thieving bird who has stolen my heart.



I made him a beak, but he didn't like it and I thought it was a little cruel to force him to wear it. He didn't mind the feathers, but he didn't particularly care for them, either. He did like playing with the collection of shiny objects. So much so that it was hard to keep him still long enough to take a photo.



Still, I wonder if dressing up your kitty is somewhat abusive. I asked if I needed to get him some therapy for the abuse I have may have inflicted upon him. He didn't answer, but I noticed that he purrs in his sleep, so he must be feeling pretty jolly. Perhaps this means he will do a turn as Santa Claws?

Buster didn't win the costume contest. I'm not surprised, either. There were some dogs at the shop with outfits on that must've set the owners back at least $100. I would've awarded top prize to a Boston Bull Terrier dressed as Elvis complete with blue suede shoes. Buster was the only feline entry, so I think he should have gotten some recognition. Maybe I'm just lusting after a gift certificate.

Here's another shot for good measure. He can be so laid back. My former kitties would have been too feisty to have a necklace draped over their ears.

On the sixth day of cat ownership...

On the sixth day of cat ownership, I made an emergency trip to the vet where I had a large-scale emotional breakdown.

I had planned to visit the vet sometime in the next month for a, "Nice to meet you. Here is my wonderful kitty," type appointment. Even though he had peed on my bed (twice!) on Saturday, I figured he was telling me he was stressed out not sick. And I didn't blame him. I've been a little stressed out since he's been here, too. It's not easy to learn to share your space.

What got me worried was the fact that Buster had been trying to pee, but nothing was happening. This morning he seemed really out of sorts-- not wanting pets and hiding under the coffee table. I called the vet's office. While I was on the phone Buster started crying and barfed up a whole lot of food. The vet's office said, "Bring him in NOW!" so I did.

Buster was snatched into the back to be looked at, and after filling out about half of a form, I was escorted into an exam room to speak with the doctor. It turns out Buster's urethra is partially blocked. They want to anesthetize him, put in a catheter and do a bladder lavage, which will cost me $1100.

This pronouncement was my cue for a significant emotional breakdown. The tears started flowing. My heart started palpitating, and with my sinus infection, I was a blathering snotty mess before you could repeat the phrase, "eleven hundred dollars."

For those who may not be aware, I would have adopted a cat years ago were it not for my feelings that responsible pet owners should be able to afford veterinary care for their animals. Needless to say, I could not afford this. Every fear that I had about becoming a pet owner seemed to be realized when I admitted this to the vet. To make matters worse, Buster is the one good thing that has happened to me this year. Hearing that I can't take care of him adequately was quite a blow.

I told the vet to put him on meds to help him relax his urethra. I drove home at about 2 miles per hour and I tried calling my Mom, my sister, the adoption agency and my psychiatrist. Of course I got the phone phobic's worst nightmare: six different answering messages for six different phone calls. I even thought about calling my Dad, but I hadn't admitted to him that I have a kitty yet and I knew his reaction would be along the lines of, "Kimberly! Did you even think about vet bills? Idiot." Not needing to hear that sort of criticism, and not knowing how the stock market was faring, I decided not to call him. I looked around for my Uncle Steve's phone number (he's a vet) to no avail before driving over to the adoption agency. There, I cried about Buster's plight and they asked why I didn't take him to their vet.

Much to the original vet's chagrin, I took Buster to the other vet. He squeezed Buster's bladder and made him pee in the sink. I'm no feline urine stream expert, but I would say that that squeeze indicated that things weren't plugged up in Urethraville. The vet said he was stressed out and needed a diet to make his urine more acid. Buster was given a cortisol shot and some special food.

We came home and took a long nap together. But I'm looking at the urinalysis from the first vet and I'm wondering if I've done the right thing.

Oh, Buster! Aren't You Grand...

A word to the wise-- if I am going to write your official introduction to the world, it is not a good idea to piss in my bed.


Turn the clock back to Saturday morning. I wake up with a killer sinus infection and a stomach ache (probably due the ratio of decongestant to food in stomach at 4 in the morning). In the days before Buster, my state of illness would be reason enough for me to leave by bed unkempt. After all, I will probably be crawling back under the covers shortly after finishing a mug of tea, half a bowl of Rice Crispies and the poorly edited piece of detritus I was going to post on my blog. But my world has changed. Look at me... I'm no longer kitty free!

So, I've got the mug of tea in my hands, and I'm headed to the desk where my computer now lives (also gone are the days of balancing my decrepit laptop on the edge of the couch) ready to write a Meet my Kitty entry when I spot my newly beloved, Buster. He's sitting-- no squatting-- on the bed just behind the mangle of sheets and blankets. I recognize that vacant stare, and it's best reserved for the litter box, mid-business.

My first instinct is to move him. But in my deer in the headlights moment of fear (cat pee is probably one of the most vile substances known to man) I realize that it is probably best to wait this one out so as not to have urine spritzed throughout my entire apartment. My teeth chatter with anticipation, and I'm saying silent prayers of "Please don't let it soak through to the mattress." Needless to say, I spent much of the afternoon at the laundromat.

Though I did not plan to do $12 worth of laundry, I didn't really mind having to clean up this mess. I figure that it's part of getting used to living with one another. I bought a new box with more real estate and a new, more diggable litter. It turns out Mr. Buster prefers to eliminate his waste in more plush environment. I think this potty drama is resolved.

I brought Buster home last Tuesday from The Pixie Project, a local rescue organization. I'd literally spent weeks upon weeks, hours upon hours poring over the shelters in the area before getting the go ahead from my landlord. Primarily, I was looking for a kitty at the Oregon Humane Society. I am really pleased with the work these organizations are doing, so if you know any Portlanders in need of a kitty friend, I could provide a list of good kitties looking for homes.

When I met Buster, I could tell he was a nice kitty. But what really won me over was watching him with the kittens in the Cattery. He let them cuddle with him. He let them nuzzle and nurse on him. When the littlest kitten of the bunch was getting picked on, he scooped her up by the scruff of her neck and carried her to safety. He was Papa Kitty, and I was smitten. Couple that with the fact that Buster is soft like angora and the employees at the Pixie Project insisted that he was their favorite, and I was scribbling his name at the top of my application.


Within minutes of bringing him home, I was pretty sure he thought he owned the place. I had been demoted to Buster's personal butler or valet; kept around only for the petting of the fur and handy tricks I can do with my opposable thumbs.

Buster is about 2 1/2 years old. He is at least part Turkish Van and he weighs a hefty 14 pounds. He is a professional Snugglepuss with a PhD in Affection. He will play with anything from a piece of tissue paper to a fancy catnip mouse. Likes: crunchy food, chasing me, getting his ears, cheeks, chin and belly rubbed. Dislikes: vacuums, Feline Pine original cat litter, wet food, the fact that I won't open the front door for him.

Buster is quite talented. Not only does he offer up a lovely soft shoe routine, he is also experimenting with other kinds of modern dance. He is a philosopher, often seeking answers to life's mysteries at the bottom of an empty Kleenex box. His first medium, however, is post-modern topiary sculpture. His art has affected my houseplants in a way that makes me reconsider both their form and function. He's really quite dedicated and talented.

So this is my kitty Buster. I already think he is pretty special.

(Getting a) Kitty's a Bitch.

If it has been a little silent around here, it's for a good reason. I've been working my tail feathers off in an effort to get a kitty into my life. It has been difficult and eye opening work.

To get everyone up to speed, I live in an apartment with a no pets clause in my lease. I tried to go about the easy way and ask for an amendment to this policy, offering up what little monies I have as a fee or deposit. Unfortunately, the building's owners are kitty haters. They are really opposed to pet ownership because they think it will lower the value of their property and damage the hardwood floors that they have neglected for decades.

I did learn, however, that the building manager (different than the owner/landlord) thinks I am a "great tenant" and "one of the best, most easy-going and reliable residents" in my building. Furthermore, he respects my commitment to going at this kitty ownership all legal-shmegal. It's nice to know that someone is (sort of) on my side.

Even with this resounding "No!" from the management, I wasn't deterred from the idea of bringing a cat into my home. I started to research my rights as a tenant and I discovered that I could probably get a reasonable accommodation to my lease in order to keep a cat as an Emotional Support Animal. In other words, I could own a cat if it was part of my treatment for my mental health woes and this benefit would be federally protected under the Fair Housing Act of 1988 (among other important statutes that protect the rights of the disabled). To begin the process of making an accommodation, I need a letter stating my case accompanied by a supporting document from my mental health care professional.

I spent a lot of time wrestling with the idea of whether or not I should make claim to the benefits of the disabled. As witness to my cousin Matt's experience with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, I am particularly sensitive to the misuse of disabled privileges. My attempts to recover from severe (and recurrant) depression seemed to occupy a sort of gray area in the scheme of disability. Admitting to myself that I was disabled by mental illness was a difficult process, even though I certainly had proof that I have been unable to work and that my social functioning is impaired as a result of my mental health situation.

I decided that advocating for this specific benefit in the treatment of my mental wellness would be a just cause. It was a conclusion I came to after wondering what Matt's reaction would be were I able to ask him for his opinion on the subject. I'm not one to talk to God or to dead loved ones, so I sort of just ruminated on the topic for awhile. Eventually, I was reminded of Matt's relationship with his cat, Sox. This cat was probably one of the best things in my cousin's life. Not only did Sox bring Matt companionship, she provided him with an outlet to relate to other people. I know that I loved to talk to Matt about cats and about adventures Sox was up to rather than his other passion (and Sox's namesake)-- major league baseball.

Working on this project has made me realize that I am still very sick. It took me three days of arduous labor to write a 2 page email to my psychiatrist requesting his support, a letter to my landlord requesting reasonable accommodation to my lease, and a list of 17 terms I was willing to bring to the table as a part of my negotiation with my landlord. Had I been healthy (and had this subject been about something not tied to my emotions), I think this sort of work would have taken me an hour or two tops. I've spent a majority of my time since working on this project feeling drained and exhausted. I've shed more tears than I care to count. The only thing that seems to lift my spirits is a trip to the Cattery at the Humane Society.

Today marked the 48 hour point from when I first sent the request to my doctor. Expecting at least a response of, "let's talk this over at your appointment," by now, I have decided that I need to take more drastic measures. Ordinarily I would follow up with another email at this point, but I've seen red flags aloft. I don't want to get too into the nitty gritty of things, but my doctor is always a little sensitive that he is doing something wrong and he probably thinks that I might try to replace social interactions with people for the attention of my cat. I call bullshit on both counts.

I have decided to create an informational packet for my psychiatrist in time for my next appointment. It will be half dramaturgesque research, half sales pitch. I am including case studies of emotional support animals, a sample letter from a physician in support of my cause, and one of my world famous kitty collages. I plan to create a research study in support of my cause, surveying people outside the coffee shops around the corner. If anyone is interested in writing a statement in support of my cause (approx. 500 words), I will provide you with a color copy of my collage.

This request has put me in a difficult position. I'm going to think that my doctor is a total shithead if he says no. I'm also deep enough into the muck of this therapy thing that I can't willingly give up on my course of treatment.

In the past, I've been willing to concede to opposition in order to keep peace. This is different. This is not a negotiation. This is a fight I am going to win. My talons are sharpened. My teeth are bared. I am getting a god damn kitty.



Edit: After reading this entry in my Google Reader Feed, I can sort of see that this entry is dripping with exhaustion (example: 3rd paragraph from the end=my cause my cause my cause). But I'd like to let everyone know that I am totally serious about the statement writing.

This Kitty Needs a Catty

In honor of Labor Day, I went up to the Humane Society to get some kitty lovin'. No offense to the dogs, I just like cats better since they have yet to bite my eyelid off. I went up there because I thought it might help me beat the blues, and because the activity is something I might remember. I needed something to remember Labor Day by so it didn't blur into the mass of inactivity that is my life (as Memorial Day and Independence Day sadly had).

Something I did not think about before I got up there was that the Oregon Humane Society was closed for the holiday. I was a little sad about this, so I had to come back to visit today. Which is when I fell a little bit in love.

Enter Catty, stage left. He is the silent, observant type. Alert, independent but not aloof. Curious, but not one to pry. Enjoys a good scratch between the ears, but maybe prefers sitting beside you to on your lap. A big round face to match his big, saucer-like eyes.

Unfortunately, Catty's been at the shelter far too long due to a handful of seizures he's had. This only makes me think that it is a sign from above. I am so meant to welcome this kitty into my home because of my experience popping phenobarbitol pills into a kitty in my mansion-sitting days. Or my experience splicing pills into marshmallows for an epileptic daschund. These things count on more than just the karmic scale, right?

I might have to have a chat with my building manager about this... maybe I can get a doctor's note to amend my lease?

In any case, I really hope he can find a good home.

Window Kitty

My Quel surprise! moment of the weekend came to me in feline form. It should be noted that I am something of a cat whisperer. I don't even look for kitty company when I'm out for a stroll. They come to me, look up and say, "Hey, why are you not scratching me behind my ears already?" and I am more than happy to oblige.

This weekend I did about 7 or 8 minutes of housekeeping. When one lives in 500 square feet, this short chunk of time can make a big impact. One of the things I decided to do was vacuum the window sill. I even took out the fan in the kitchen window so I could get all the goodies lodged underneath.

But I got distracted on the way to the closet to pick up the Dust Buster From Hell, and I ended up capitulating to my narcissism in the bathroom for a few minutes. To my credit, this was not the narcissism of the practice your princess wave variety. It was more akin to recreational flossing. Sans floss. I wrap things up and grab my handheld vacuum.

So I'm sucking up the gunk in the window frame when I hear-- just barely over the squeals of Dust Buster from Hell-- the unmistakable sound of claws on hardwood. I look over to the left to see a very large, very scared kitty zipping out from underneath my bed. My first thought was, "Kitty, don't be a dumbass. Under the bed is the best hiding from vacuum spot in here." Then I remembered that I do not own a cat.

Seeing an unfamiliar kitty break into your home warms your heart in a way that no other sort of intruder possibly could. If you like cats, that is. I happen to like cats a lot. I like cats in a way that has permitted me to know how to meow in the pluperfect subjunctive tense. This is a story for another time.

But I can't own a cat thanks to a clause in my lease and some gnarly allergies I developed a few years ago. This is a cruel twist of fate. Everyone who comes over to my house tells me that the only thing missing is a kitty. As a retort, I offer that there are several dozen kitties on the Kitty Collage tacked up on the refrigerator even though I am well aware that two-dimensional inanimate cats don't make up for a real one.

So, I have a strange kitty in my house uninvited. He obviously came in through the kitchen window when I was not looking. Window Kitty was on an adventure. He wasn't interested in attention. I didn't offer him any food, so I don't know if he was hungry. He was interested in treading over every square inch of my apartment, including the pile of laundry on the floor of the closet. I followed him closely because I do not own a litter box. Eventually, my itchy, drippy eyes and nose get the best of me so I picked him up and put him back out the window.

I went about my business after kicking the kitty out. But he came back not 10 minutes later with a very insistent claws on glass (think rapid fire nails on chalkboard). I let him back in and I ask him where he comes from. He just ignores me. He's too busy setting up his forwarding address for his new vacation digs. He finds a wayward hair tie and plays with it, still not wanting much attention. I take a Claritin, and put on a movie. Kitty joins me on the couch for a cat nap. I know this is a mistake, but I am enjoying the TV on DVD thing a little too much.

Window Kitty is well groomed, extremely well fed and lacking of one identifying collar. I know he's got an owner somewhere. He obviously likes people when there are no elasticy hair ties to abuse. I'm guessing that he's from the neighborhood and just pussyfooting around in uncharted territory. It should be harmless, right?

No. I take him out, this time out the front door of the building even though I risk being seen by the apartment managers and other residents with a contraband cat. "Goodbye, Window Kitty!" I say. He looks up at me with a distinct, "This was not part of my plan," grimace. C'est la vie, Kitty.

To tie up this story, kitty returned right when I was headed for bed. He meowed at all of my windows. He scratched on the glass. He did this all night long. When I was able to sleep, I dreamt of kitties in my apartment. Just not of that particular kitty in my apartment.