Tag Archives: saki

In Which We Say Goodbye to a Dear Little Buddy

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There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a cat curled up on your lap while you sit reading Barbara Pym for the bazillionth time. It’s just the right amount and it emphasizes how cozy the moment is in a cold, hard world.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. Saki was settled in my lap on top of the blanket he claimed years ago. It was a position he and I perfected long before all the odd times of the last decade. The very sweet vet who had come over to my place gave him three injections, 10 minutes apart (morphine, valium, and ketamine, I thought about asking for some of that good stuff, but I was distracted) and Saki got loaded, fell asleep, and just drifted off. That’s how I want to go.

I was very sad that day, but actually, the hardest part was resigning myself to it and then scheduling the euthanasia. Just saying the words on the phone to the receptionist was almost impossible. But he had stopped eating 4 weeks ago. It became obvious the choice was putting him to sleep or watching him starve to death.

Even now I expect to see him somewhere, like he’s been taking one of his naps and wandered back in to see what I was doing. I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and for second think that it’s him.

Anyway. This end, regardless of how easy or painful it is, is always obvious in the beginning when you take on a pet. The chances of outliving them are very small and you have to know that this is coming. So let’s all take a moment to remember all the ridiculous cats and dogs that have been in our lives and made them better for the time they shared with us.

You Google the phrase “naked guy with cat” and you get some pretty amazing results. To wit:

I know, not naked, but too cute to ignore.

Hard to believe, but the kitten is even cuter than the lanky, doe-eyed beauty

If you haven’t done this with your cat, are you really trying?

“put me down RIGHT THIS MINUTE, or you’ll be sorry”

Not one, but TWO oozy woozums.

I know, not naked again, but the cat is Saki’s double.

Can you pick out the kitten?

Surely if your Grindr profile just read “I have glasses and a cat,” the internet would melt.

Oh, keeses. Many, many keeses.

I think anyone who’s ever lived with a cat recognizes this classic pose of a squirming cat in one hand and something you don’t want to spill in the other and know that tragedy is eminent.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see this man naked. The I’m including the picture is the story that went with it which was about a cop who rescued a kitten, much adorbs, and which described said cop as 28 years old. Not to be bitchy, for once, but does this guy look 28? Is that in dog years?

The Terrors of the Hidden World

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Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

  • the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
  • farts by people in line in front of me
  • cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

Chris Rockway

Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

Of Kitties and Poop

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So here is the terror of the veterinary corps of San Francisco.  Did you ever?

saki

Who’s the babiest baby in Babytown?

I have no idea what has brought it to mind, but recently I’ve been reminded that one of the worst things about the untimely passing of my dear friend Magda is the loss of the jokes he and I used to share about pooping.  One of us would return from a trip to the restroom and announce in an exaggeratedly mock tearful voice “It was a terrible miscarriage.  I think it was twins.” Or something along the lines of “The good ship S.S. Fajita has launched!”  We were very popular at dinner parties.  Oh, we had ’em rolling in the aisles, I tell ya.  It’s rarer than you might think to have a friend you can not only make excrement jokes with but who has a history of them with you.

Thug Life

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I believe I have mentioned the giant red “Caution” marker on my cat Saki’s file at his vet. I thought of it, vividly, sitting in the vet’s waiting room with Saki, wondering who was least happy to be there: me, with my checking account shrinking by the minute, or the technicians, tip-toeing around us, obviously prepared to flee shrieking at the first tiger striped sight of the killer cat, or Saki, ignoring everyone and sulking.

He has a lump that recently appeared on his nose and I just wanted to ask the vet “What’s with that?” and have him assure me it’s nothing.  Of course, the vet refused to go along with that script.  Instead, “maybe” it’s nothing, first we have to have blood tests (of course,) come back to poke a needle into it, and, by the way, clean his teeth.  Why does everything involve teeth cleaning?  No wonder Saki hates that place.

The good doctor hustled Saki in his carrier off to the back and left me to brood over multiple visits and tests while considering how unhappy all this leaves Saki.  Meanwhile, I assume they were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors back there to see who would get stuck extracting the little thug from his bag.  I should mention I asked, very politely, for them to clip his claws and Dr. Pussypants absolutely refused, citing Saki’s “history” with them.

I sort of expected Saki to reappear in a little orange jumpsuit with tiny manacles shackled around his wrists and one of those Hannibal Lecter face masks, but no, even if the woman bringing him out did hand him over with more speed than concern.  That’s my boy, an eight pound terrorist.

So now I’m considering simply ignoring the whole sorry mess.  Saki doesn’t understand the concept of “for your own good” and just thinks I occasionally decide to torture him.  I feel guilty for inflicting this on him.  God knows the only one benefiting from all this is whatever bar the staff repairs to afterwards to calm their shattered nerves.  What a bunch of dicknuts.

In this as in so many things, I have conflicting emotions.  I’m mortified that my cat strikes terror in the hearts of professionals accustomed to giving pitbulls enemas, but I’m also sort of thrilled that my cat is such a badass.

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Pussy, but not the kind that scares the vet’s office.  Or maybe it is, I just don’t know.