Journal of a Sabbatical

June 17, 2000

freak out

Today's Reading: Summer: From the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau edited by H.G.O. Blake, Traces of Thoreau by Stephen Mulloney

Today's Starting Pitcher:
Ramón Martinez

In the wee hours, Wilbur bit something or something bit Wilbur. He screamed in pain and kept clawing at his mouth as if to remove the terrible thing whatever it was. One side of his face swelled up. I leaped out of bed, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and shoes (no socks) and took him to the local emergency veterinary clinic.

A tech looks at him and has me fill out some paperwork. My mind is so scrambled that when she asks me if Wilbur is a regular client at the associated animal hospital (yes) and if so, what's his file number. His file number. I know it's got a 2 and a 5 and a 6 in it. The only four digit number I can think of is 2567. That must be it. I give her that number. She goes to get his records and sends in the vet.

The vet doesn't look much older than Lizzy. Do they go right into veterinary practice out of middle school now?

Wilbur won't let her touch the side of his face where the swelling is or anywhere in/around his mouth. She says his problem could be dental (he's had dental problems in the past - the life of a stray cat is hard on teeth) or it could be a bite but she won't know unless she can do a dental exam, which means he has to be sedated. Anesthesia scares the heck out of me. But I read the consent form and sign it. They go off to the inner sanctum.

I stay in the exam room. It's the middle of the night. A lone cricket chirps outside the window. The faucet in the exam room drips slowly in a different rhythm from the cricket. Everything else is quiet. I try to fix the faucet. I make it worse. It's now dripping faster. The cricket stays at the same speed.

Finally they bring Wilbur back, very groggy. It's not dental, thank goodness. They didn't find a stinger, but did find two small dots of blood like tiny puncture wounds. "Like a spider bite?" I ask. Yeah. A spider bite or some biting insect (as opposed to a stinging insect). They have no idea what bit him. They've given him some kind of pain killer and between that and the anesthesia I'm supposed to withhold food and water and keep him away from the stairs (or anything else he might fall off of?) 'til the morning.

The vet and techs all marvel at what a beautiful cat he is. And they think his stub tail is soooo cute.

As I pay the bill and see his file number 0256 written on it, I realize I gave them Ned's license plate number instead of Wilbur's file number. Somehow they found his records anyway. I want to laugh at myself but I am too tired and freaked out.

I dump out the food and water and fill a dishpan with litter to set up my bedroom as the confinement area. This lasts about an hour. He will not be confined. I open the bedroom door so I can go to the bathroom and he slips out and slinks down the stairs perfectly safely. He curls up under the couch and goes to sleep.

Do I go to sleep? No. I try to call Nancy, but I don't succeed in waking her up. I toss and turn. I read. I go downstairs and check on Wilbur repeatedly. Finally around 5:00 AM or so I drop off to sleep. I wake up at 6:22. I listen to the radio and drop off to sleep until 7:30, then I am up for the day.

I call Nancy at 8:00 and tell her about my night. We had plans to go to the Providence Gay Pride celebration and then to see a new production of Julius Caesar tonight with some friends. I feel bad bailing out, but Wilbur is still groggy and I haven't really slept so am pretty groggy too. I decide to spend the day at home reading.

In the course of my morning ablutions, I flush the toilet. It doesn't stop. Not the usual variety of flapper stuck not stopping. Nope. The flush valve has bit the dust. Water cascades out of the top of the tank! Not out of the bowl. Out of the top of the tank. I shut the water off as quickly as possible, but the bathroom floor is still flooded. I mop it up as quickly as possible lest it leak through and wreck the kitchen ceiling.

I use the downstairs bathroom for the rest of the morning, but finally mobilize to drive over to the hardware store for a new flush valve. I stop by Perfecto's for a bagel and do a few more errands, but can't stand to be away from Wilbur for very long.

Wilbur sleeps under the couch while I try to install the new valve. The washers that come with it don't fit the kind of flanged metal tube I have. The directions show pictures of several kinds of tubes. Under the one that looks the most like mine it says to use the existing washers and nuts. So I do.

While I'm stretched out on the floor wedged into the tiny space between the vanity and the toilet trying to tighten the nuts with absolutely no room to turn the wrench, a howling wind kicks up. Rain pounds out of the sky like a giant wet hammer. The wind is blowing it in through the bathroom window, which is of course open to get a little breeze while I sweat gallons trying to fix the toilet. I manage to get up without conking myself in the head, shut the window, mop up the wet floor again, and scrunch back down under the toilet. I get it kind of fixed I think. I flush it. It drips. I put a plastic bucket under the tank to collect the drips 'cause I am way too tired to do anything else.

Wilbur shows some interest in his food. I curl up with a book, too tired even to doubt my adult daily living skills.