give and take

Last night we were at the vet, picking up our new kittens from their hospital stay. It was just a fever, but they are still very little. The missing and longing was that of new love. They weren't supposed to be able to come home last night, but the vet gave them the okay.

So there we were standing in the waiting area, looking out for the doctor, looking at fat old Labradors drooling and being hugged by sentimental old folks. Then we got a message.

A friend K's age had passed away. He had fallen out of his flat in the morning, an accident. It was his barely year-old wife who had called his friends.

So I say God is good for making my kittens well. But God is also good when someone dies too early, by a way so preventable?

We lay in bed last night just holding on to each other, thinking of all the possibilities. For any of us.

He gives and takes away. Someone gets to live, someone has to die.

Life in its full spectrum is unfolding itself to us sheltered folks, sobering us up.

Cat Update

It has been just over a month since ET stopped eating. A month since I cried my eyes out thinking I was losing my oldest animal companion, and held her as I gave her a long talk about the first time we met and the years that went by. (I know, but it had to be said.)

One month of syringe feedings. And now this little old lady has just jumped up on the couch beside me after taking a poop, and is cleaning her paws indulgently. I would never have imagined it possible. Her appetite has grown, and I finish a can of Hill's Prescription a/d  (Critical Care) in 2 and a half days. Between feedings I leave a handful of dry cat food on a napkin beside her. She feeds herself--two kibbles every fifteen minutes or so, or when she's hungry. So now I no longer feel too guilty when I'm out till late, knowing that she can supplement herself.

Why haven't I stopped syringe feeding her? Because she needs one whole can of a/d for her body weight, to make the calorie count, which she doesn't eat on her own. She still takes the syringes willingly, gnawing on the syringe at times like a piece of meat. Hopefully this enlarged diet will put some flesh back on her bony spine.

My heart has lifted so, so much. For readers looking to save their beloved animal companions from self-starvation, I would definitely recommend Hill's Prescription. It's only available from the vet because of its highly nutritional content. Too rich for fatsos like my other cat. For cats that are not eating, even a little bit of this food will give them a boost of nutrients, fat and energy that will keep their organs going. I had peace every time I pumped some in, however little she took. Eventually she regained the energy to have the will to live again, and her appetite increased slowly.

Two nights ago, I was rubbing her belly and she bit me. That bite, full of strength and feist, made me even happier than when I found poop in her litter tray again. (Only sick-pet owners will understand the joy of finding poop.) The bite means her spirit is back, that matriarchal, Garfield-like grumpiness that had disappeared for a time.

Busy-ness

I've been busy. Happy-busy, and sad-busy.

Sad-busy because ET is sick. We have moved into a new stage of our relationship, one of her completely depending on me. She stopped eating and drinking, and I had to endure two vet visits in which the vet told me, in various unnecessary words, that ET was going to die. The funny thing is, I have been expecting her to die eleven years ago. Now she is sixteen years old. She has outlived the vet's expectation, but she has long outlived mine. So it's not necessary to talk about death.

Instead, I feed her. I syringe-feed her Critical Care canned food, and I syringe-feed her water. She is still a bag of bones--I can no longer rest my head on her hill of a belly for a pillow. But she is strong enough to go to her litter tray. And she cleans herself again. Keeping up with one's appearance is always a sign that there is the will to stay alive. She is ever the noisy cat, moaning and sighing deep dramatic sighs when I haul her over for feeds. But she lifts her lip and starts lapping her tongue when the syringe approaches, and stays put for about five feeds. Then she's all "I'm done," and wriggles her bum out of there.

I feed her in six-hour intervals, and try to entice her back to self-feeding in the mornings. No matter what time I reach home at night, I heat up a mash for her before I sleep. My room and fingers smell of liver afterwards for a while. But nothing comforts me like knowing there is warm food in her belly, and that her organs won't fail.

--
Happy-busy, because I am really busy with work.

I enjoy teaching more than I thought I would. Teaching at night is a stamina challenge. I have to ration out the energy I use during the day, so that I can do the three-hour block at night. But however tired I am when I walk into class, the interactions with the students always make it enjoyable.

University students are probably the easiest to handle. They've made it this far, which means they want to be here. And they work hard to stay here. They're Engineering double majors who tell me they were conned into taking this course because the slogan was 'Engineers Can Draw'. They thought it would be all art; turns out it's 60% Engineering. What that means for me is they look forward to my class, their only Art core all semester.

They kid with me like a friend, but shush each other up because "Teacher is talking." They write to me asking for feedback on their work, and tell me that they really enjoyed their museum excursion.

So now I'm in a dilemma, wanting to teach again next semester, but also wanting to do my masters for myself, to be a better artist. It's a good dilemma to have, but so difficult to choose one or the other.

I guess that only means that I'm really enjoying my job.

So my oldest companion has been nicknamed Funnel-Face and Conehead these days. It's a collar that prevents her from licking her wound. I dutifully prepare her medicine and gauze morning and evening, and get one of my unwilling parents to hold her down while I treat her. It's a recurring abscess of her anal gland--those brave enough can find youtube videos of the condition.

At mealtimes we take out the collar, and she becomes her skipping, perky self again. But other than that, she looks awkward like this, bumbling forward slowly with a nodding head, and knocking into doorframes. Funnily, she doesn't struggle when we put it on. Being forcefed pills and having cream put on her wound makes her very unhappy. But when it's time to put the collar on, she starts to vibrate with purrs. My mother says she must think it's an honour, a crown.

And after each ordeal, she becomes incredibly placated and subdued. Painful or not, I bet she likes the attention.

Love and Vomit.

I share my pillow every night with ET. I look at her compact body facing the wall with head cocked, and think that each moment must already be in Extra Time. I touch her and she becomes a vibrating engine, purring louder and louder and louder until I can feel it through the pillow we share.

But last night as I tumbled groggily into bed, I found her vomit splayed across my quilt, blanket and muji bolster. Mushed biscuit pieces on my bedsheet. Brown splats down the bed as she tried to jump off. Vomit, again, no big deal, but I was tired. Not in the mood for changing bedsheets at midnight and soaking off odor-remover with kitchen towels. I was a busy flurry of fury tearing off pillow cases, and then ET walked in, ready to share pillows for the night. I roared at her, "NO you get out!" She meowed, surprised, turned and went out. 

But she was just waiting outside the door. After I'd cleaned everything up and ascended my bed in a huff, she came in and sat on the floor. I wasn't ready to forgive her, and she knew it. When I looked at the floor again, she was gone. I left all the soiled sheets in the kitchen to wash in the morning.

Morning, and I was woken up by a meow-ET trying to come into my room and my parents pulling her out and shutting the door. When I came out of my room, I saw her shadowing me from a distance, hiding under chairs wherever I was. Went to the kitchen and found my sheets all washed and hanging to dry, kindness by my father before he left for work. 

Now ET is back on my bed, back in my good graces. That is trust I suppose, she believing me when I tell her I love her always, so that even when I roar at her, she knows she can come back to me. And I trusting that she probably will not vomit in my bed again any time soon. And willing to take that risk.

So tonight I told my mother all this, while cuddling the back-in-good-graces cat, and my mother said, "See? She knows how to manipulate you!"

Colours:

I'm a person who wears a lot of grey and black, but did you know that I am obsessed with a few other colours?

RED/ORANGE: my room is full of red accents. I didn't manage to get all the red in this one photo.

 

From the left, clockwise: clog from Malacca, flat pouch from Hongkong, cup from Tokyo, flowers from k from Feb'10, pepper grinder from Vietnam, clay pig from Vietnam, tin carousel from ann-m from China, knitting yarn, Origami book, scissors, wool hat, OPI nail polish from suning, Accessorize scarf, apple bell, Holga camera, strawberry foam hair curler.

NAVY: Not just any kind of blue, but the kind that can be mistaken for black. 

 

 From top: Marc by Marc Jacobs zip pouch from Dawn, brandless nail polish, OPI suede in navy, Face Shop nail polishes in two different shades of navy, ribbon from Holland Village, Bysi skirt and belt, Agnes b dog tag necklace.

TURQUOISE: Again, not in this photograph: my umbrella, makeup remover, and a dozen other things in this minty green shade that I happen to pick up. I'm not a Tiffany box kind of girl, but I gravitate to this fresh, watery color because it's not quite blue, not quite green, and not pastel either.

 

 Too many things to list.

 

 But this is my latest turquoise acquisition: China Glaze's For Audrey, purportedly the exact Tiffany blue. Compared it to the box, it's a bit darker and deeper than the Tiffany blue, but still very fresh.

 

A ring from eons ago. I bought a damaged ring and stuck all these beads on it.

 

 A crayon in the shape of a cat, picked up from Saturday Market when I was in Portland, Oregon.

And finally, a neutral palette of grey and brown:

 My favourite colours.

 

It was a happy chinese new year.

For one, the weather was cold. All the better for wrapping up in.

 

And there was time enough to do some painting,

 

and some puppet-making,

 

and some tidying up of the hurricane happening on my desk.

 Time to laze around and be stretchy.

 Although I must admit I haven't stopped rolling around in bed these mornings either.

 

New year's eve dinner with the family: a tea flower that opened up slowly all night.

 

Cousins who were very excited about yusheng.

 

And visitations to the homes of grandaunties, who don't speak a word of Chinese and make tubs and tubs of cookies and cakes.

And finally, celebrating a klutzy girl's birthday. 

These days I have been out cycling in the rain with happy girls,

at a late-night tea party with a very glum tea hostess,

and my cats got a bath, which they enjoyed despite this one's mournful moans.

And I have had quite an obsession with beautiful living spaces, and triangles as roofs.

Things we don't try to remember, that we will miss the most:

 Making handprints on ET.

 Being ignored by her.

 ET's paws. Any cat owner will be able to relate to you how precious a paw is. The first time I touched ET's baby paws, I was shocked at how soft they were.

 Putting a smile on her face.

And as for Christmas, the same rule of memory applies: 

 The things about December that I remember more than anything, that aren't necessarily events: My mother's homemade turkey and all the vegetables that go in, giant wings, a terribly scavenged carcass, and the frozen turkey thawing in the fridge, crowding out jam jars and belachan and rolling around in the car in an icy ball in a Cold Storage plastic bag.

My father playing host and getting drinks iced, putting on dramatic instrumental music and turning on the little lamps in the corners of the house. The few minutes before guests are timed to arrive are exciting. We are all laying tables, perching on sofa arms, and checking our phones for guests' messages. We do this as a family, and it doesn't really matter who the guests are. Our yearly Christmas project is to open our home.

There would be no everyday without the small things.

I know, I know. This blog is turning into a cutesy photospamming blog. But look!

This is Shironeko, the "most relaxed cat on earth", and he has a blog.

This sums up why I love cats.