The Lady (that would be me) Doth Protest Too Much

I'm so glad that I have blog readers who care more about me doing the right thing than about being entertained, advised, instructed, convicted, or critiqued :)

Because it's almost 10:30, and I promised my husband I'd start going to bed earlier.He has only been home a few hours, after being gone 12 hours to drive our daughter and a friend to a camp in Upper Georgia, USA.

While he was gone I supervised one boy with an electric sander, making smooth all the stairs leading down to our now unflooded basement, soon-to-be Awesome Playroom (and Storage Area), and another son "scuba diving" in the pool to scrub off the concrete walls underwater. Supervision of dangerous jobs is very wearisome, particularly when you would rather be reading all the cool stuff you bought at the convention.


I also taught school to the remaining 6 children, which is a challenge this time of year when non-homeschooled children are having end of the year parties, dressing up, and eating lots of sugar. (See Lea's blog for some cute pics of what the public school children are doing while my kids do math and grammar. But also notice what the public school Moms are doing!!) The grass is truly always greener, friends.

But all of the above was Nothing compared to my $232.00 trip to the vet with one of our cats, Beatrice (named for the female lead in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. My kids are all about culture and other stuff like that.)

Since Sunday morning we have been watching Beatrice get sicker and sicker. Did you know cats get fevers? I didn't! But I'm not a Pet Person. But my kids and husband are Pet People. Unfortunately, my husband believes that when someone or somecat is sick, the best thing to do is leave them alone. He's an unmerciful Pet Person.

Actually, he treats the cat (and his wife and children) exactly like he wants to be treated when he's sick. He likes complete solitude and prefers Not To Be Incessantly Checked On. I am the Extreme Opposite of that (Imagine! Two opposites marrying each other. What are the odds?!) I like to be doted on and worried over when I'm sick. I like to have a little bell by my bed that I can ring in case I need someone to call 911. The first time I got sick after we were married, I thought the man had changed his mind and left me when several hours went by and the house was completely silent and the door stayed closed to my room. I guess he'd rather come in and find out I'd died during the afternoon than be bothered to occasionally, like every 10-15 minutes, tip toe in with some Coke and a cold wash cloth.

When he's sick, he locks himself up in his room and comes out when he feels better. So that's what he expects me to do. I never do that. But I suppose he's still expecting maybe one day I will :)

(back to the cat...)

And my kids are neglectful and preoccupied with their own petty lives, so they kept forgetting they had a sick cat. But apparently the whole motherly, caregiving instinct runs across the human/animal kingdom dividing line, so "I" was the one with the wet washcloth on the sick cat's head, feeding her water from my hand and force-feeding little kiblet-like things down her throat.

Then "I" was also the one who had to call the vet and admit that we just moved here from the country - where animals are a little more...er, shall we say.."dispensable" than here in the city. So, I had to beg them to see my unvaccinated kitty who may or may not have been attacked by a raccoon a few nights ago. They reluctantly agreed to see us after the other "patients" had gone home, in a secluded room where no one could get infected by our possibly rabid Shakespearean cat. It probably didn't help that we brought her limp body to the office wrapped in an old beach towel inside a laundry basket, since apparently most Dedicated Pet Owners transport their precious cargo in a special carrier. Now that we've spent $232 (not including two prescriptions, the kitty litter, the litter box, the slotted litter scoop, and the tiny food and water bowl) then I just might protect my "investment" by buying her a nicer 'ride' than the laundry basket.

So, while I type this blog post (instead of going to bed early per my husband's "suggestion") she lies in her sick bed, moving in slow-mo, stumbling around her confinement in a drunken stupor from the anesthesia, with four fairly large, very noticeable holes in her shaved body (which they don't bandage and ostensibly don't stitch up), that need a few days to "drain" (Good thing I didn't use my best beach towel.) This will be her condition for TEN, count 'em, TEN days.

On behalf of Beatrice and myself, I'll end with this little quote from Shakespeare which about sums up days like this.

“My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul”

Anyone want to guess where that came from? (and I don't mean Shakespeare.com)