ChemoCat Update

Buddy came through his first checkup since going on chemotherapy with the “Cat Who Looks the Least Like He Has Cancer” award. The vet said no one who works with cancer cats would pick him out as a cat with cancer.

To me he looks like skin and bones, but she saw a big cat. He’s gained only the tiniest bit of weight, but since I’m pretty sure he lost even more following his first visit he’s definitely on the upswing. Needless to say my mood is great. (Aside from cancer sticker shock. Do you know what I’ve spent so far?? $2,716. Mother of God. And I am far far far from done.)

So yeah. Good times. Cats doing well, nice dinner last night, choir ahead tonight, and Jake chose Vienna. I know she wasn’t the popular choice, and she isn’t the girl for me—although I found her oddly more likable and real—she was perfect for the kind of guy who sent the most fascinating woman home the very first night, the air national guard captain.


Finney had just jumped on my lap, missed, but wouldn’t admit to failure and so he dug his claws in, wouldn’t let go and ripped the hell out of my legs. I screamed bloody murder of course, and this is Finney looking at me like, “What? What did I do?” And Buddy has strolled over to say, “Please say he has to take a pill now because of this.” (Buddy get pills all day long. Thinks it is most unfair.)