Tagged: Pets

Goodbye, Schubert

When I was twelve years old, our cat Garfield passed away. He was a good cat, but a bit thick. Didn’t like me much, as I remember it, though really – nothing liked me much back then. After a few days of grieving, mum and dad took me and my sister to the RSPCA shelter to look for a new pet – another cat.

We took on board Schubert, who we didn’t name, and who was a rangy, skinny not-quite-kitten with long hair. We fell in love with him, which is what happens with cats in these situations. You take the one home who begs you to, even though there are kittens and puppies and other possibilities.

We didn’t know it at the time, but Schubert was a Siberian Mountain Cat. We thought he was part Persian, part something else, because of his noble face profile and his long beautiful fur, and figured we’d just been lucky to receive such a lovely cat. He was smart – certainly smarter than his predecessor and his eventual brother. He was sweet, too, and I wasn’t prepared for seeing how after Garfield, Schubert would crawl up on you and fall asleep purring. Not on me, but… well, I’m a bit of a jerk. I still don’t think I know how to take care of a cat.

I really liked Schubert, and changed his litter and fed him and even dealt with the time he took a dump on my pillow – while I was in bed. I remember him haring around when we moved house, trying to work out how the house was shaped and how quickly he could take the stairs. I remember him hating moving, because being inside a car gave him the screams. I remember him tearing holes in my shirts both times I had to hold him in a move – ten years ago, when I moved from Sydney, and a month ago, with my parents.

I remember these things about Schubert, because there will be no more things to remember about Schubert.

Schubert was nineteen years old.

Alzheimers, Stroke, Pet

Few things hurt so badly as being fought by someone who you are trying to save, because they don’t understand why you’re putting them through the things you’re putting them through.

Tank Update

While I’ve been breaking up my uni workload into small, manageable chunks, it’s been mostly so I can fritter away free time having fun with friends and imagining having sex with girls, but all of that fritterable time has been of late partially sequestered by the needs of Tank Tankleton Lee, the smallest of the family. To explain what’s going on with him without using jargon, Tank has a growth on one of his innards, and that makes him need nutrition very regularly or he’ll get sick and pass out. This condition is known to us as insulinoma. To accommodate that, Tank needs to be kept warm and able to spend as much time as he wants sleeping, but he also needs to be able to eat as much as he wants, as often as he wants, ideally once every three hours.

That is: Tank has a medical condition where he gets to eat as much as he wants as often as he wants.

It is reasonable to assume at this point the fat little bastard is conspiring with the doctor.

Pet Worries

On wednesday, I found our internet had been shaped, which was kind of a problem for my normal consumption and focus. I was planning on doing a bunch of classwork, but that was shot the heck down. Whenever the connection goes through shaping, the loss of speed isn’t a problem, but cookies seem to expire super-fast – like the cookies for accessing material through the University proxy. Quite irritating.

Anyway, thursday Tank fell ill. A really panicky car ride brought us to the vet, and there we had to leave him for two days. What followed was… tense and nervous, and scary, but ultimately, nothing we could influence for good or ill. That left us here – where I try to work out why I haven’t written a damn word in two days.

I’ll have something. I have a bunch of drafts. Also, in hindsight, I super loved my Bioshock review, so I’m glad it got some prominence.