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Pet peeves

The Adirondack Association of Lists and Labels recently divided pet owners into three groups.

The first is CAO (Casual Animal Owners). “Casual” is an euphemism – “Careless” might be more appropriate. These are the people who like to have animals; they just don’t like to take care of them. They are the greatest contributor to humane societies (of animals, not money) since they don’t neuter their animals. They are also the greatest telephone pole posters, since they never leash their animals, either. The less said about them, the better.

The second is AAS (Aristocratic Animal Stewards). “Aristocratic” refers to both the animals and the owners. These folks take good care of their animals but at the same time are insufferable about it. Their animals are always purebreds. And it’s not enough that their dog is, for example, a Labrador retriever – it is a Labrador descended from a race of Grand Champion Sir Gaylord Nafkastone of Brunswick or the like.

So, you might ask, do they never own a mutt? Good question. Actually, on occasion, they do. But even their mutts are purebreds. In reality, they’re mongrels, but in their owners’ minds (if not on paper) they’re a breed of sorts — a Peekapoo, a Pugashelt, a Shi-Terr, an Aerbox. You name the combo, no matter how ridiculous, and they’ve got an “authentic” label for the cur.

As for the owners being aristocrats? Well, it’s the same as their dogs – they’re aristocrats in their own minds. These are the people who have delved extensively into their genealogy and have found on every branch of their family tree nothing but saints, scholars and scions of everydamnthing. Thus, by elimination, all the world’s horse thieves, pedophiles and village idiots are in our family trees, but no hard feelings, eh?

Finally, there are the HAL (Hopeless Animal Lovers). People are in this category because: 1) They want to save ’em all, and 2) They prefer the company of animals to people. It’s best summed up by something my pal Nancy T posted on Facebook: “I don’t care who gets killed in a movie, as long as the dog lives.”

Of course, as with almost any classification system, the labels are fluid, on a spectrum, as it were. So you can be one part CAO, two parts AAS and 10 parts HAL, or any combination thereof.

Me, no matter how ya cut it, I’m a HAL, which is how I ended up with six rescue animals.

The dirty half-dozen

Now, before you start calling me all sorts of synonyms for “totally nuts,” hear me out.

OK, so I may be kinda nuts, even fairly nuts, but I’m not totally nuts (or at least I don’t think so, which of and by itself may not be a good sign). In my defense, one-third of my animals are not really my animals. All three dogs and one of the cats are mine. The other cat and the 12-year-old, one-eyed goldfish are on loan from the Amazon Queen.

The AQ herself has been taking courses in New York City for the past year, and since she couldn’t take her critters with her, she generously consented to boarding them with me. It was a true case of ESP – she gave me permission to caretake her pets before I even asked, before I even thought about it, in fact.

Anyhoo, last summer Chez Deaupe welcomed its two new additions – Rocky and Purrsia.

Rocky, the cyclops Carassius Auratus, isn’t much hassle. Oh sure, I have to monitor his ammonia levels, clean his rocks, scrape off the algae, maintain the water temperature (72 F is ideal, lest you wonder) and change half his water every week or so. But aside from that, and cleaning and changing his filters, he’s trouble-free.

Purrsia, on the other hand, is – if you’ll pardon the sloppy metaphor – an odd duck, especially with me.

She likes to sit in my lap … but only when she chooses. Then, when she’s had enough, she splits. She likes to be petted, but only as long as she deems it appropriate (which can vary from a half hour to a nanosecond). Then when she’s had enough, she signals it by hissing and/or taking a swipe at me. And when she swipes, she does it fast, furiously and with claws fully extended.

The AQ has none of these problems with her. She can pet her as long as she wants, give her baths, pick her up, and the cat is docile to the point of comatose. I attribute it to them being co-conspirators, aligned against a common enemy.

The third degree

Now when the AQ visits, it reminds me of the inspector general visits when I was in the Navy.

First, she checks out Rocky.

Then she turns her attention to Purrsia, and it’s all of her attention. Does Purrsia get fresh water twice a day? Am I overfeeding her? How often am I changing the litter? And then she asks the most gratuitous question of all: Have I been brushing her?

The AQ is a fanatic about brushing her, and for good reason – Purrsia sheds constantly. If she’s brushed every day, the shedding’s no issue. If she isn’t brushed often, then every time she’s touched, the air fills with fur. So of course she should be brushed frequently. The only problem is if I try it, I pay for it in blood — literally. And thus the AQ’s question being gratuitous. Hey, ya wanna know if I’ve been brushing her, you don’t have to ask. All ya gotta do is look at my hands. If they look like the hands of a normal person, then I haven’t brushed her. If they’re criss-crossed with angry, red, suppurating gashes, then, yes, I brushed her … or at least tried to.

For the most part, I have no problems with Purrsia. I pretty much leave her alone, and when we have contact visits, they’re low key and brief. And certainly I don’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. Unfortunately, this week that option was taken away from me.

Pills and thrills

When I got up Monday and stumbled downstairs to feed the tribe, I noticed Purrsia was limping badly. I figured she hurt herself jumping off the counter (where I have to feed the cats, so the dogs — gluttonous swine that they are — don’t scarf their food). I called High Peaks Animal Hospital and got an appointment with Patty Fobare. Patty checked Purrsia, then said the best course was to sedate her, X-ray her and check by hand to see if there were tendon breaks or tears. No damage showed up on the X-rays or the physical exam, so whatever Purrsia had hurt, it wasn’t serious.

“So what do we do from here?” I asked.

“We’ve got three days of pain pills for her,” she said. “But other than that, nothing,”

“No steroids for the swelling?” I asked.

“No, I don’t want her pain-free,” she said, “because if she is, she might really injure it.”

“Makes perfect sense,” I said.

Then we said our goodbyes.

When Heather the vet tech came and handed me the pain pills, she asked if I knew how to pill a cat.

Having had cats for almost 50 years, I’ve pilled my fair share of them. But every cat I’d had was a mellow, affectionate butterball. I never had one that hissed at me, let alone exsanguinated whole sections of my appendages.

“Uh … yeah …” I said, my hesitancy obvious.

She picked up on it immediately.

“Would you like me to give her the first pill now?” she asked.

“Like?” I said. “No, I’d love you to.”

She took Purrsia by her scruff and pulled her head back, and the cat immediately opened her mouth. Heather popped the pill in the back of the cat’s throat, closed her mouth, gave her a rub or two, and that was it.

“There,” she said, “that’s all there is to it.”

And that’s true — if, like Heather, you’ve done it hundreds if not thousands of times. If you haven’t, like me, it’s a whole new ball game. And a ball game I didn’t want to play.

It was a dilemma: The cat, without the pill, would be in more pain. The cat, with the pill, would be in less pain. I, however, would be in a helluva lot of pain.

The next day I agonized over giving her the pill.

Finally, I reached the decision: I didn’t give her the pill.

After all, Dr. Fobare said she wanted the cat to be in pain, for her own good. The least I could do was follow the doctor’s orders.

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