Puffdate

Puff-Puff is back in the hospital. The vet is sweet, and doing his best, but from what he has said, I may not have a Puff-Puff come morning.

Yesterday, I noticed she seemed to be doing even worse. She threw up her Clavamox, and I know that's sort-of normal, but by evening (after the vet's has closed, of course), it was undeniable that she was not succeeding in this fight. She seemed a little cold, and was getting listless again, though she would say "Yip." when I said "Puff!" Most of the time. She usually does it all of the time, and it's "Yip!" (with an exclamation point).

I was scared, so I took her to the emergency vet. There they said she was mostly fine, a little dehydrated, and her body temperature was one degree below normal. They said just to take her home and maybe put her on a heating pad (though one degree didn't necessarily merit it), and give her an eyedropper or two full of water.

So I did. I put down tuna too, because she wasn't really eating, and they always say that's good and stinky, and likely to make any remotely healthy cat eat.

Puff didn't touch it.

So today, I took her back to the vet--her regular vet. He said her bladder felt extremely distended, and he couldn't express her manually (which he says he sees all the time in male cats, but not female ones), plus he didn't like the way she was breathing--sort of like she was panting in pain, but not really. So he told me to go take my final exam, and he would re-hospitalise her.

So I did. Before I left, I got to look at her, and she looked at me, and I told her that I love her. I think she understood.

Taking this final--it's an untimed one, in a Class From Hell that I was stupid enough to take the same semester that I'm finishing Magnificant Octopus, with questions like, "tell me everything you know about everything, and don't leave out a single thing, or you lose full credit for this question" (ok, I'm exaggerating, but you get my point)--the vet calls. At least he's really good about calling personally. He wasn't able to cath Puff's bladder, he said; it was too blocked. So he had to go in from the side (Oh, Puff!) to drain her because it was an emergency. She was *that* distended. When he drained her, most of it was mucus. He's amazed that so much mucus could accumulate in a little over twenty-four hours, and it indicates to him that there's a larger problem going on.

Which brings us to her x-rays.

He made some radiographs (I'm not sure if they're actual x-rays, or something else) of Puff before he opened her side to drain her to see if he could determine the cause of the blockage. He says these show some unusual masses in her lungs. These could be congenital, the result of inflammation, infection (bacterial or viral), or cancerous. He said at this point there's no way to tell, and he doesn't feel it would be in Puff's best interest to be non-aggressive at this point, because she's going down fast. Before I left, I told him to do whatever he felt appropriate, and he said that he put her on kitty valium and a painkiller, as well as antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and an anti-viral agent. Puff became unconscious around three or four p.m.

Yes, as I told my mother, before he put her on all of that stuff. He was clear about that. He's not pickling her to death, he's grabbing at straws, because according to Puff's bloodwork and everything else, she shouldn't be doing this right now. There should be no mucus, no bladder-blockage, no low-grade temp, no lung spots, no laboured-panty breathing...none of it. There should be just a mildly unhappy Puff-Puff, recovering at home.

So while I'm taking this final, I had to decide whether or not to euthanise her. Her Dr knows I don't want her to suffer, but he said, if it were his cat, he'd give her the night to try to bounce back from whatever this is. He says that right now, she's unconscious enough that, if she's suffering, he doesn't feel that she's aware that she's suffering, and if she passes away, it would not be violent--she would just slip away, the same as if put to sleep, just more slowly. I decided to go with his judgement; I don't want her to suffer, but I also don't want to call it quits on her before she has at least a *chance* to somehow get better. I mean, maybe it is viral--today's the first day she's been on anti-virals, and even then, only for a few hours, so...give them a chance, right? The same for anti-inflammatories...she's not been on them, either. I'm not being pro-life and making an animal suffer, I'm just not hopping aboard the euthanasia solution because the road looks a little bumpy. I love Puff-Puff too much to just give up on her like that; you don't do that to family. And even the vet said that if it were his cat, he'd give her the night to try to fight back, he just has to let me know so that I can decide to euthanise her if that's my decision.

Needless to say, the only way at this point to find out what is going on with her lungs would be to somehow biopsy (he said operate; I assume that would be to biopsy), and he said that right now he thinks that if he puts her under, she'll be dead within a minute, and I might as well euthanise her. Her respiration's not all that it should be to withstand that; it apparently became pretty depressed after just the kitty valium and painkiller.

Even though I'm not a religious girl, I've been praying. It can't hurt. Pascal's Wager is a little more applicable to this situation than it is to one's allegedly immortal soul.

And for the record, let me explain why Ancodia's brand of agnosticism and/or atheism (I vascillate) is not a cult-of-death, like the pro-life jesusfreaks want to say it is, and this is in tribute to Puff, who may be coming around right now, or may no longer be with us:

In the Bible it even says, "You shall not pass this way again." I can't say it better myself, though I can offer up an explication. This is it. There isn't anything else. No Heaven, no Hell, no "Rainbow Bridge", no Sheol, no Elysian Fields. Just this. There is no Great Reward that will make up for all the shit that's happened to you, and there's no Final Justice that awaits all those people that made all of that shit happen to you. Just this; that's all you get. If you're a shit-giver, nothing is going to happen to you that doesn't happen here; you're not going to drown in a lake of fire for all Eternity, so go be a shit-giver if you so choose. If you're a shit-taker, you're not putting any jewels into your Eternal Crown, or earning your Mansion in the Sky; so go be a shit-taker, if that is your wont.

By the same token, you can't justify being a creep, or falling short by thinking that your hapless victim will someday be singing happily with the Choir Eternal. That counts for being a creep by omission, too. And we're all guilty as hell of that.

And there is no one exactly like You. Or me, for that matter. And, once we're gone, we're gone. It's Forever, and Ever. There will never be another You, or me, or Puff. Or anyone else. If you like someone, you'd better let them know in everything you say and do; they're one of a kind and, once they're gone, you'll not be seeing them again. Every minute counts, because there are no guarantees, either; you don't get an extra fifteen minutes in your parking meter for being nice, or mean, or having more (or fewer) toys than everyone else. The next time you see someone--anyone--may be the last time you see them. Gone means just that: gone. Forever. Time will have moved on without them.

Omar Khayyam said, "The moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on; not all your Piety nor Wit can call it back to cancel half a line, nor all your Tears wash out a word of it."

That means ever, and if our Good Book and heads were fuller of such exhortations and emptier of fairy tales, we might stand half a chance in this world.

But they aren't, and I'm not optimistic about our chances sometimes, to boot.

As it is, we are so hopped-up--either on fantasy, or the vehement denial thereof--that we are actually able to convince ourselves that it's ok to be unjust to others, that it's ok to be unfair, to be self-serving, self-centred... All of this is all right, because either we'll get ours, or they'll get theirs, or both. Or others want to frolic in the idea of oblivion, thinking then, what does it really matter, anyway?

It matters because we only get This One Chance. The only glory is here, and the only hell is here, and every single one of us, every day, make the decision as to which it will be.

Usually, the decision we make impacts someone else.

We make that decision in the things we do, like getting to know and care for an animal; taking time for someone who needs it; holding our tongue when we'd rather let loose; saying 'please,' 'thank you,' and 'I noticed you weren't here the other day; how are you doing?' And meaning it. Doing our best to not let anyone be forgotten, the way we hope that no one would forget us and let Time wash across us and all that we did.

Even though it is going to anyway.

Eventually, in one way or another, we will all be forgotten. We are all useless, and inadequate, and fall short of Perfection by astronomical units that are immeasureable. So our alternatives are to fall on each other like a pack of ravening wolves, in which case everyone is unhappy and we're not going to be here for very long, or to try in every way possible to fulfill our obligations and, if not improve our (and others') lives, at least not crap it up too badly.

And when we fuck this last part up, those of us that are kind(er) of heart usually do so by omission.

Back when I was still somewhat religious (it's hard to be more than somewhat religious when you're a Cremora kid), I always figured that if god wanted to really punish someone, even worse than all that hellfire-and-brimstone-and-hot-pokers-up-the-ass stuff, if he were smart, he'd fix whatever your Major Mental Malfunctions were while on Earth temporarily, and let you have the same omniscient, time-transcending understanding he has...and then let you see how everything you ever did impacted everyone else. Every last bit of it. All of the good, and all of the bad, too. And by the end of it, I'm sure we'd all be in our own private Hell.

I mean for really. When it comes down to it, we suck. Badly.

But we don't have to worry about that, in all probability. Isn't that good? Yay. Instead, we have to muddle through and fuck things up on the first run. No do-overs, no time-outs, and it's all For Keeps.

The moving finger writes...

And that moving finger is Time, as well as our actions; it will write, even if we do nothing, even if we don't want it written. Everything we do counts, even Nothing At All.

And that's why, chirrin, were there to be Sin, then the biggest sin would actually be two: omission, and negligence. Sometimes, even murder is more humane--more moral. Faster. Less hurtful. Especially when the individual to whom you are being neglectful is in your care, and can't extricate themselves from it. Ask yourself which is the preferable exit: abortion, or what happened to Tesslynn O'Cull? And who is guiltier? The neanderthal junkie who murdered her slowly and maliciously, or her mother, who was charged with her care and failed--miserably?

I say the guilt lies with the person who did not fulfill their obligations. Almost wholly. Yet look at the person to whom we administer the death penalty (well, besides Tesslynn), while the other one practically walks. That is perverted. They both should be gassed. One because he's just worthless and obviously operates against life and lawfulness, and the other because she is criminally negligent.

There's that word again.

And if my negligence has cost Puff-Puff her life, well... To say that I will never forgive myself is as meaningless as it is true. The forgiveness I would need is Puff's, and I may not see her ever again.