We brought Brandy home this morning: brighter-eyed, impatient, and
bombed out of her mind. They told us that she's been eating like a
horse, and I believe them; unless I just have a bad case of wishful
thinking, I swear on my mother's dentures that she looks fatter now than
she did three days ago.

The most likely diagnosis is that she either has some genetic
predisposition for bad gums and teeth and/or lived her first few months
with really bad nutrition; or that she has an autoimmune thing--which I
suppose can be genes as well--that just flared and caused her system to
go bats on her teeth. We won't have the test results for a week or two,
but the vet doubts it's the Evil C. He figures in a cat so young, to
have such a sudden attack of the Gingival Nasties, it's genetic or
autoimmune thing. So we have to give her an oral rinse every day,
permanently, with dental cleaning up to twice yearly, in addition to
brushing. This will be an adventure. Brandy's hoolikitten nature has
continued into hoolicathood. I've asked Louie to dig up his old hockey
gloves and get me one of those things that baseball catchers wear over
their chests, because the old 18-Hour bra's not going to be adequate
protection if she resists. We'll do it for the others as well, and
that's going to be even more of an adventure. Stosh, with his 15 pounds
of brawn, will try to beat the hell out of the comb we fix his fur with,
so it'll be, um, interesting to see how he deals with the cleanings;
Roxie, the last time we had to take her for a tune-up, beat the hell out
of me while I spent nearly a half-hour trying to get her into the
carrier; and Odessa, aka Greased Lightning, has speed that could beat
Lance Armstrong. Boy oh boy. The techs were really good in showing us
how to do the thing with the gauze bit wrapped around the finger, and
gave us this fish-flavored toothpaste with a little finger-sheath.

We'll have to give Brandy a strict round of antibiotics, get her seen
again in 10 days, and give her some almighty painkiller for the next
three days. She's had hers this morning and she's really zipped right
now. But a lot of the old, riotous Brandy is back with us. Louie went to
get some haute cuisine from McDonalds, which Brandy promptly tried to
steal. She almost ran off with one of the little oval bricks they refer
to as hash browns. Then she made off with one of the tiny cups they
serve butter in, and Louie had to chase her to get it back. And she got
up on the sofa with me and was doing her little set of turns before
lying down, but because she's buzzing she did a backward somersault and
landed right on her butt on the floor. Thank heavens, she didn't have
far to land, it's a low couch. The other cats are feeling more at ease,
knowing Brandy came back. Odessa particularly gets nervous when she sees
a carrier, because she'd been returned to the shelter so many times
before we came along. Stosh was at the window the moment he heard the
car pull in, and when he saw his little sister come out of the carrier
all the ornery melted out of him. He'll get it all back when we start
the toothbrushing.

I'm just glad to have my baby girl back! It was weird this morning, not
having Brandy-kisses to wake me up. I love that little baby, you know
that? I've come to depend on my purring, kissing alarm clock; my job
sucks, and I look forward to my morning Brandy time because it makes
things just a little sweeter for the day.

Again, thanks to one and all for carrying us through this, for all the
help and support and positive purring. Louie feels better too, by the
way, like a big load's been taken off him. He's as serious as a father
of a two-legged baby would be mmm (Brandy has just come in and made her
mark on the keyboard. I'm leaving it. Maybe she's telling you thanks
too.)

Blessed be,
Baha