Who Woulda Thunk It?

I decided today to have the cat bite on my leg checked by a doctor. Right after church this morning, we drove to the same Urgent Care clinic I went to for the torn meniscus a month or so ago.

The area around the bite was so swollen and sore Friday night, that I couldn't bear to have the bed sheet touching it. Saturday morning, the worst of the puncture wounds started oozing fluid and I suspected an infection had taken hold.

After the oozing episode, my leg started to look better and hurt less so I waited until today to go to Urgent Care.

I'm glad I went! I received antibiotics and quite an education during my visit.

Did you know that cat bites are second only to human bites as far as risk of serious infection goes? They are! The doctor told me that he's had one patient who actually lost her leg below the knee because she waited 10 days after a cat bit her to have her injuries treated.

OK, so the lady was 80 years old, the neighborhood "cat lady", and the cat that bit her was a wild stray.

Still, that information certainly got my attention.

Also, did you know it's common medical procedure to treat ALL cat bites with antibiotics even if there are no signs of infection at all?

Given the story of the now one-legged cat lady, I can understand why.

Injuries such as the ones inflicted by my sweet, playful Skippy tend to fool people by appearing to heal, when in reality there are bacteria "incubating" and breeding deep within the tissue. If untreated, the bacteria can get into the bloodstream and travel to other parts of the body. If it finds it's way to, oh say ... the heart, it can be FATAL.

That's good to know, Doc, but you had me convinced way back at first mention of amputation of the injured limb!

Thankfully, the doctor himself is a cat lover so he was completely understanding of my plight. I'd feared he might suspect I was harboring a dangerous animal and insist the CDC be called in to investigate. I hated the idea of poor Skippyjon having to go before a jury of his Siamese kitty peers, and possibly be convicted of "cruelty to a human".

No need to worry now. In a week or so my leg should be back to normal, (with the exception of a couple fang shaped scars) , Skippyjon has already forgotten the whole incident... and we are all a little wiser for the experience!

Never EVER Get In The Middle Of A Cat Fight!

After nearly three months, our oldest Siamese, Jasmine is still having a difficult time accepting the fact that our youngest Siamese, Skippyjon is here to stay. At best, Jasmine "tolerates" Skippy in the household. She does draw the line, however, when it comes to him being in our, er .. I mean "her" bedroom.

Two nights ago we had all settled in for the night, me with Jasmine curled up by my side on the bed and Skippy supposedly snuggled in his spot with Adam upstairs. All seemed well with the world, until I heard Jasmine's soft purring turn into that tell tale belly growl that indicates Skippy has entered the scene.

I waited, hoping Skippy would take the hint and go back upstairs, but as is his usual reaction he decided to linger and antagonize the poor old cat perched above him on the bed. Finally, I sat up to see exactly where he was in the room and hopefully shoo him out.

As I pushed myself into a sitting position and threw off the covers, I managed to startle Jasmine. She, no doubt thinking Skippyjon had ambushed her sprang off the bed. Unfortunately, my right hand was planted just behind her when she decided to spring, and she dug her back claws into my palm in the process.

"Crap!" I exclaimed, and followed her out of the bed intending to go into the bathroom where I could examine my injuries in the light.

As soon as my feet hit the floor I realized I had landed between the two cats who were now hissing and growling as if they were possessed. Instinctively, I grabbed a pillow from the bed and tried to put it between them, hoping it would give me a chance to get out of the way before the posturing stopped and the tooth and nail part of the fight ensued.

I was too late. At the same instant I dropped the pillow in front of Jasmine, Skippy lurched towards her. Lucky for Jasmine, my right shin blocked his attack.

Not so lucky for me, because the same shin also caught the full impact of his bite.

"Owwww ...." then "Crap!" again.

With the pillow, I started pushing Skippy towards our bedroom door, finally forcing him into the hallway just outside our room.

As I slammed the door in the perplexed little cat's face, I realized blood was oozing down the front of my leg. By this time, I was closer to the hallway bathroom than to our master bath, so I opened the door again and flipped on the light.

On either side of my lower right shin was a set of puncture wounds the exact size of the Skippyjon's mouth. Blood was streaming from all four punctures marks, all the way down to the top of my foot.

Skippy sat staring innocently up at me, then dropped to his back and rolled around in front of me as if to say, "Oh good! You're awake! I was just hoping for someone to play with."

Resisting the urge to step ON him, I stepped over him and into the hallway bath where I grabbed a wet cloth with which to clean my injuries. Skippy, still not understanding what the fuss was about or that he was quite possibly in danger of losing one of his nine lives, followed me to the kitchen and watched curiously as I took four bandaids out of the cupboard and applied them to my leg.

In all my years of being owned by cats, this is a first! I've had my share of cat scratches, but this really beats all I've ever seen. My lower leg looks like I was bitten by a snake on each side of my shin.

It's swollen and red. And you wouldn't believe how much it HURTS!

From now on I will make sure I shut our bedroom door at night, just in case Skippy decides to go on the prowl instead of going to sleep with the boy. It's either that, or wear gloves and shin guards to bed. I'm pretty sure Mr. Taylor would not approve of the latter.

Cats and Tuesday Evening

Here it is Tuesday evening and I am sitting in the recliner with one of my two Siamese cats, Skippyjon on my lap. He is lying across my left wrist as I type. I believe he thinks the movement of my hand under his chin is meant to be a treat for him, rather than a mere method of getting words onto a screen.

Cats are like that. In their minds, the world revolves around them. Personally, I find that to be one of their more endearing traits.

I love Skippyjon. He makes me smile. He's a skinny little clown, always poking around the house looking for things to get into. He loves to tease the older Siamese, Jasmine who has not quite yet accepted his presence in the household. As soon as she spots him anywhere near, she starts growling, an eerie noise that starts as a low rumble deep in her belly and rises to a positively evil wail quite possibly capable of making the hair stand up on a banshee's neck.

It never fails, Skippy gets Jasmine all riled up then just sits down and stares at her as if to say, "Whut?? I didn't do anything!" He reminds me of a mischievous little boy, always getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I can't really remember a time in my life when I haven't had at least one cat. As a child, it wasn't unusual for me to have four or five of them living in the back yard at once. Back then, all my cats were of the average orange tabby garden variety. They were also always named "Jingle Bells".

Hey! I was two years old, and Jingle Bells was my favorite song. It was quite appropriate that my favorite pets be named after it.

It also helped ensure a response when I stepped out onto the back porch and called for them. At least one (and usually two or three) of the furry orange critters would come running from way back behind our garden and crawl into my waiting arms.

Like every other little girl, I had dolls to play with, but given the choice I would take a cat over a doll any day.

Cats were more like real babies, after all. They wriggled and squirmed as I pulled frilly dresses over their heads and buttoned them in, then wrapped them in baby blankets. I would even lay them down in my doll baby beds and make them take "naps" after feeding them milk from real baby bottles.

Come to think of it, that's probably why they tolerated me as well as they did. They knew when all was said and done, I would finish up by feeding them milk from a bottle. The humiliation of wearing a dress and sleeping in a doll bed was a small price to pay, considering.

The weird thing about the cats I had as a child was that they always ran away in February. It never failed. I would go out one cold winter day and all of my cats would be gone. My dad explained that February was when cats went off looking for husbands and wives so they could start families of their own. Believe it or not, I bought that story until I was up in my teen years. Only then did I realize that my father was "assisting" my cats in finding their so called "husbands and wives" by loading them up in his car and giving them a ride out to a local farm where they'd spend the rest of their lives serving as "mousers" in one of the farmers many barns.

Thankfully, I had three aunts who seemed to have a never ending supply of "fresh" little orange kittens and my stock of "Jingle Bells" would be replenished in the spring. Then, the cycle would start all over again.

Cats have played such an important role in my life that I can't imagine life without one. To this day, simply picking one of our three cats up and snuggling it in my arms brightens my day. Something about the sound of a cat purring always soothes my soul.

I need my cats, especially at times like these when the blues seem to be nipping ever so closely at my heels.

And cats even come in handy on a plain old Tuesday evening when I've nothing better to do than sit in my recliner and peck away at the computer keyboard with one of them draped lazily across my arm.

I love cats. That's the way it's always been, and that's the way it always will be!

Good Bye!

(This is one I actually wrote about a month ago and posted to my MySpace site. I thought I'd drag it over here since I'm not feeling all that creative today. ;0) )

We are going white water rafting this weekend.

"Are you excited?" You might be asking.

"Excited" isn't exactly the word I would use to describe my feelings.

Frankly, I am TERRIFIED!

I'm no wimp. I like a little adventure in my life. I love being way up high ...on mountain tops, in airplanes, or parasailing for example.

I love horseback riding and I would go zip-lining 70 feet above the rain forest floor again in a heartbeat if given the chance. What a blast that was!!

Ironically enough, I particularly enjoy being out on the ocean (as long as it is on a yacht or bigger vessel)

That's where I draw the line. Notice, I mentioned I actually enjoy heights. That's likely due to the fact that the higher up I am ... I am also that much farther above any potentially deep or disturbing water.

Like white water, for example.

I do know how to swim. As a matter of fact, I once swam in an underground lake in a cave in Mexico, (an experience a lot of people found pretty frightening) and thought it was wonderful. At any rate, an "average" nice, calm body of water poses no threat to me.

It's being in water, but not being in control that scares me. I'd go so far as to admit I am borderline phobic about it. Furthermore, in no way do I feel compelled to practice any desensitization techniques for my "borderline phobia" at the present time.

I've got no one to blame but myself for this mess. I made a deal with the devil ... errr ... my husband. I told him I'd go white water rafting in exchange for a Siamese cat I wanted really badly. Knowing how absolutely terrified I am of the whole rafting concept, he told me if I wanted the cat that much, I could have it and I DIDN'T have to go white water rafting in order to get it.

What a sweetie I married!

I breathed a giant sigh of relief and thanked him profusely.

I should have gotten our little agreement in writing because only a couple weeks later, (and before said Siamese cat had even arrived) that sweet husband of mine went back on his word and called in my promise to white water raft with him. I reminded him that he told me I didn't have to do it, to which he responded he had simply changed his mind.

(Isn't changing one's mind the WOMAN'S perogative??)

So be it. I am a woman of my word. We are going whitewater rafting in Tennessee this Saturday.

I'm trying to keep a positive attitude about it, but it's a little difficult for me. The thought of getting thrown out of the raft and pounded repeatedly on the rocks by raging water as I die a slow painful death by drowning, keeps invading my "happy place".

Walt swears I am going to enjoy it. That may be true, given the fact that merely surviving the trip down the river will qualify it as an "enjoyable" experience for me.

You think I'm kidding???

I'm not.

So, just in case ... I want to say it's been nice knowing you all. I believe I've already informed my children of my last wishes, so y'all know what to do. There is one thing I want to add, however ...

In the event that Walt survives and I do not (I have every intention of taking him down with me if I go) I would ask that in lieu of flowers, each and every one of my friends and family members send him a Siamese cat in my honor.


Thank you, and hope to see you on the other side!!!