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Monday, Feb. 03, 2003 / 1:22 p.m. ~The Feline Drama Queen~ Gladys seldom throws up. That's for the fluffy one, the other cat with the long hair, the one who eats the same anti-hairball formula special expensive diet food she eats. That other one, the fluffy one, tends to sometimes eat her dinner and take a few steps and vomit it in its entirety, the whole dinner. She throws up indiscriminately, hither and yon, and I run behind with wetted paper towels, a can of carpet cleaner spray in tow. Then the fluffy cat quickly recovers, gets that "I threw up" look on her face, and she meows a pitiful compromised meow. As if nothing ever happened. Not Gladys. Throwing up is a rarity, a moment of vomitous occasion, a near-death experience. And so, as yesterday was a beautiful and sunny late Winter day, we enjoyed our screen porch, and Gladys enjoyed walking along the perimeter, eating whatever she could find. Bugs. Plant matter. Sticks and stems. Soil from the one remaining pot containing the one remaining plant which is near death itself due to neglect. Purposeful neglect. Gladys' stomach knew not what to make of the introduction of said foreign matter. And after many long minutes of scarfing she came inside and went into the bathroom and threw it all up on the linoleum floor. (She learned that from the last time, as I dragged her in there to vomit where I might find it easier to clean - good girl!). I found her there, next to a large puddle of assorted substances, mostly stomach fluids and pieces of dirt, she standing staring at it. Then she collapsed, quite literally, one forearm gently giving way, letting her whole body fall to the little rug in front of the sink. I imagined she was dying, she'd been poisoned, and I was in a calm state of panic. Trying to imagine mouth to mouth, emergency clinic phone numbers, the placement of her carrier, life without her, me and the other cat, a life lived sans the Gladys. Her breathing was rushed, her stomach heaving, breaths blowing out of her nose in rapid fashion. I stroked her coat, rubbed her head, cleaned up the puddle with wetted paper towels, thanking her for her consideration for throwing up on linoleum instead of carpeting. This went on, this rapid breathing, this drama, for some time before I carried her to her computer chair, laid her little 'mouse' beside her and bade her rest. The other cat came in shortly after, as I was not up for any further drama. Gladys survived. She had an appetite at 'dinner', she even became restless and wanted to play at her usual time, so all is well, but that image of her collapsing to the floor, breathing like she'd just run a marathon, is stuck in my head. I really thought I was going to lose her. I chided her later for her drama, but she knew what she'd done. She's a lot like me, I think. Which is fine. Cost of the War in Iraq
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