Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
If you heard a thud earlier today, that was probably Wednesday landing.
Today is March 9, 2022. It’s chilly here, winter-spring, or wing. Blossoms have shown up on trees. Star asters and lilies are shoving their colorful heads out of the ground. Temperature now is 45 F and we expect 52, with some showers possible. The clouds look like they’re not sure about their orders, like, yeah, maybe they’ll come together for some rain, or maybe they’ll just call it off and drift home to Cloud City. (That’s where almost 99% of the clouds live, you know. Have you ever been?)
The sun checked in at 6:33 this morning. Check-out time is 6:10 PM.
The line, “And I’m getting old,” popped into my head last night, just an offshoot of general reflecting upon life, death, and existence, and the world’s current state. That’s a line out of a 1972 song called, “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young, according to the neurons. The line kindled the song and so it remained, looping through the morning mental music stream as I made and consumed breakfast, awaited word about Papi, and read updates about Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. I love this acoustic version’s sense of introspection and loneliness.
So here we are. Stay positive. It’s a fight, I know. We’re all getting old, aren’t we, although many of us don’t think of ourselves as getting old until some magic point is reached. That magic is a different moment for each, superficially the same, one that can be categorized as a happening, like getting forgetful, or feeling weary, but it’s different for you than from me. I think.
Test negative. Wear a mask if it’s needed and get the vaccine and booster when you can. I’m back to the kitchen for a warmer. Have a better one. Cheers
My cat Papi, aka Meep, Youngblood, the Ginger Blade, and the Ginger Flash, has been in the animal hospital for several days, suffering from concurrent inflammation of his pancreas, bile ducts, and liver, which is called traiditis. He’d not been eating, had vomited a few times, and wasn’t drinking water. After a few days of antibiotics, IV fluids, and rest, he finally ate last night and this morning. We can bring him home today.
It’s a relief. I shared the happy news with my big black and white boy, Tucker. “Good new, buddy. Papi is coming home.”
Tucker replied, “Who? What? What are you talking about?”
While Papi’s immediate threat has been countered, I’ll need to monitor his behavior and watch for a recurrence. Fingers crossed, this was a one-time thing, but you never know.
Thanks for all of your support. Look forward to bringing him home this afternoon at three. Just hasn’t been the same without him.
Flooftulate (floofinition) – 1. An animal’s claim as true, existent, or necessary.
In use: “She opened the bag of chips, and the dog immediately flooftulated that she was going to share with him.”
2. To surrender, give in, or yield to an animal’s will.
In use: “She tried telling her dog that chips aren’t good for him, but those eyes, so she flooftulated and fed him chips as she munched.”
Today’s word for the day is triaditis. It goes with words already familiar to me, like inflammation and pancreatitis, detoxing, dehydration, and a bonus new word, cholangitis. These are the words passed on to me from the vet. Triaditis is the concurrent inflammation of bile ducts, liver, and pancreas. Surprising to me is that it’s common in cats. Cats have owned me for fifty years. None of them ever mentioned triaditis. They did sometimes display triaditis symptoms of being lethargic, not eating, and vomiting something thin and yellowish. But they usually said, “Done,” the next day and went on being a uniquely entertaining companion.
That brings out two other familiar words, acute and chronic. Chronic, yeah, it flares up once in a while, doesn’t generally cause a larger panel of issues, etc. Acute is more critical and dangerous. The question before the vets is, which flavor afflicts Papi?
That’s what’s being explored today. His blood pressure was also initially low, but it recovered. There were some concerning matters about the kidneys, expected when a cat is not eating nor drinking water. We’d been forcing water in him and trying to entice him to eat.
I read up on what I could overnight and this morning about triaditis. Papi remains hospitalized. He’s young, so I worry that he’s experiencing acute triaditis. As expected, he was given fluids via IV, along with antibiotics. Because my wife has RA, we’re familiar with autoimmune diseases and disorders. The doctor confirmed that triaditis falls in that realm. Not much more is known about it past its symptoms and how common it is.
For now, Papi’s major issue is that he’s still not eating nor showing interest in it. We believe it’s because he’s in the hospital. He’s been treated for dehydration and given antibiotics. Provide us with some NSAID anti-inflammatories, if possible (I’d rather avoid steroids because of the collateral damage they can cause), and let us take him home and try to get him to eat.
It’s still a shock that he became sick so suddenly. This is how bodies function, though. Because we see such small, gradual, external changes, we easily overlook or forget that we’re really multiple internal functions, processes, and organs balancing and harmonizing. Keeping it all together requires shifts and adjustments. Sometimes genetics enter the scene. Other times, luck or injuries shift the setting.
We’ll see what we see. I don’t feel fatalistic about Papi; I’m optimistic. Maybe it’s just due to how he always presented, as energetic, happy, and healthy, so he remains so in my mind.
Cheers
Tuesday has broken, like the first morning. A gauzy blue sky hovers overhead, white streamers of clouds pulled apart across the middle. Busy birds dart around the spring’s emerging signs. Sunrise kicked in at 6:35 AM. Sunset cometh about 6:09 PM. Temperatures were touching freezing, 33 F, but we’re seeing 40 now and the thermo will find, say, 57, by daylight’s end.
Had the theme music to The Rifleman in my morning mental music stream. Remember it, with Chuck Connors? Not much to the theme song, a bit of fanfares and strings meant to pull us into the ambiance of the romanticists’ sense of the American Wild West.
But the neurons pulled and pushed other songs through the morning mental music tracks. Sunshine through the windows prompted a new part of the song catalogue to play. From “Uncle Salty” to “Walking on Sunshine”, to “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay”, “Sunshine on my Shoulders”, “Let the Sunshine In”, “Ain’t No Sunshine”, “Sunshine Superman”, “You Are the Sunshine of My Life”, and “Sunshine of Your Love”. LOL. Lots of sunshine.
But the neurons pulled out a newer song. Here’s “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Bedingfield from 2020. Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vaccines and boosters when you’re able. I’ll also drink coffee and stay hydrated with plenty of water. Cheers
In my early twenties, I was second-in-charge of an enormous global competition. People had gathered from around the world. The games’ name started with a Z and was something like Zweimeckel. Others worked for me as judges, referees, and umpires. They rushed about, watching and ruling over the various events underway and scoring them, a noisy, busy sight under blue skies, while I strode along, grinning and nodding in approval. I mostly saw the workers and was indifferent to the events and competitors. Those things only mattered to me if something went wrong.
Something did. A young female competitor broke the games’ harmony with sudden threats. I responded to the site and found she was complaining, then grabbed a yellow pencil off a clipboard and brandished it like a sword. Her threats found laughter: what could she do with a pencil? “Plenty,” she defiantly responded, and then pulled the pencil point out. “I can stab someone with this?” The point was so small, she couldn’t hold onto it and kept dropping it. That brought a round of greater laughter.
Everyone paused, waiting to see what I would say. I ruled that she wasn’t a threat but that she was dismissed from the games. She was being removed as I turned away.
Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 