LMA at Death’s Doorstep

Hello SK fans,

LMA here, barely alive. I am not even sure I’ll have the strength to finish this post. I’m so weak, this may be the end – of the blog and of me. Yes, things are that dire.

It’s been a week, I tell you. Constant wonder of where and when my next meal would come from. Each piece of kibble, I had to remind myself, could be my last.

Should I take a chance and devour this last link to my salvation, or should I ration it, steal a nibble here and there? I opted for the former, holding out hope someone, anyone would be by to refill my meager, tasteless portions.

Using all the energy I can muster, I’ll give you a rundown of the dread and misery I endured the past few days. If I don’t finish this post, assume the worst, because it probably happened.

MAD disrupted my peace and solitude by coming home early last week. My Pub stopped by and MAD was lamenting away about how awful he felt.

He called in sick to work the next morning, and I was like, what? A second day disrupted by his presence! My Pub and MAD went to see his doctor around noon. I was thrilled, peace at last. My Pub put kibble in my dish, which was not on schedule, but I welcomed then devoured it.

I lulled around in the quiet. But then the weirdest thing happened. MAD and My Pub never came back. That was fine. I could do without them, but to my horror, my food dish remained empty. What was up with this? The clock ticked. My bowl remained empty. The sun set. My bowl? Empty. There had best be a good explanation.

Death loomed. My Pub walks thru the door without MAD. She was all full of (empty) apology when she saw me at death’s door. “You must be starving,” she said. “Just let me put down my things and I’ll get you some food.”

What??? Drop your damn things right there and feed me. None of this nice, nice, let’s do everything orderly, stuff. I’m starving. She put kibble in my dish and began yapping about how MAD would not be home. He was sicker than either of them realized. He’d be staying in the hospital, at least overnight.

That was the sorriest excuse ever to try and justify the sudden altering of my meal schedule without my consultation or permission. Am I supposed to perish just because MAD is holed up in some hospital bed? I mean, really.

From what I hear, he made out pretty well. The super nice people at the hospital hooked him up to an IV drip so he could be fed all day long, while lounging around in bed watching the Masters. It was like a 5-star resort.

Why didn’t My Pub bring home an IV drip for me? I’d love to be attached to a feeding machine all day.

Instead, before zipping out of the apartment first thing next morning, she chatted with Nanook’s parents in the apartment downstairs. Every few hours, Nanook’s mom popped up and refilled my bowl. I could live like this – temporarily.

MAD, however, enjoyed the hospital’s hospitality of a 24/7 feeding machine, clean sheets and free (albeit slow) wifi, for four days. My Pub brought him home yesterday along with grocery bags filled with gluten-free and low-fiber foods.

I hoped those weren’t for me. I heard the phrase “acute colitis” tossed around. MAD did not get to bring the IV thing home with him, so My Pub cooked them a gourmet meal of mushed carrots, canned tuna and steamed rice. My kibble never looked so good.

All this disruption happened, of course, during National Poetry Month. I managed to garner up enough strength to post a little ditty about my recent horrors. Spoiler alert: It’s dark.

LMA At Death’s Doorstep
Just because you’re sick
And attached to an IV drip
is not a valid excuse
for me to suffer abuse
Next time, plan ahead
and make sure I am properly fed.

Following is a poem I published in ‘Little Women,” during Iteration One about one of our favorite cats S.B Pat Paw, who disappeared one day and feared dead – from I don’t know, starvation maybe.

A Lament For S. B. Pat Paw
We mourn the loss of our little pet,
And sigh o’er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she’ll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.

The little grave where her infant sleeps
Is ‘neath the chestnut tree.
But o’er her grave we may not weep,
We know not where it may be.

Her empty bed, her idle ball,
Will never see her more;
No gentle tap, no loving purr
Is heard at the parlor door.

Another cat comes after her mice,
A cat with a dirty face,
But she does not hunt as our darling did,
Nor play with her airy grace.

Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
Where Snowball used to play,
But she only spits at the dogs our pet
So gallantly drove away.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,
But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear,
Nor worship her as we worship thee.

Well, I made it to the end of the post, though it was touch and go there for a bit. Until next time, if there is one, xo, LMA