If you’re the nervous type, Iris is okay. Now you can go on with your day and you don’t have to read any more of my drivel.
Before I closed the door forever on writing for Purple Clover, I once saw someone refer to a piece I wrote as, “This dribble.” I’m sorry to tell you I wrote her back directly and said, “You mean to say drivel. I write drivel.”
I’ve managed to put the final touches on volume XILXIVX of June’s Eternal Humiliation. I had high hopes for my week, buying healthy-ish groceries and planning to do well. Among the purchases was this new oatmeal in the oatmeal aisle, that claimed to have natural ingredients. I never have time to eat before work, because I have four million pets who all need medication now, so I look for something to eat once I get to work and can relax.
The directions said add cold water and microwave. Since I’m smarter than all direction-writers, I formed the thought that we have hot water in our ironically named water cooler at work. I could just add hot water, cut out the middleman, and that is why I’m a powerful executive at a huge conglomerate.
When I got to my desk, I noticed my oatmeal didn’t look very…oaty. I read the ingredients, and oats were the first item listed. “Must be some new way to serve oatmeal,” I brillianted, as I hedged funds and ported my folio.
I ate the entire thing before I realized I’d eaten pancake batter for breakfast. What did I think the picture of the pancakes meant?
This is like when my grandmother told my beleaguered grandfather to get Christmas stamps, “but not religious stamps.”
He comes back with stamps. Madonna and child stamps.
“Chuck. Who do you think that lady and that kid are?”
The truth of the matter is, it was delicious. The pancake batter. I did not eat baby Jesus. I’d have led with that.
Five stars. I’d do it again. Eat pancake batter, I mean. Not baby Jesus.
Anyway, I also made an appointment for Iris to go to a different vet, because dudes. She wasn’t looking good. For those of you who have cats, she had the hunched-over look. The hunched look they get when a cat in a hood and sickle is standing behind them.
She was hunched over in weird places she never goes. Another sign. And she didn’t eat or move all day, except one time she got up from one weird place to go to another weird place. Hunch in new real estate.
Naturally I took this time to be as dramatic as possible. I stroked her bony head. Because she’s lost weight, y’all. She used to weigh 11 and now she weighs 8.5.
“Iris, you know I love you, and that [I whispered] you’re my favorite. If this is your time to go, it’s okay. I’ll see you when I get there.”
Iris rolled her one good half an eye.
Yesterday morning I had to get her to the new vet on the block early, as the best they could do was a drop-off sitch, where they’d fit her in when they could. Before we left, I took Iris outside, and pointed out all the sounds of the birds and trains and cicadas to her, thinking she might not ever hear them again, because please see my eternal asterisk [*as dramatic as possible].
The most marvelous part of the whole new-vet scenario is that Nancy, Ned’s cat, was also there, boarding, and I asked them to place Nancy and Iris together, since they hate each other’s guts.
Last year, for the two weeks between selling my last house and buying this one because I am a real-estate mogul, I stayed at Ned’s with all 47 pets. Nancy was livid. All she did was charge the cats and throw herself sluttily at Edsel. Who knew she’d like Edsel?
Anyway, the thought of Nancy and Iris in jail together, like how OJ was next to the Menendez brothers, killed me. One big-eyed bitch and one half-an-eyed bitch, two and a half angry eyes among them.
I went to work, telling the vet’s office I’d be near the phone at all times for a call on Iris’s status.
However, long about noon, I got a call from HR, which is always relaxing. “June, would you like to have lunch with the president?”
Not of the United States. Because no thank you. Of our company. The one I run with an iron fist.
“We’re ordering barbecue.”
Well, that sweetens the pot. I’d have said yes anyway, because if the president of the company wants to have lunch with you, you go.
The lunch was in the large boardroom at work, an impressive spot all done up in midcentury modern with white-leather-and-chrome chairs, angular ’60s light fixtures, and so on. Seeing as I myself am midcentury, I fit right in.
I got there at five minutes till noon, and the president bustled in and said hello, then was bustling about going from his office to the front desk and so on. I would never want to be president of anything. I’d spend the entire time flapping my hands and saying, OH MY GOD WHAT NOW.
There are these very simple midcentury benches lining the exposed-brick walls of our conference room, and I noticed the trees outside were turning red. I kneeled on a bench to admire them and
the other side of the bench flew up. I was thrown onto my side, like a big kid had plunked himself on my teeter-totter.
And that, my friends, is how you climb the corporate see-saw.
Anyway, naturally the vet called during the lunch and I missed the call.
Iris has a very bad bacterial infection and they said, “She feels really awful.” Do you think? Because she wasn’t at all the Hunchcat of Mucus Dame all week or anything. She got an IV
not a four. An eyyeee veeee.
and two kinds of medication, new food for her irritable bowel, and $393949220 later I got to take her home.
I gave her the medication last night and today, and let me tell you who is
I haven’t actually directly spoken to the vet yet, but she is going to call today to discuss everything further and it is inevitable she will call while I am dining with Vladimir Putin on the ritz. I can’t wait to see what furniture I topple off in front of him.