Our Doll creeps on a bumpy road to recovery. So our vet said in a phone
conference yesterday: when Odessa coughs up her ick, it’s white and not green
or yellow; there’s less tossing of the proverbial cookies and she does want
to eat. But she is tired—I suppose I would be too if I spent a good chunk of
my day coughing up throat nasties.

Odessa is not *that* beat, however, for she continues to calculate her
vengeance. And it’s all on me. I mean all, and I mean on, in a very literal
sense.

Now I suppose that cats, like human children, view their Mamas as their
providers and caretakers. Daddies kind of take a back seat in this little
principality in the world of Nature. And the world of Homo Sapiens can often
reflect Nature in the more traditional human families where Daddy ends up the
provider but Mama still ends up at home, protecting and caring for her young.
As our two-legged species changed over time, and more and more Mamas entered
the workforce, we still retain the sometimes exhausting role of caretaker and
provider. This will, of course, include feeding, driving to soccer—no, Stosh
and brandy take care of fitness and entertainment in their frequent wrestling
matches—and caring for the kids when they’re sick. And that includes
administering remarkably vile medicine and comfort to the convalescing.

So last night Louie dropped me at home and had to go back to work. Odessa was
up to a polite game of tag so I chased her around the bedroom a bit before
she let me grab her to give her the evening dose of antibiotic. I held my
Dolly awhile afterward and told her just how much we loved her, and that we
were really acting in her best interest: “Dolly-doll, do you have any idea
how much Mama and Daddy love you? We took you from the shelter because we
knew you needed love and patience. We wanted you to have cat buddies to play
with and a forever home with people who love you for who you are. You helped
take care of us when we got the flu and now we want to take care of our sweet
little—“

And then our little Odessa-Doll let fly with a sneeze that could break the
sound barrier. In the words of Arthur Miller in “The Crucible,” “It were a
grand sneeze…another like it would shake her wits together, I think.” I
wasn’t thinking of Arthur Miller at this point. I was thinking of shampoo.
Shampoo and a good face cleanser. Cat snot EVERYWHERE! I wiped off my glasses
and felt my way to the shower. My hair was pinned up and you know what? It
doesn’t keep cat snot from congregating wherever it and its skillful marksman
damn well please.

May I ask what happened to the days when she just dropped a noxious fart at
someone and ran for cover? Louie gets Odessa’s butt backed into him, the
friendly girl; but this makes two days now that I’ve been baptized in cat
snot and I suppose this might make me an honorary Bastite to the devout. I am
convinced that this is because I have been the sole dispenser of the
remarkably vile medicine. The perils of parenting: Daddy’s the cool guy who
gives the goodies and the scritchies. Mama ends up being “the heavy.” This,
they don’t teach in high school home-ec and health. Where did I go wrong?
Should I just dose in the bathtub so I can just get it over with?

Blessed be,
Baha