Category Archives: Life

Coupledom

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From Friday, March 28:

Overheard at the new Treasure Island in Hyde Park:

He: Oh, we forgot to get bagels.
She (acidly): Then get them.

I don’t think she was hissing about the bagels.

Observed at the corner of 55th and Hyde Park Boulevard:

Man with cell phone to right ear and cigarette in left hand, woman with cell phone to left ear and cigarette in right hand — bookends.

They walked together, mostly, except when one or the other would veer off. When the other finally noticed, he or she would turn casually to catch up, without interruption to the phone conversations.

Nothing but love.

"I never drink . . . wine," or core antibodies

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Today is blood drive day at work, but my blood donation days are over thanks to an unreliable screening process and FDA cautiousness.

I’ve been a blood donor since I was first eligible. I was turned away once in Hamburg, New York, because my blood pressure was high. As I dripped sweat onto the floor, I asked naively, “Would riding a bicycle three miles uphill make it high?” Undoubtedly bemused, the nurse directed me to rest for a while, then we tried again. This time, my blood pressure was its usual laid-back self. Later, in my 20s, I was rejected once for low iron, but that proved to be a temporary condition.

I donated primarily through the Red Cross and later the University of Chicago hospitals. More recently, I’ve donated through an agency that performs workplace blood drives. My blood is healthy; the trouble has been getting at it and drawing it. My veins are either too deep or too small, and there seems to be only one, on the outer edge of my left elbow, that’s consistently viable. We tried apheresis once, but it took too long.

At some point in the 1990s, after a donation the agency sent me a letter saying that my blood had tested positive for hepatitis B core antibodies and could not be used. This seemed unlikely to me, so I asked my doctor to order a screening. He couldn’t find anything, and I wrote a rather tetchy letter to the agency with the results enclosed.

If I remember right, I donated a few more times without problem, then in the early 2000s the screening once again revealed the presence of hepatitis B core antibodies. By now, I was a little upset because it was clear to me the screening was flawed. I did not try to donate again until November 2007; I was under the impression that I still could.

No.

I received a stern letter from the agency saying that, although the screening was negative this time, I have been permanently deferred as a blood donor due to two positive screenings [with negative screenings in between].

The letter was not well written, and it wasn’t clear to me if this was this particular agency’s policy, a generally accepted practice among blood donation organizations, or legally mandated. I did a little digging and found the following on another organization’s site:

There is also evidence to suggest that a high percentage of positive HBcAb tests in healthy blood donors are false positives. The hepatitis B core antibody should not become positive because of vaccination. Donors are deferred after 2 positive occurrences.

This sounded to me like a generally accepted practice that makes no sense.

In the meantime, the agency had gotten my Social Security number wrong, and the voicemail I’d left with the corrected number had gone unnoticed. Finally, I got hold of a living being and told her that my pint had been dispensed with as no good, so my Social Security number didn’t matter. “Oh, no, it’s important that we have the correct number on file,” undoubtedly to send to the CIA, FBI, Red Cross, the remnants of the KGB, and anyone else who might be out for my apparently tainted blood, what with the hepatitis B core antibodies that I sometimes have and sometimes don’t.

I had a thought. “Can I talk to someone [a nurse] who can explain why I’ve been permanently deferred?” The conversation with the nurse was enlightening, frustrating, and almost amusing.

She told me that blood from a donor with hepatitis B core antibodies can’t be used as it causes problems for the recipient. Right — I understand that perfectly and have no desire to make someone whose health is compromised worse. According to her, the presence of these core antibodies is not a bad thing for me, as they provide protection against hepatitis B. Right — I am familiar with the general principles behind antibodies.

I pointed out that I either have them or I don’t, and it looks to me like the screening process produces a number of false positives, making it rather useless. “Yes,” she conceded, “the screening does produce a number of false positives.” She went on to say that it is only a screening, not a test. The screening can be affected by a number of factors, such as medication and viruses. It is the FDA that requires donors with two positives to be permanently deferred. “But,” she said (and would repeat several times, even after agreeing that most likely I don’t have hepatitis B core antibodies, “it’s not a bad thing for you that you have core antibodies . . .” “I thought you agreed that it’s very unlikely that I do?” “Yes, but it’s not a bad thing because . . .,” etc. “Something caused the positives.”

After several sets of this back-and-forth serving match, I said, “Essentially, you’re telling me that the FDA permanently defers a huge pool of healthy blood donors based on a flawed screening process that yields a high number of false positives.”

Yes, that’s what she was telling me, and that’s what I gleaned from my own research.

Part of my rational mind understands the FDA’s conservatism. With the best intentions, we don’t want to make a recipient’s condition worse.

The other part of my rational mind, however, knows that I’m the ideal blood donor — healthy and with no risks of blood-borne diseases from transfusions, travel, or lifestyle practices.

The nurse from the agency said they would call me if the regulations are changed and that I can still donate bone marrow and organs. Meanwhile, despite the constant pleas for blood donations, I’ll have to keep my healthy blood to myself. For that, I am genuinely sorry.

Friday night at the emergency room

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Sometimes by Friday, especially if I have PMS, I’m tired, achy, and depressed, and my only aspiration is to spend a long evening in bed. On one of these evenings when I was young, I fell asleep at 7 p.m. and woke up at 10 a.m., with perhaps a dimly remembered bathroom break in the wee hours. I never sleep like that any more.

One some of these Fridays, life has thrown a curve or two. One Friday I left work and immediately felt light-headed and nauseated; by the time I got on the bus it took an enormous effort not to vomit. I held out for a block after I’d gotten off the bus, then threw up violently on the sidewalk in front of a small business’s doorway. The rest of the weekend was spent in similar activities, although I did make it to a member event at the Shedd Aquarium, where I told my guest, “Don’t take it personally if I run off abruptly several times.”

On another Friday, Dracula with Bela Lugosi was scheduled on AMC. I had never seen it and spent the day in delightful anticipation. (I was able to get excited about such things then.) I was going to relax with coffee or tea and be swept up into the world of Dracula and 1930s horror films. I couldn’t wait.

But when I walked in the door of my studio, something seemed amiss. It’s easy to laugh now, but when I saw the pile of underclothes on the floor, I thought only that the cable people had had to move the chest of drawers for some inexplicable reason (the cable ran through the closet in another area). It was only when I looked for the television, which for once was to be the star attraction, that what had happened sank in — I’d been burglarized. No Dracula, only the police and a long, lonely, frightening weekend of cleaning up, documenting the loss, and experiencing the horrible sensation of violation that people have when uninvited strangers have been in their home and through their things.

Yesterday I was exhausted, discouraged, and in pain. I should have known that I was due for an adventure.

After polishing off a cuppa PG Tips (thanks for the tip, Stephen!), I noticed Hodge in the litterbox — it’s hard to miss the ginger stripey tail sticking out.

And I also noticed he squatted for at least 10 to 15 minutes without doing anything.

Then he started to yowl, which he does sometimes for no reason, but the combination of straining and yowling did not bode well. Unlike humans, cats don’t sit on their toilets reading Sports Illustrated, so I began to worry that his urinary problems had come to a head, or, more accurately, to a plug.

It was about 9 p.m., and I wanted nothing more than to rest my aching body, but when the veterinarian didn’t answer the emergency number I had to face the idea of going to the emergency clinic, which is northwest to my southwest — across town.

I left a message for the veterinarian, then debated with my conscience for a while. On the one hand, he’s probably strained before and I wasn’t here to witness it. On the other, I didn’t want to wake up Saturday morning to a cat dead from kidney damage. The emergency clinic agreed; the woman on the phone said to bring him in.

Then began a series of events typical of what happens to me when I’m tired, in pain, and distracted — my mind goes. I got to the fifth floor in the elevator when I realized I was wearing shoes from two different pairs. I may not dress well, but this was weird and uncomfortable, so I had to go back and change, all the while thinking irrationally that the delay was going to result in Hodge’s death.

As I walked to the corner, I saw two cabs pass; of course, when I arrived, there were no more for what seemed like a long time. When one came (going on the wrong direction), I crossed the intersection, nearly tripping myself with the strap from the Sherpa bag that had wrapped itself around my ankle. As I untangled it mid-intersection, I realized that I had crossed against the light both westbound and northbound. Traffic was light.

The taxi driver told me that he resents how much money his grown daughter spent on her cat’s surgery and medical care. “Hmmm,” was all I could say. Aside from the cab fare (significant), I was wondering what the damage was going to be.

At the emergency clinic, a technician tried to feel Hodge’s bladder, but quickly decided he wasn’t the cooperative type, noting especially the sharp back claws he was using on her. “We’ll take him to the back and have one of the veterinarians take a look,” she said.

By now, it was 10:30 p.m., and I called J. to let him know that my life isn’t entirely dull, even if it’s rarely exciting in a positive way. He kept repeating, “Poor Hodge,” although that’s a better adjective for me, especially after I paid for the cab and this little adventure in emergency medicine. I saw Hodge through a window, being grasped firmly away from the victim’s body. Later I saw that in the clinical notes his neurological system was described as “fractious.”

According to the veterinarian, Hodge has a bladder full of crystals and a case of feline lower urinary tract disease (FLUTD), but he wasn’t blocked and didn’t have an infection. The crystals showed up as bright spots on the x-ray, although as a nearsighted novice I couldn’t tell. The veterinarian recommended a prescription diet and monitoring because he may become blocked. In short, I could have waited and saved myself $295 in emergency clinic services and $62 in cab fare, but then there was that question of my conscience.

While I was waiting for him to be discharged, an assistant came out with a ginger stripey cat in a crate and handed him to the woman next to to me, who seemed stressed and upset; apparently something had happened to her cat earlier in the day, and he was very ill.

I was confused at first but of course there millions of ginger stripeys in the world. Still, there was something about that face, that look, and that attitude . . . the other woman, too, looked more closely, and just as she said, “This is not my Jeffrey” with a slight accent, I said, “Excuse me, I think that may be my cat.” After we confirmed our suspicions (she noted that her cat doesn’t have a white demarcation between head and saddle), she asked me worriedly (because Hodge was in Jeffrey’s crate, on Jeffrey’s blanket), “What is he here for?” I assured here that his problem is chemical, not contagious. Next, she got the idea that Jeffrey and Hodge may have gotten each other’s treatments, so we (the assistants and I) told her that they had simply put Hodge into the wrong carrier. She worried that Jeffrey had been through so much already, and I told her that it appeared Jeffrey had not been disturbed in the least, that he was still in the cat ward.

In the meantime, Hodge had returned, this time in my Sherpa bag. I asked the woman about Jeffrey’s temperament (“He’s so sweet”) and to prove to her that I was taking the correct cat I opened the top flap enough for Hodge to notice, at which point he hissed, swatted, and snapped. She agreed that was definitely not Jeffrey.

She does not know how lucky she is that not only did I recognize that face, but I was willing to admit it.

So, with Hodge full of subcutaneous fluids, my wallet emptied, and my credit card bursting with debt, we took a cab home, where we arrived a little after midnight. I could sleep only until 6:30 a.m., and, really, who needs more than five and one-half hours sleep after a week of faked happiness?

No more male cats.

And, if I were smart, which I vow I will be, I would make that simply: No more males.

Does March snow bring April showers?

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By March 27, even those who dreamed of a white Christmas seem to have had enough, so it wasn’t too surprising that a full afternoon of wet flakes was greeted with “Not again!” and worse. It didn’t help that the previous couple of days had reached 50 degrees F — warm enough for people to start under dressing optimistically.

Typically you don’t see umbrellas here during snow, except perhaps in the hands of women protecting expensive hairstyles (I almost said “hairdos”). Yesterday, however, perhaps because the snow was wet, or because it was a spring snow, or both, the umbrellas came out in force. I let myself get bedewed — the snow, which came down in quantity but didn’t stick, lasted longest on my hair, which it made soft, full, and wavy — my favorite ‘do.

People forget how to drive during a spring snow; it took longer for the bus I was on to navigate a few blocks downtown than to get to Hyde Park.

I am tired, discouraged, and working far too hard to stay positive, so my idea was to do a couple of chores and read in bed until I could sleep, to sleep as long as I could, and to hope to dream. But J. called and stopped by on his way home for work, so this was delayed for a brief visit, during which he was plied with tea.

I’m halfway through The Other Boleyn Girl. The movie tie-in edition I got from the library shows what I assume to be the three principal actors. Certainly the women were not chosen for any physical resemblance to the portraits of Anne or Mary Boleyn, but (acting ability aside) for their twenty-first century sex appeal. In the novel, Mary Boleyn comments on the portraits’ tiny bow mouths as a signature characteristic of the Boleyns. The actress who portrays her, however, has a mouth that looks like it didn’t survive an attack by a swarm of killer bees. It’s Hollywood and meant to entertain and make money, but there’s something amusing about the need to cater to our contemporary sensibilities. The cover photo looks less like the court of Henry VIII and more like a scene from a nighttime soap opera.

I dreamed, but it was not worth remembering.

A visit to the Harold Washington Library Center

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After buying a couple of books, and contemplating the growing pile of recent purchases, earlier this month I decided it might be prudent to obtain a new Chicago Public Library card so I could borrow those books that interest me but that I don’t intend to keep — which is most of them. Off I went to the Harold Washington Library Center, boarding a northbound Brown Line train headed south and east (it loops).

The Harold Washington Library Center (HWLC) is one of those unpleasant reminders of how long I’ve been in Chicago. It opened in 1991, but I recall seeing a display of perhaps five scale models submitted by the architect-finalists. One, a Helmut Jahn design, took me back to my church days, when our sponsored missionaries would include in their slide shows photos of rickety Philippine houses teetering on stilts over flood waters. In the scale model, the stilts appeared to be represented by toothpicks. It did not seem to fit in architecturally with downtown Chicago, and it did not look sturdy enough to house a world-class library.

It didn’t win.

I don’t love the winning design, by Hammond, Beeby, and Babka. The general style complements the Rookery, Auditorium, and Monadnock buildings, according to Wikipedia. It is not quite right, however. The building itself is too massive. Its solid square takes up an entire block, with no columns to air it out. The large chunks of granite that serve as the base and the huge arched windows add to the bulky effect, while the red brick exterior and verdigris roof and ornamentations make the building garish. Enormous owls perch on the State Street corners, looming ominously and implying, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Their Gothic presence evokes thoughts of a drawing in the Edward Gorey style, perhaps captioned, “Mistress Greatbottom was not aware of Lord Snapethicket’s unrequited affection or great physical strength.” It looks like something that Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu might have designed in one of his nightmares.

At 756,640 square feet, the HWLC seems to have earned its status as largest public library building in the world (Guinness World Records).

By the time I arrived at the HWLC, it was too dark to pay much attention to the architecture.

But it wasn’t too dark to be overwhelmed by the size. While there are many doors, apparently only one set opens, and a commuter passing by saw my confusion and pointed me in its direction.

Finally, I was in.

And then I remembered what I hadn’t liked about the inside those many years ago.

If I were to design a library, the visitor to my first floor would experience the pleasant hum of activity, with an information desk at the center of the approach from the main entrance, and circulation and reference desks nearby. This would be your arrival, departure, and destination point, the place where your library adventure begins and ends.

I didn’t design the HWLC, so I found myself in a hallway that seemed to go nowhere. After wandering a bit, I found an escalator down and discovered myself outside the Cindy Pritzker auditorium. I turned around.

Back on the first floor, which houses the “popular library,” I finally spotted the narrow escalator to the second floor (Thomas Hughes Children’s Library). In the center of the floor I stumbled upon an information desk and interrupted a woman who was reading a compelling magazine article. She glanced at me briefly when I asked where I would go to get a library card. “Third floor,” she answered, by the second syllable already immersed again in the magazine.

I took the discreetly placed escalator (not too visible to the public) past a tiled pool of water cluttered with coins as well as some juvenile (I hope) artwork to the third floor.

At last, in the institutional lighting that was starting to bother my eyes (something I remembered from my previous visits), I came upon the circulation desk, completed an application, handed over my state ID, and was soon equipped with a brand-new Chicago Public Library card, complete with bar code and access to “MY CPL” online. On the fourth floor, I found the book I was looking for, returned to 3, and checked out. Interestingly, although the HWLC has electronic anti-theft similar to those at Regenstein Library at the University of Chicago, they still engage security guards to peruse the contents of your bags.

I’m not a librarian, so I don’t know if there is a Dewey Decimal System logic to the arrangement of the floors, which is:

4: Business, science, and technology
5: Government publications/talking book center (visually impaired)
6: Social science and history
7: Literature and language
8: Visual and performing arts
9: Special collection

The less practical and more esoteric subjects are the most distance away. Business is, of course, first. This is the United States of America, after all.

I haven’t seen it yet, but I made a mental note to visit the tenth-floor winter garden some day. In keeping with Chicago tradition, this public space can be made a private one for a hefty fee affordable only to wealthy individuals and families and to corporate entities, so at least I know not to count on being able to see it on any given day.

Now I have a library card, three books checked out that I will not be able to finish even after renewing them, and a refreshed knowledge of the quirky layout of HWLC. With luck and concentration, I may be able to find the working main entrance next visit. We’ll see.

Happy birthday

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If wishes were horses, I’d be a cowboy, and my dad would be alive, in good health, and poking gentle fun at me. Today would have been his 95th birthday. I wrote about him here, still unfinished.

18 March 2008: Miscellany

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moonbeam-clock

This morning I dreamed, but I don’t remember the interesting bits. As usual, as it progressed I needed to find a bathroom, and the only ones available were dirty, wet, or door-less.

What was extraordinary is that I slept through the night for the first time in months, perhaps years, and the light flashing from my Moonbeam alarm clock didn’t wake me. Five minutes later, the backup bell alarm did, but just enough for me to turn it off and make a quick bathroom trip (there’s a reason this theme recurs in my morning dreams).

I fell asleep again until 7 a.m., when I was struck by two things: I felt well rested, and I felt good — I didn’t feel any pain in my muscles, joints, or nerves. I have had a constant level of mild pain (with spikes of a more severe kind) for so long that I’d forgotten what it’s like not to ache.

Of course, the pain came back, but for a while it was lovely to feel young again.

On the morning bus I saw a young man playing with a mobile phone or PDA. I couldn’t help noticing how slack-jawed his face went while he was working with it; I wonder if he had any idea how silly he looked with his mouth set to catch enormous flies.

In the evening, there’s a couple, perhaps in their late 50s, who catch the same bus I do when I’m not headed toward State Street for Argo Tea, Puppet Bike, or HWLC. If there are seats left, they are usually singles, so the couple rarely gets to sit together. The man reads The Wall Street Journal, while the woman, in a different part of the bus, looks straight ahead (which is not something I could do, day after day).

Today when I looked up from reading, I saw the man in the first row of forward-facing seats — next to an empty seat. His wife was sitting two rows behind him, next to a woman she apparently didn’t know; they didn’t speak, so it wasn’t as though she had chosen to sit and chat with a friend.

When they got off the bus, another observer would have thought they were strangers for all the attention they gave one another. They didn’t even walk together; he went ahead.

To me, as a single woman, their behavior seemed odd. I know being married doesn’t mean being joined at the hip 24/7, but on a bus full of strangers why wouldn’t you sit with the one person you know? I wondered if they had had an argument. If so, I would marvel that, at this stage of life, not speaking would be the behavior of choice. It seems juvenile to me, like something we did at 15, not 55.

I don’t think this is how they act normally, because I have seen them talking at the bus stop.

Somewhere there’s a story, although it may not be as interesting as I would like to believe.

As the song says, “People are strange.” Someday that will finally sink in.

Overheard: Sexual fantasies

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Boy 1: I heard that he was, like, dating an English Ph.D. for a long time.

Boy 2: A woman?

Boy 1: Yeah.

Boy 2: No! He’s gotta be, like, bi.

Boy 1: Yeah. I’d do him.

Boy 2: Yeah. Really? But he’s got a little bald spot . . .

Boy 1: Yeah. He’s such a dork. It’d be so much fun.

Two college boys on the bus discussing an instructor

A week to forget

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After the near car accident Thursday evening, I’ve been forced to conclude that, in its way, this really has been a bad week. And all too well do I know that the worst may be yet to come.

First, my PMS symptoms seem to be worsening again. For the past 10 days:

  • My muscles have ached constantly, more than usual.
  • I have been so exhausted that I’ve fallen asleep over lunch, missed my bus stop on the way home, and fallen asleep at 8 p.m. with the light on.
  • I’ve woken up as early as 4 a.m.
  • My nether regions feel bloated and weighted down by a cannonball. Walking is difficult.
  • My lower back feels like it might have starred as a punching bag in Rocky.
  • I’ve been hungry, which makes me eat too much.
  • I’ve been depressed enough to cry not only before and after sleep, but even while asleep.

The bright spot? The symptoms are receding, giving way to pain that is at least predictable.

On Sunday, there was a brief power outage. Normally, power is restored, and everything returns to normal. This time, however, I lost my DSL connection, and, after several days, chats, and phone calls, I am doubtful that it can be fixed (optimism is not one of my strengths). I’m back to dial-up for now. As a friend says, with his dry English wit, “You want to get cable or DSL or something. It’s faster.:)”

That cheered me up a bit. It really did. I insist.

Unfortunately, the headache, sneezing, coughing, and other precursors to a cold that began in earnest on Tuesday did not. With the cold and the approaching onset of my cycle, I can be miserable from top to bottom — and am.

Monday I came home to a new mini-blind — an elegant cream, unlike the rest, which are cold white.

I can live with it. Just don’t look too closely should you visit.

On Wednesday, I found myself reading something I shouldn’t have been, not at a time when even the slightest thing will set me off, and echoed Deanna Troi’s alien son, Ian: “My face is wet.” Sometimes it happens. Suddenly.

Thursday began harmlessly enough. J. who had driven to work, called to ask if I wanted him to take me grocery shopping. I rarely turn down an opportunity to pick up heirloom tomatoes (hit and miss at Whole Foods), so I said, “Sure,” little knowing . . .

At about 6:40 p.m. we were traveling southbound in the middle lane on Clinton or Canal or one of those streets on the west side of the river when a van in the right-hand lane made an abrupt turn left in front of us. Right in front. At speed. J. reacted amazingly quickly, slamming on the brakes, while the image of the broad side of the van, no more than an inch or two from J.’s front bumper — with the point of potential impact on my side — seared itself into my brain. There wasn’t even time to use the horn in warning. How could anyone drive so recklessly?

The driver of the van, oblivious to the close call, continued eastbound on his merry way while J. pulled over, ostensibly to see if there had been any impact or damage. I suspect he needed a few minutes to calm down. A pair of pedestrians hurried over to make sure he was okay; they couldn’t believe what they’d seen. They hadn’t been able to get the license number, they said indignantly.

Strangely, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel a surge of adrenaline when I saw the van turn so abruptly or when I felt the car stop suddenly. I wasn’t panting like I sometimes do when I’m startled or have had a fright. Although it had been a very close call and I saw it coming, I felt nothing. I’ve had moments of calm like that even in tough situations, but it seemed abnormal even to me.

Shaken, but recovered, J. drove off — only to have a UPS truck barrel up behind him fast enough to make him cry out and switch lanes for fear of being run down.

By the time we got to Whole Foods (after missing the turn), we ready to take an hour off from the road.

Later, on I-94, a vintage roadster roared up behind us, too close for comfort. J. said he was reminded of an airplane pilot suddenly spotting a missile bearing down on his craft from behind.

On Friday, he missed the 8:05 train again but decided to wait for the next one rather than to drive.

Given my fortunes, and his, it was a wise move.

Rebel without a cause

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Hodge’s urinary tract health didn’t last long, little more than a week. By Wednesday or Thursday — the days are blurring — he was alternating his time among visiting the litter box, squatting on the carpet, and yowling aimlessly. Even L.’s story of another cat’s threatened penis amputation failed to impress him.

Back to the clinic we went, where he was greeted by two veterinarians — one to hold, one to palpate. Palpate they did, taking turns, but he wasn’t going to give up a drop of urine if he could help it.

“Come on, Hodge, it would help if you’d get excited and pee all over the table,” one of the veterinarians said, aiming his urination tool in my direction. Wisely, he stayed too tense to piddle.

Of course, he didn’t take this treatment lying down or quietly. He flailed strategically with his formidable back claws, and both women danced around them while struggling to retain their grips. From the back of his throat a deep growl emanated that needed only more volume to impress. One veterinarian chided him brusquely. “You have no cause to take that attitude and to talk like that,” she admonished. I thought, “You’re not the one whose tender bladder is being squeezed mercilessly.”

They mentioned the possibility of an x-ray for bladder stones if the crystal test proved negative. He gets better medical care than I do.

When I called on Saturday and mentioned my name, the girl at the front desk blurted, “Hodge is ready to be picked up!” which of course means, “I’m ready for that Hodge to go home!” She talked to one of the veterinarians, and we agreed he could have an extended stay until Monday night. During his stay he had presented them with no symptoms — not one. It is for me only that he leaves countless mini-puddles everywhere.

Despite temptation, Monday night I picked Hodge up. Dr. W. advised me to feed him canned food only and suggested that his urinary woes might be due to the frequent dramatic shifts in barometric pressure; apparently veterinarians see clusters of this type of case during iffy weather. It’s just another way in which this winter has been unkind to me. Dr. W. said something about the “life of an indoor cat,” and I replied Hodge may someday be an outdoor cat.

It looks like there is not much I can do except invest in paper towels, Cat Odor-Off, and some other kind of canned food.

Dr. W. related that Hodge was stowed near a kitten in for neutering. When the doctor went back to check on the kitten, Hodge snarled at him. The kitten, obviously a weak-minded, easily influenced type, also began to snarl at the doctor. I’m told it is probably now conditioned to snarl at the sight of Dr. W. for the rest of its life.

That’s my cat — leading the next generation of juvenile delinquents.