Dorian

Dorian Gray was my first cat. Adopted when I married my wonderful wife and his loving mother Liz Carbone. I was never much of a cat person – didn’t dislike them so much, but didn’t find much *to like* about them – but Dorian and his brothers were our kitties, and he was exceptional. He warmed my heart over not because he was “like a dog” as most dog lovers often say about cats they have any affection for. In fact, he in many ways wasn’t even the best cat. He had the stinkiest radioactive poops I have ever experienced which he would periodically leave behind in places of his choosing. He had unwarranted aggression for his brothers, Jimmy Page in particular, leading to an almost daily deluge of cat punches and ear bites. And he was the biggest food thief I have ever met, willing to commit breaking and entering crimes in order to get access to his favorite prizes: butter, vegetable oil, and cheese. It was these things, combined with some more adorable quirks in his behavior, which gave him personality and made him unique. His vow of silence broken only by occasional gremlin-like cat noises was funny and endearing. His love hate relationship with Jimmy made for an endless source of Snapchats and illustrated portraits. And his nuzzling, head bumping love for his mom, which was only shown periodically on inexplicable whims, also made him a special and great cat. A cat I will always remember, and a cat I will honestly miss. You were a great little angry guy, Dorian Gray, and you died too soon. I am only happy we caught your illness in time to prepare for it some and put you to your final rest before you became too uncomfortable with life. I can only hope our future cats, and Jimmy and Robert’s future brothers, will be just a little bit like you. Except for the atomic turds perhaps.

RIP little buddy. 

Love always, dad. 

The Pushiest Dog

Last week I house sat for some friends. After eight days of drinking all their Dr. Pepper I called it and went home, a resounding success. Aside from a brief visit from the police due to my inability to effectively turn off the alarm system the stay was uneventful. What was eventful, however, was their dog. Or rather, dang that's a pushy canine.

My friends are the proud owners of a Siberian Husky -- Sienna. How it survives in San Antonio I am not entirely sure, but I believe it hibernates in the freezer from the months of June to September. Although friendly and unassuming in appearance, she has the perseverance and single minded focus of... a Siberian Husky? Perhaps a very focused and relentless Siberian Husky. Regardless, when she wants her walks she will let you know, and she wants her walks all the time. My daily strolls proved insufficient, however, and so every afternoon upon returning from work I would sit on the couch only to be repeatedly, in 3-4 minute cycles, interrupted by a very eager Sienna. Typically she would bound up to the couch, get as close to me as possible, make a few mildly disconcerting-sounding dog noises, and then spin in circles a few times. If ineffective she would either then give me peace for a few moments or proceed to lick my legs. If I refused walks this loop would then proceed on for hours. And If I gave her walks then it was time she let me know she wanted to play, the whole process repeating itself. Unfortunately while her need for walks was satisfiable enough, her need for play was a little more difficult to meet. Considering she seemed happiest just jumping around the living room, though, perhaps she was demanding less play and more frolics.

Sienna aside, there were two bulimic cats to take care of as well. Thankfully they were relegated to the lower level of the house. Whenever I ventured to the kitchen, though, I would be welcomed by their incessant meowing to be fed no matter the time of day or time of most recent feeding. I would have happily fed them to their early obesity-related demises had I not been warned that overfeeding leads to throwing up behind the furniture so instead I agreed to ignore them and they agreed to keep meowing whenever I went downstairs.

The similarity in tactics shared amongst all the household's animals may not have been purely coincidental, though, as near nightly the dog would amble over to the top of the stair case where one of the cats would be waiting. After exchanging greetings or stares or telepathic cartoon thoughts, whatever, the cat would then carry on a 1-2 minute lecture during which, presumably, Sienna would take careful mental notes for the following day. I broke up one of these pow-wows one evening more out of curiosity than anything else, and the next day I returned from work to a 30 gallon bag of down feathers torn up and strewn about the living room.* A word of warning I dutifully heeded. No way I'm going out like a strange plastic bag of feathers.

I will admit though. As much as I at times wanted to, and sometimes did, yell at the dog to leave me alone, and as many times as I teased her with the leash when it was walky time, I miss her a bit. Dogs are one of the few animals that seem to make us love them more even as they drive us further crazy. She's a good dog, that Sienna. Her friendliness; her pushiness; her beady, red eyes and all.

* The destruction of the bag of fluff may or may not have happened after my pet conference interruption.

Cats and Birds and Brains and Things

It's Multi-Discipline Time!

A little bit of everything means a whole lot of nothing. This next month I will practice a little bit of psychology, a little bit of ophthalmology, a little bit of ear, nose, and throat, and I would, were I not taking leave, also practice a little bit of orthopedics but ah shucks I just won't have the time. Practically speaking, however, no one really wants to orient and integrate someone into a team who will only be with you for a week so I will spend most the next 28 days ignored while fondly staring off into the distance.

Even better, though, no pages!

And what's better than that?

No call!

And what could possibly be better than no call you ask?

Two day weekends!

Fantastic. Morale is much improved.

So the Snow Birds are finally making their way south. "Snow Birds," for those of you not fortunate enough to live south enough in this fine country of ours to be familiar with the term, are elderly folk who migrate with the seasons. Generally they only stop through San Antonio along their way further down into the Valley, but some do stay awhile. What that means for us at the hospital, practically speaking, is an influx in patients who have half their medical records inaccessible in the great barren, frozen North. Not terribly convenient. Medical care aside the Snow Birds are remarkable for their migratory habits and ability to always return home regardless what obstacles may come their way. Some say they follow the stars, some say the have an innate ability to tract the global electromagnetic field, others say it has something to do with all the hardware in their knees and hips , but whatever the reason it's pretty impressive. Sometimes we affix clinic notes to their legs with TED hose when the server's down. It's almost as efficient as electronic medical records.

And lastly a cat update. Despite repeated application of moth balls the cat problem has not changed significantly. An opossum has joined their ranks oddly enough -- I would have figured cats eat opossums or vice versa -- but by and large they still generally do as they please. What is new is that the they seem to have taken to the trees. Whether for nesting or roosting or the simple fact that there is simply not enough space for them any longer on the ground, every tree on the street seems to have a cat or two in it. Whenever I come home from work one will inevitably jump down and scurry away for whatever crazy cat reason they have in mind. I would like to shake the trees and see what comes out, but the last thing I need is a cat on my head so for now I will tolerate them. Soon they will move into the attic and under the furniture. At that point hopefully my apartment will be done; I don't expect Laura to make it through the year.

Catz!

A Bit of a Cat Problem

I wade through cats when leaving the house towards work in the mornings. Cats waist high, fifty felines deep; it's a bit of a problem. Thanks to the generous daily donations of food and water by our next door neighbors the local tabby population is expanding rapidly and will likely soon blot out the sun. With cats in such tonnage also comes kitty waste, and that's also becoming something of a problem. For my roommate at least. Although I am not so fond of our not dog friends I do not terribly mind their presence all too much. Laura, on the other hand, seems to have a far more sensitive nose and far less patience. Generally speaking she's a fairly calm and collected person, but under the guidance of her parents who visited recently she has begun a war of attrition aimed at ending the scourge that is stupid, skittish, feral cats.

The solution, initially, consisted mostly of bleach. Lots of cleanser to cleanse the urine smell and burn the lungs of any animal lingering too long on the porch. Our front door briefly no longer smelled of tom cat tinkle but instead like a very heavily chlorinated pool. This was only the opening volley, however, in what was to be a bleach, moth ball, and ground black pepper triple offensive, and the very next day I arrived home from work to find a generous scattering of little white spheres throughout the front yard planters. It kind of looked like it had recently hailed had it hailed only quarter inch sized balls of ice, but the pungent smell of ammonia replaced the chlorinated pool smell making it obvious it was the moth balls. Is it working? I am not sure; I have been headed to work later the last few days and generally speaking the cats scatter to go about their cat business shortly after sunrise, but I believe the Gallos are stockpiling mustard gas just in case.

Unrelated to the current arms race, I took the USMLE Step 3 yesterday and the day before. That's all I got to say about that. If there's any secret police more feared than the HIPAA brown shirts its the Federation of State Medical Boards Stasi, and I fear I have already said to much.

Doubly unrelated, I bought myself a new mountain bike with my economic stimulus check. A 2008 Specialized Rockhopper! Yeah. Awesome. Basically it's a bike, and it's blue. The rest is all kind of muddled. There are apparently about 2100 different mountain bikes produced with varying ill-defined features, and I am pretty sure I purchased the Rockhopper mostly because I just subconsciously thought the name was outstanding. Anyways, consider the economy stimulated! I've done my part Mr. President!