29 and I Feel Fine... But Sugar Does Not

Yesterday was indeed my birthday, although it was kind of inconsequential as far as feeling older goes. Today’s kind of like last week, minus the bitchin’ allergic reaction I seem to be having to my new face lotion. It’s fucking sexy, the miniature hives all over my face.

We actually celebrated with my family last weekend, while my brother and sister-in-law were in town, and went out to a nice restaurant where they did NOT sing (the mark of any quality establishment) and instead stuck a candle in the slice of s’more-y heaven I had for dessert. Somewhere around glass #4 of a very good Rioja, my mother decided it would be a good trip down memory lane to tell The Funasaurus stories about what a pitiful little mess of emo crazy I was in high school. Poor Funasaurus. Sucker.

One story begins, “Cat was having a rough year, emotionally.” OF COURSE I WAS, I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL. “Her father brought me (my mother) a bouquet of carnations for Valentine’s Day, a leftover tradition from his fraternity days. He also brought Cat some. She was so overcome with emotion, she burst into tears all over the flowers. While that was not quite the reaction he was expecting, Dad managed to get it together enough to say, ‘Don’t worry, you leave for college in just a couple months, and though he doesn’t know it, yet, there is a special boy who is also going to go to that school, who is going to appreciate you and love you and marry you.’” Or something like that. Dad was optimistic, as I was busy snotting into the flowers he had just brought me with my blotchy face.

Mom likes that story. I had (perhaps intentionally) forgotten about it.

But much to my surprise, yesterday, I got a delivery. A large bouquet of pink carnations. From The Funasaurus. (Who actually claims to not have remembered the story, and just thought I liked carnations, but I pretend like he didn’t say that because it is more romantic this way.)

Go me, and my hives!

Meanwhile, my cat is broken. She was fine as of last Saturday night when we went to bed. Sunday we woke up to squawking. Much like a duck on helium after smoking a pack of cigarettes.

Sugar seems to have developed quite a case of kitty laryngitis, or something. It sounds horrible! But she’s eating and drinking and chasing her feather toy and hating on Tatum, so everything else is right with the world. I called the vet, and explained the symptoms, and they agreed that as long as she was still eating and drinking, it wasn’t worth bringing her in. “Is there another cat in the house?” she asked.

“Erm. Kinda. Except for the half that’s more goat-like.”

“Do they wrestle?”

“What else would they do?”

“It’s possible he sucker punched her in the throat,” said the vet. (I paraphrase.)

“Ah.” I said. And then looked at ol’ googly eyes, who was all, What? But had a certain smugness about him, I swear. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Meanwhile, we’re on day four of Sugar’s Dying-Pigeon-of-Doom voice, and while it’s kind of funny, it’s also kind of sad. I have been feeding her treats to make her feel better, and now I’m kind of wondering if she’s prolonging it just to get more treats. She’s pretty clever, that one. Unlike Mr. Sucker Punch, who I just found sleeping upside down like a bat. I wonder if I should have told the vet about that one, instead.