Saving Phoenix

Pheen is responding well to insulin.

He, and Hiss, are okay about the main food change, but are in denial about the change from Temptations to Medi-treats. Medi-treats clearly taste like utter crap, and are no treat at all. They won't touch them. Whereas Temptations, oh yeah, those were kitty crack.

He is also not responding well to having to spend an entire day at the vet's once a week, having them jab him in the same place every hour to draw blood and check his glucose. I can't say I blame him. I can say he blames me.

I understand.

It hurts, but I understand.

When he was kitten, if something scared him, say a loud truck roaring by outside the apartment, he'd run and hide behind my legs.

Pheen was feral. His mother was a barn cat who had never been around humans and never trusted anybody, and he was stubborn ball of evil energy who, like so many of the young, was constantly trying to come up with new brilliant ways to maim or kill himself. We spent most of our early time together arguing, each determined to out stubborn the other. We would spend hours exchanging earnest non-stop discussions on how things would be. Here was our common communication: he would swipe at me and I would tap his nose and he would swipe at me so I would tap his nose and...

And yet, when Bad Things happened, he completely trusted me to protect him. Why not? I wouldn't take crap from him, so hey, I sure wouldn't take it from anybody. I was the scariest thing in the world. Nothing and nobody would dare mess with me.

The downside to his utter faith in me is that when Bad Things won't go away, it's my fault. And much worse, it's my on-purpose.

So, horribly, as he's been feeling better, he's stopped being an anxious sooky who wants more attention for comfort, and has instead gone to I am avoiding and loathing you, for you are having me tortured, you sick heinous bitch.

It's miserable enough loading him into his cat carrier, trying not to sob, with a feeling in my chest like Buffy has just staked me, and being alone and worried all day, knowing he's at the vet's, where he refuses to eat or drink, and he's getting jabbed, jabbed, jabbed, leaving his poor arm black and angry, like he's been beaten.

But then he comes home, and I'm so happy he's back, but Hissy again goes extreme bonus crazy and keeps trying to kill him, because he smells like hospital and she refuses to recognise she's ever known that stinking *thing*, and he wants nothing to do with me, because I make his pain. I could save him, I should save him, and I don't. It's My Fault.

Last night, he drew some of my blood. He hasn't done that since he was kitten.

And I can't blame him, because I can't make it better, and that is my fault.

They adjusted his dose again yesterday. That means he has to go back again next Monday. All day, all suffering. I know he has to. I know this is the only way to get him better. I know that he'll blame me even harder for the betrayal, and the hurt.

I can take it. I can. For him. I just so wish I could take it for him...

Original Audio: 'A Fruitless Assignment' by Ambrose Bierce

I told you our next victim would be Ambrose.

From my archive.org description:

This a Forbidden Dragon recording. Read by Marlo Dianne.

A classic horror short story.

Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati Commercial. In the year 1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to be observed in it nightly. According to the testimony of many reputable residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent with any other hypothesis than that the house was haunted...

Download hub: 'A Fruitless Assignment' by Ambrose Bierce

My Sweetie is Too Sweet

The body is a wondrous machine.

I remember when I was seven or eight I got this encyclopedia. It was a thin red hardback. It featured the Peanuts, and it was about the body. It was Vol. 1, and it was free at the grocery store. I never got to see Vol. 2.

I was fascinated by the whole idea. How complex bodies were. The whole system of nerves all talking to each other. How fast it was. How I could move, well before I could *think* 'move'. I remember lying in the dark, flexing my hand in front of my face, and thinking about how amazing it was, all those bits and pieces working together.

But the thing about machines is, they break. The more complex, the more unstable. Some come pre-broken for your convenience. Some just have the warranties expire much too soon.

There's been another dire medical situation here at the Dragon Lair, and, horribly, it's not mine.

On Friday, the guys had their annual vet appointments. They were due, but we were also worried about Phoenix. The poor boy just couldn't seem to drink enough. He went from a lick of water a day to draining the water dish--even the bubbler--and he was literally leaving seas of wee in the litterbox. I was horrified at what I thought that meant, and my worry waves were affecting storm systems, and possibly the alignment of the planets. I couldn't sleep.

Or eat. Or think. At least not thoughts that weren't half a shiver from panic attack. My stomach wolverine woke up and tried to claw its way out. Aside from pacing, tearful fretting, and stalking Pheen to the point where I could have provided a three hundred and ten page report, just on how much water he drank that morning and what he did with it and when he moved and where he had napped and how he was feeling about the wheat trade in 17th century Russia, I played Final Fantasy XII. Focusing on hunts and levels and where to find a chocobo, and, as always, slashing bad guys, helped a bit with my twitching, although I would start frequently and have my head whip around checking for Boo. Although he had rarely stirred from the nap location at which I had ruthlessly snuggled him just minutes before.

It was pretty bad at the vet's. He had me flip him over so the vet could use a needle and draw urine from his very full bladder. Pheen has rules, and about five of them are never ever touch the belly, so he was anxious before the needle was even in the scenario. And then, after the vet left to get vials for bloodwork, Pheen growled, and went down on the floor, and while I was petting him and telling him it would be okay, he hid in the corner, and wet himself. :(

It was awful. You can't tell him it's not his fault, he can't understand, he can't understand any of this, and that's the worst part, but of course it's not his fault. His poor bladder was already bursting, and then they jab a needle in it. Anyone would have had an accident. Hell, most of us would have lost it and peed on the doctor. But he didn't believe the comfort; he was humiliated and *extremely* distressed.

Then they had to shave him and draw blood from a vein in the neck. They were as gentle as they could be, and he was good boy, but man...it sucked. They took two vials, as I held his head and told him he was wonderful and how much I loved him and sucked my tears down into my toes.

He *hates* it when I cry. His eyes get shimmery and he crawls into my stomach and gives off worry waves that affect the tides.

They did the dipstick test, and it went green. A normal level of glucose is yellow. As I feared, my little Boo tested positive for diabetes.

The vet left, and I had a few tears leak, and I sucked them back into my toes. My poor buddy was already having one fucking bad day. He didn't need me to make it worse. I had to make it better. That's my job.

I wish my job was also taking two needles a day for him, but instead I have to give them to him.

The good part is it's treatable. Just like for a human, his pancreas is shot and he needs insulin injections, twice a day for the rest of his life. But he'll *have* the rest of his life. That's what counts. I know that meds are worth it, even when they suck.

We had to change all their food, because he needs a special prescription diet. He deeply misses his Temptation treats, but I'm going to make up for it with more chicken. He can still have all the meat he wants, and that bit he'll approve of.

The blood tests came back on Monday, and confirmed the dipstick test.

Yesterday, I learned how to give my buddy an injection. They shaved him bald at his shoulders, and they made me practice on him. That was awful.

We got through. That's what you do for family.

I gave him his first shot of insulin this morning. I was so scared. I didn't want to hurt him. But the needles are small, and he only seemed annoyed that I was fussing over him. That's fine. As far as he knows, I'm just going to insist on an extra snuggle every twelve hours. :)

Afterward, my hands shook for an hour. I'm just happy they held it together when they had to. I'll get better at it. I'm going to get lots of practice. At least ten years of it, I hope.

He's already got a bit of his pep back, although if we move too fast around him he dashes upstairs to hide, convinced we're going to stuff him in the carrier and off to the vet's again. The great part is he has the pep to sort of dash; the bad part is he *does* have to go back to the vet. He has to spend twelve hours there, all alone, on Monday. They want to monitor his glucose levels, to help get him regulated. They'll be jabbing for blood every hour. But the worst is that we can't be there. It's horrible to see him hurt, but it's so much worse for him to be hurt and alone.

That will be a long lonely day.

At least he won't see me cry.

Sometime on the weekend, in a random moment from inside the hyper stress ball, my jittering brain thought this:

My sweetie is too sweet, and I have the blood tests to prove it...

Original Audio: 'Id'...all alone

It was published as digital print in Raven Electrick, and it was included on the Deadpan, and now, here it as a higher res available audio single, for the must collect them all geeks. Don't pretend. I know you're excited.

Id by Marlo Dianne

Acceptance: 'Fantastique'

My artwork 'Fantastique', will be appearing as a story illustration in the March 2007 issue of All Possible Worlds.

Acceptance: 'Robo Rampage'

My artwork 'Robo Rampage', will be appearing as a story illustration in the March 2007 issue of All Possible Worlds.

Acceptance: 'Teef'

My artwork 'Teef', will be appearing as a story illustration in the March 2007 issue of All Possible Worlds.

Acceptance: 'Flesh'

My short story, "Flesh", will be appearing in the June issue of Down in the Cellar.

Original Audio: 'Star Wars in 230 Words' by Byron Starr

This is available in Ep 36 of the Deadpan.

This was my first time recording someone else's work, that wasn't a classic pub domain situ. In other words, I had a living author who could actually complain, or even devour my spleen in vengeance.

A writer of multiple works, with several available through CGP, Bryon sleeps on a casket pillow.

'Star Wars in 230 Words' by Byron Starr is now appearing, in print form, in issue #8 of Midnight Street.

Original Audio: 'Id'...it's so Deadpan

My recording of my story, 'Id', is available in Ep 35 of the Deadpan.

This is a reprint, as this story originally appeared in Raven Electrick in June 2006.

If you're looking for a higher res standalone version, and one person I know is (Hello, Mad Efl!), I'll have one on archive.org shortly. I'll post when it's live.

Bitter and Sweet

Reports of my death have been faintly exaggerated.

However, I have had to spend too much time with people who have swabs and probes and needles, and want you to lie down or open up or provide body fluids into various jars on demand.

This would be creepy and humiliating and boring and painful enough, and you're already there for very bad reasons, or you wouldn't be there at all, but they always seem to force you into some state of naked on butcher paper, and that is... Well, come on, that just doesn't end well for anybody.

And it's not over.

I'm not actually writing this from the butcher table, but more things are scheduled. Also, just a couple of days ago, I had a medical professional start a sentence with "I know you don't want to hear this, but..."

That can't be good.

It wasn't.

It was the stitching of nightmares, past and present.

But, who wants to think on that. Not you, and certainly not me. Yes, the constant flash of Blue Screen of Death is ugly, and the crash will be grisly, but let's enjoy the uptime. Make it worth it.

And I have.

December was also great for work. The 'final' novel edit proceeded slow, for reasons mentioned, but it did proceed. I'm hoping to wrap it this month, but I do think the story is better for it, whatever the outcome. I'm still enjoying being with the characters, and especially with everything going on, that's been pretty awesome.

December also saw some art commissions, which I had a blast with. There'll be more details on that later.

I had more audio appearances on the Deadpan. I had a story acceptance. All of which are going to get their own posts in a moment. Or a few.

December also saw the holidays, which is great because I get to give people presents. Plus I get to decorate, and visit, and eat any treat I can get near. There's lights everywhere to see with more colours than white, and there's the Grinch and Scrooge, and this year I even got a surprise (artificial, of course!) tabletop holiday tree. It's weeks where I get to be silly and fun and spoil all the wonderful people in my life, and they can't complain. Not that they would. They are wonderful, after all.

Okay, they complain a little, sure, but they never tell me to knock it off and stop being an annoying twit. That's what counts.

The best thing of this season was that I got to see J., who I hadn't seen in person since 2000. This foray of the whirlwind roadtrip featured a wondrous hotel swimming pool, a shopping blitz, and a hell of a lot of laughing--especially after I consumed a wedge of the richest dessert ever known to man, and got so frickin sugar drunk I couldn't stop giggling. I was so overwhelmed I ended up lying on the table, braying, with tears streaming down my face. Proving the bonds of friendship, J. did not take this chance to photograph my bliss.

Looking back after recovering from the hangover, I suspect other restaurant patrons absolutely requested what I was having.

But nope, it's mine, and I'm blessed to have it.

May you all have a year with more laughs and hugs than tears.

Be well,