The girl whom I call Mogwai will be my legal, official stepdaughter in twelve short days. This is a good thing, because I do love her, oh, so very much. Mogwai is thirteen years old (a woman, really, in our tradition and I apologize for misblogging earlier) and is therefore going through that strange dichotomy that all thirteen year old women go through, to some extent. As much as she loves her kitties and her pictures of faeries (which, and again I must break into my own writing, I cannot fault her for; I believe in faeries also, mostly because they have a tendency to hide our stuff), she also loves All That Remains and football players.
Oy. My heart.
Since she is my daughter and I do love her oh so very much, I try very hard to appreciate the things the she loves, even if I cannot love them myself. I have a reasonably high appreciation for All That Remains. Football players… not so much. I feel better since she has told my fiancee (the woman enigmatically known as Cootiebug) how easy football players are to manipulate… but not much better.
No. Not much at all.
I have raised boys most of my Life and frankly, that’s easy. You get ’em some video games, you teach ’em how to cuss and tell them they’ll never understand Women. Then you send ’em to college. You’re done! It’s harder to cook microwave popcorn than it is to raise a boy.
Girls are all complex and shit.
This attempt to love the things she loves carries over to her cat, Smokey. I cannot emphasize this enough. Smokey does not like me. She never has. I have never been hissed at, scratched at or bitten by any other feline in my Life. Now, to be fair, Smokey is Mogwai’s totem. And when I came on the scene, Smokey had no reason — nor any inclination — to trust me. And even though I have done nothing overtly to make her dislike me, she still keeps me at paws’ length, barely tolerating my presence in the house.
So… this morning, when Mogwai and Cootie realized that Smokey had stopped being able to walk because she was falling over on her left side, it was obvious that something needed to be done for Mogwai’s familiar. I called a vet from work who, when I told her what time I would be able to bring Smokey in for a little look-see, said, “Well, the doctor has already left for the day and I can’t just make the doctor come in… .” Obviously, that receptionist was a pussy. Can’t make the doctor do what you want? How about a little assertiveness training there, Sunshine?
So we took Smokey to the Banfield clinic at the local PetSmart. They poked and prodded her, told us they weren’t really sure what was wrong with her, and said that we needed to take her to the overnight Magical Animal Emergency Room, where they would took very good care of her.
In other words, please come back to this veterinary clinic tomorrow when your cat feels better. That will be eighty-five dollars, please.
I went home to cook while Cootie and Mogwai took Smokey to the Magical Animal Emergency Room. The good folks at the MAER immediately began to do the same tests that were performed on Smokey at the Banfield clinic. The docs came back at Cootie with a price tag of around five-hundred dollars. For one night. Now, I don’t mean to sound naive about all this, but that is a fuck-all lot of money for a cat. And we don’t have pet health insurance, which is funny because I’m reasonably sure Smokey is a Socialist. We can barely afford the health insurance we have, and I’m glad to have it, even though it sucks sickly yak cock.
The Girls brought Smokey home with them. We have meds and instructions. Smokey got a couple of shots in the cat butt. We are hoping this is enough to pull her through (the diagnosis: a pretty shitty ear infection which has affected her equilibrium). Regardless, we have dropped around three-hundred dollars on the cat tonight.
You know, Mogwai loves the cat. It was a part of the family before I was. And as a Pagan, of course I respect life (translated: we weren’t going to let the cat die if we could prevent it). So hurrah for happy endings in the making. The cat seems to be feeling better. She’s actually trying to eat and drink, which she was not doing yesterday.
Of course, the money we spent on the cat was the money we were saving to go to the beach this weekend, so now that’s out. And I’m not happy about it, to be honest. I really wanted to go to the beach with my fiancee for a weekend before we spend that next week in the midst of marriage madness.
But what’s more important? I know we did the right thing. And I don’t resent it. Really. I don’t. There’s time for trips; I mean, Cootie and I are going to be together. There will be time and time and do things we want to do, in this Life AND the next.
But that was a shitty trick, even for you, Eris. Using the cat? Opportunistic at best. Why don’t you just throw an apple at her next time?