Mihow » pets

Dog Abuse: What Does One Do?

mihow — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 14:06:42 +0000

We have a view from our building that looks into several backyards of houses lining the street parallel to our own. Toby Joe and I have spent many hours staring out over the city. It’s really a great view. I am lucky. I know this. We have a view overlooking the choppy rooftops that make up Northern Brooklyn, the bridge and finally Lower Manhattan. I love watching the world outside my window.

Sometimes.

Several months ago, I noticed an cat living in one of those backyards. The cat wears a collar, so I know it’s a member of a family. I have watched this cat and I admit that I’ve felt a little sorry for it at times whenever it’s too cold or too hot, during snow or rain storms. I have voiced my empathy for this cat to Toby Joe who was quick to point out how happy and healthy he or she appears to be.

There’s a dog living there too. Although, I don’t see the dog nearly as often as the cat. I guess the dog is kept inside a lot. But sometimes he or she is let out for a bit.

One day I saw the man of the house hold the door open and call the dog to come back inside. It was at that moment, during that interaction, that I began to really question the situation.

Before I go on, I have to admit that I know very little about dogs, dog training, dog owners, and basically all things dog. There have been many times where I have seen an interaction take place between a human and a dog and that interaction seems abusive to me only to find out that the person is actually training the dog. I have been told that dog training can be a little aggressive. So I usually just try and look the other way.

But this dog? This dog cowered as it squeezed between the man and the door jam. It looked up at the man—tail between its legs, head down, then up again, then down again—as the man made stern gestures, seemingly aggressive ones. And the interaction bugged me.

But he did not touch the dog.

Still, I told Toby Joe about what I had seen and he suggested that some dogs are just like that sometimes. They like being told what to do sometimes and that it’s probably nothing. And we both wanted to believe that.

Then some time later I saw man of the house let the cat do figure eights around his legs and he bent down and patted the cat and then fed it some food and was off inside the house again. I figured: an abusive person would have probably kicked the cat away, right?

So, I finally stopped thinking terrible things about its life, the dog’s too.

But then yesterday something happened that sent me reeling.

The dog was out back again. This time a woman wearing a bathrobe stood in the doorway. She called the dog back into the house. The dog cowered. As the dog walked in through the doorway, she lifted her leg high and kicked it as one might kick open a locked door. This wasn’t something that seemed like a dominance kick or nudge (if there is such a thing in dog land?). This had intent. And even though she was barefoot, my mind raced with other scenarios.

I wrote on Twitter asking people what I should do and many people wrote telling me about the New York ASPCA. I hate getting too involved in the lives of those around me, but when an animal or child is potentially being harmed, I simply can’t bite my tongue. I know that this post may open me up to some backlash, suggesting that I should mind my own business as we New Yorkers often do, but this time I found it impossible not to intervene.

When Toby Joe began (justifiably) questioning what I had seen especially considering I had sought to take action, I started to question my initial reaction to the whole situation. (I’d make either an excellent juror or a terrible one, depending on which side you’re on.) I can’t help but wonder: am I making it out to be worse than it really is? Am I overreacting? What if I’m wrong? I could be wrong.

To be honest, I kind of hope that I am.

Abby Needs Your Help!

mihow — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 20:26:00 +0000

I get a number of email about cats. Some people ask me questions about their cats that I wish I had the answers to because I do so love these creatures. I am by no means an expert in this area. I just have a deep fondness for them.

The latest email I received is from Alyssa about a cat named Abby. I was going to answer her personally, but decided that it might be better if I give her a broader spectrum of feedback. I was hoping that if I posted it here, someone else might have the answer(s) for her.

Here is Alyssa’s email:

We found Abby when she was 4 months old and took her to our vet immediately. She had ear mites and worms, but nothing a few meds couldn’t fix. We made an appointment while we were there to have her spayed at 6 months. A few weeks before her appointment my husband was sleeping and she crawled upon him and peed on his leg! We called the vet because it was so out of character and they asked if she was acting more affectionate than normal, and we answered why yes, yes she was. They suspected she was in heat and said we could bring her in the next week. We took her in and 24 hours later brought her home. She was sleepy and was having trouble walking, so when she PEED ON ME WHILE SLEEPING I blamed it on the surgery/meds/whatever. So things were going fine until this morning when I decided to allow her in the bedroom at 5 AM because she was looking so darn cute when I woke up to get a drink. (On a side note, she is not allowed in the bedroom with us due to slight allergies.) So, just as I started to nod back off, she crawled upon me and left a mighty pee on my leg.

A few things that may help…

1. We haven’t changed litter or moved her box and we keep it clean
2.We feed her Dick Van Patten Natural Balance dry food

The only thing I can say with any amount of certainty is that cats tend to “act out” (do weird things—however you want to describe it) when they are trying to tell you that something is wrong. My cat, Schmitty, peed and pooped all over my house for months and months before I realized he had ash build up and had to have emergency surgery. I came home one day to find him screaming in pain—actually screaming because he hadn’t been able to urinate in who knows how long a time. He was rushed to the veterinary hospital where I was given an ultimatum: put him down, or cut off his manhood. I chose to cut off his manhood. (I always forget the name of the surgery.)

He lived another 11 years perfectly happy and healthy until cancer finally got to him. (And at the end of his life, he started acting out again by pooping in weird places.)

My only suggestion (and I am by no means very wise when it comes to this stuff) is to take Abby in and run some blood work. They can figure out if she’s diabetic. They can test her for liver function, kidney problems, you name it.

Are there any other suggestions for Abby and Alyssa? Do you have any ideas as to why Abby is behaving this way? Could this be due to a mental problem? Might she need kitty prozac?

Feel free to leave comments anonymously if you are wary of such.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 69)

mihow — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 22:00:00 +0000

Murray seems to be healing nicely. The Pepcid and prescription “belly coater” he was given seems to be working wonders for his appetite. The vomiting has stopped entirely. Things are good in Murrayville. (Thank goodness.) But we’re not in the clear just yet. After his belly heals, we have to then take him back to the doctor and put him on a lifelong diet, which won’t be fun because this little man loves to eat. But he’ll most likely have belly issues for his entire life.

Em has been sick as well. And today I finally decided (after two weeks and three nights of little to no sleep) that it was time to take him to the doctor. My guess has been that he has a common cold, but what if I turned out to be wrong and he was actually suffering from something worse? I would never forgive myself and we all know that motherhood is fueled by guilt—love is a given—it’s the guilt part that we don’t often talk about because admitting we do something out of guilt makes us feel guilty because, well, doing something out of guilt is actually selfish, right? And being selfish makes you a bad mother.

(I’m sorry, have I gone off topic? This is what happens when someone is sleep deprived, guilty and unable to stop her child from coughing long enough so he can get a good night’s rest. It’s also what happens when someone is rundown. While level crazy may be high today, I reckon I’ll be back to a relative normal tomorrow.)

Where was I?

Today I took Emory in for a sick visit to the doctor. But not before having a major breakthrough where crazy is concerned. I’m so sleep deprived, I actually considered taking Murray along with us. Why? Because Emory kept him company last week, so Murray would naturally want to return the favor, right? I mean, that’s what brothers do, right? They make their siblings feel better when they’re down or sick. I had the cat carrier in my hand when I realized how completely and totally insane I was being. Who brings a cat to a pediatrician’s office? Apparently, I’m a few steps away from becoming that person and I’m not even sure that person exists yet, I’m not sure that person has yet been defined. But leave it to me to define that person.

Anyway, I talked myself away from entering crazyville and went to the pediatrician without our shaved cat.

The doctor confirmed my thoughts: Emory has a cold and a nasty cough to go along with it. Other than slathering a vapor rub on his feet, chest and tummy, there’s nothing much I can do for him. So I packed everything back into the car and we headed home.

That’s when something spectacular took place.

The second I removed Emory’s jacket, and the moment we walked through the door, he toddled over to the armchair where Murray napped and climbed up next to him. And he spoke clearly, concisely and with syllables (not the English variety, mind you) and told Murray everything he had missed.

Naturally, I ran for the camera. (I so wish I had audio too!)

I hope our pediatrician is open to the idea of welcoming pets as binkies.

And brothers.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 53)

mihow — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:36:00 +0000

The other day I was thinking about Schmitty. Schmitty was our 15-year-old cat who got cancer and died in a very short amount of time. Schmitty was chubby, loyal, beautiful and probably one of the sweetest creatures alive. We used to say that if there’s such thing as an 8-fold path, he was most certainly at the finish line. When he was put to sleep on April 21st, 2007, he entered nirvana—enlightenment. He would have left this tangible world forever.

I used to brag about Schmitty. You see, he was directly responsible for turing at least three people into cat people. In fact, they liked him so much, they too adopted cats. The surprising thing about these three people is that they didn’t particularly like cats before they met Schmitty. I took great pride in knowing that cats were adopted directly because of Schmitty. (I still take great pride in that.)

Schmitty was always spreading compassion.

We had to say goodbye to Schmitty. But we still think about him all the time. He comes to me in dreams sometimes, which is always bittersweet because I wake up aching to see him again—like, actually aching. But it’s nice to see him at all.

We miss him. That’s about all I can really say about that because if I continue writing about him, I’ll cry and I don’t want to cry this afternoon.

And so.

Murray.

We adopted Murray a month or so after we said goodbye to Schmitty. We got Murray because I needed to laugh. And Murray is a hoot. I don’t have to convince you of that. If you’re reading this, chances are you already know and love Murray—goofy as he may be.

Well, Murray and Em get along wonderfully. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more baby-friendly pet. When Murray plays with Em, he’s surprisingly gentle, like he knows he needs to be. And they actually play together. Murray makes Em laugh almost as much as he makes us laugh, which is pretty remarkable if you ask me.

I swear if I were a less cynical person, I’d guess he’s doing this intentionally.

Their relationship brings me some bittersweetness as well. You see, watching Em with Murray is great, but there are times where I just wish he had a brother. There are times where I think, “Oh, this boy is entirely too friendly and outgoing to spend all of his time playing with a cat!” And I feel a little sad for him and then I take him for a walk and show him the colorful arrangement of drunk and dying men our neighborhood park has to offer. (Again, sad.)

About two months ago I started to realize that Emory simply couldn’t be an only child. I was surprised by the change of heart. All along, I have said one child, just one. But I think I was even more surprised when I realized who brought the change to light.

A cat. Another freaking cat!

And so I have to spell it out for myself. I simply have to write it down for the sake of history.

Schmitty was responsible for convincing a difficult crowd that cats make awesome pets. At least three people adopted a feline because of him. He passed and we “replaced” him with a fuzzy feller named Murray.

Murray is responsible for showing us—a couple determined to have only one child—that we simply cannot stop at only one. We simply have to give our son a sibling someday.

I guess what I’m saying is perhaps this is what Schmitty wanted all along.

But I have to admit, I’m having a little trouble figuring out a way to tell Em’s eventual sibling that he or she was brought into the world because of a cat.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 48)

mihow — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 17:10:00 +0000

I am in South Jersey for a few days visiting my parents. I’m relaxing. We’re going deep sea fishing. It’s gonna be awesome. Right now, I’m sipping coffee, eating my daily allowance of Weight Watcher’s yogurt (Strawberry today), and catching up on the plethora of ways I normally waste my time. (Hello, Internet!)

I gotta tell you, unplugging for a few days really sets a person back. I feel as though I have no idea what is going on (out there) anymore. And I’m not sure if I feel out of it or liberated.

It seems most of Twitter is filled with blurbs about iPhone gadgetry, heat waves and travel. The national news seems to be about iPhones, the Clintons, and the price of gas per gallon. And of course our local news is about baseball, subway outages and heinous acts of torture. Flickr has been fairly consistent. Travel, dogs, babies, more travel, macro shots, and more dogs, throw in a few mouthwatering shots of meals and you get a pretty great idea of my daily “Friends and Family” Flickr stream.

My Net News Wire RSS feed reader is down to less than 20 feeds. Sometime last month I decided—out of nowhere—that I was spending too much time trying to keep up with other blogs. That said, I have no idea what’s been going on in the (I hate this term) Blogosphere lately.

And then I got to my email. I had a lot of email waiting. I’m still nowhere near caught up, but I’m trying.

I heard from Karyn (my old boss) and Nico (who’s coming to see me on Friday). I heard from many of you about Weight Watchers and how you either hated it or love it. I also had an email from Lisa, our cat sitter extraordinaire.

Part of her email read:

“Tucker said hello then hid, but Pookum came right out to eat and sat for some pets and headbumps. Murray was Murray. He knocked my coffee over and tried to steal my Entenmans. You can’t trust him for a second can you?”

It’s nice to know that while the internet may be full of surprises, twists and turns, Murray remains exactly the same. You can always count on Murray even if it’s about how little you can trust him.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 38)

mihow — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 18:06:00 +0000

If somebody from Animal Planet contacted you about taking part in a reality TV show about pet weight-loss (Biggest Loser for pets) would you consider it? Murray’s so fat! Speaking of Murray…

TobyJoe and I have talked about how Murray will most likely be considered Emory’s first childhood pet. Tucker and Pookum are much older and unfortunately, he probably won’t get to know them very well. But Murray should be around for a while.

Lately, Emory and Murray have started to actually play with one another. They have their toys mixed up a bit. For example, Emory really likes to play with the blue cat toy shown above but it doesn’t really bother Murray too much considering they can knock the ball around together. And they do.

Murray and Emory tend to find the same things amusing, take the Swiffer, for example. Both of them love the Swiffer! Which I find really quite strange and since neither one of them speak English, I can’t get a straight answer as to why.

I thought today might be a good day to put together a video of clips featuring how Emory and Murray interact. I want to share it with you today to thank you for all your support lately. (I received some pretty great email last night and when I find the time, I do hope to write everyone back personally.)

Lastly, and this may sound a little silly, but when I watched the final video, it brought tears to my eyes. I hope you enjoy it as well.

UPDATED TO ADD: Lisa posted a video of Murray when he was just a wee little man. Check it out.

Chemicals In Our Children

mihow — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 22:30:00 +0000

This is why everyone who made fun of us for buying an organic crib mattress can go ahead and bite me. Seriously, we were laughed at for buying chemical-free baby clothing, blankets and a mattress. We were also scoffed at for wanting to use glass bottles not only by people we know but by some of the folks in our parenthood preparation classes.

This is NOT the type of article I want to see in my RSS feed. Some really scary stuff, people. And you’re insane to not let it bother you.

“[Rowan’s] been on this planet for 18 months, and he’s loaded with a chemical I’ve never heard of,” Holland, 37, said. “He had two to three times the level of flame retardants in his body that’s been known to cause thyroid dysfunction in lab rats.”

Granted, our couches are filled with chemicals. Our cheap Ikea carpets are as well. And the Pack ‘n Play isn’t exactly retardant-free either.

Bedroom Chaos.

mihow — Mon, 21 May 2007 20:16:00 +0000

Murray has ringworm, which was the catalyst that started The Great Cleanse of 2007. (I know some of you may be wondering if this whole ringworm thing is OK for me since I’m pregnant. I have spoken to my doctor about it. Ringworm is harmless for me and the unborn baby.) After Toby dunked the little guy in a sulfur mixture, we scoured the floors with bleach and water. We washed every piece of clothing we own. We stripped down the bedding and washed whatever we could, and boxed up whatever we couldn’t. One of the items we couldn’t wash was our bedspread. I washed it twice before (because I’m a moron) and the second time it nearly came undone. So I’ve stopped washing it, which means it needs to be boxed up until I can figure out a way to get it clean. (Or until the ringworm spores die, which I believe takes a month or so. Oh, and by the way, ringworm is not a worm.)

Well, all of this has left us with one of the most schizophrenic looking bedrooms I’ve ever seen. Because I’ve had to make due with an old duvet and its cover, which doesn’t go with the red and gold curtains. It’s not pretty. And the whole ordeal has me looking for new bedding.

Here is a shot of the only duvet cover we currently own. (Ignore the cat. She just likes to sleep in my pregnancy pillow whenever I am not.)

Here is a picture of our curtains. (Ignore the cat hair all over them. How embarrassing.)

Here is a picture of our sheets.

Here is a picture of Murray sleeping on my belly. (This has nothing to do with the post, but it’s freaking cute, so I had to share.)

I was going to buy a new duvet cover from Overstock yesterday, preferably one to match our curtains and sheets (also the cheapest way to solve this problem) when I realized that even though the Eastern seaboard seems to be fighting it right now, it’s going to be summer soon. Buying a new duvet cover for our existing duvet seems a bit silly right now, doesn’t it? I mean, we do usually use the AC in the summer and I am always cold from it which means on any given night you can find me snuggled beneath the covers as the AC blows cold, Arctic air onto our heads. Meanwhile, Tobyjoe is usually flopped down on top of the comforter, legs thrown about, arms spread as if he surrendered to the heat. Point is: I often need blankets even in the dead of summer and Tobyjoe is often annoyed by them. I’m starting to think that a duvet might be a little too much and sheets aren’t enough.

What do you do about this sort of transition? Do you have seasonal blankets for your bed? Do you use a duvet as well because it looks good? Do you strip that duvet down at night and use a blanket for warmth? As simple and trivial as it may seem, I have no idea what to do about our bedding situation. And obviously this is the single most important aspect of our lives right now. I am willing to send you cookies if you can make this work. What do you do about your summer bedding?

Sick Pet Support (Pet Bereavement, Health, Etc)

mihow — Tue, 01 May 2007 16:32:00 +0000

Tobyjoe and I built another Web site last week. When Schmitty was sick, we looked all over the Internet in search of a forum devoted to pet health and pet bereavement. We were both shocked to discover how few sites there are out there, so we built our own. The site is called Sick Pet Support and it’s mean to offer just that: support.

My hope is to gather some content over the next couple of weeks, and, hopefully, eventually, it will grow to fill that void. We hope people visit, write, talk about their pets, discuss treatments for their pets, whatever. As long as it’s pet related, the site remains open to anything, run by people who simply love animals. No post is too long, too personal, or too nonsensical. When it comes to our furry companions and the way in which they live, anything goes.

I will answer any questions people may have here in the comments section. For more information about our goal for the site, as well as how it came to be, please visit “About SPS”. Remember, the site is still in Alpha and may have a few bugs. Kindly report any such matters so we can fix them. (If you don’t like to leave comments, you may email me.) Also, please feel free to pass this along to anyone you feel may benefit from it or help it grow.

Again, I am going to write more about the site in the comments sections, mapping out how to leave links, what will change over the next couple of weeks, what we’ll be adding to its functionality, etc. And, as always, if you have any suggestions as to how to make it better or more usable, please do let us know. We really do cherish feedback. We take it very seriously.

Stop by when you have the time.

Hello, Big Guy.

mihow — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 22:40:00 +0000

I have been mentally writing this letter since we left you on Saturday. I’m not sure why I need (or want) to write you a letter. You are a cat, after all; you can’t read. You were smart and almost human but you had better things to do with your time other than read. You liked to eat, that’s for sure. And you lived for attention. That’s why your final few weeks were so difficult for us. And I’m so sorry for that. I’m so sorry this thing called cancer took you away from us and so quickly as well. I’m so sorry that during the last couple of weeks we weren’t able to give you the two things you loved the most: food and love strong enough to comfort you. We kept thinking you might get better, we listened to the doctors tell us that there might be a chance but those chances were always followed by “ifs”. And those ifs were always followed by words like “feeding tube” and “chemotherapy” as well as “terminal” and “starvation”. Tobyjoe told the doctors that not once had you brought us pain. We simply could not knowingly commit an hour worth of it on you.

But on Friday, the day after your operation, you ate! After a week of growing increasingly more disgusted by food, you ate off Tobyjoe’s finger. And Tobyjoe came upstairs from the ICU beaming. The look on his face made my rigid body go limp with relief. He said you were out of it and that they had you on all sorts of pain medication, but that you remembered him and you moved your ears around when he said your name. This brought me great comfort. Apparently all the doctors in the ICU were filled with joy and amazement over your having eaten. The news spread across the floor like it was the greatest news anyone had ever heard. And for us, it was. Seeing you eat meant no feeding tube and I had already made up my mind that that was where the cut off had to be. You loved eating far too much to have me force-feed you through a hole in your neck.

Remember the time Gina made mini poppy seed muffins? We lived in State College at the time. I was still in college. Her boyfriend was visiting from Connecticut and she was so excited that she baked him his favorite muffins. She left the muffins out to cool on the stove while she did a few other things around the house. When her shrieks came, I had no idea what had happened so I bolted downstairs to make sure she was OK. That’s when I saw the carnage. You always did have a thing for muffin products. I’m not sure what came over you, but you chewed on almost every muffin top like their lids were raw flesh. It’s a good thing Gina liked you so much. Much later, after she agreed to watch you while I spent a few months in England, she signed her postcards with a paw print and the both of your names; I knew she liked you. You picked the best part of the muffin anyway. How could we be mad? We now call that “The Great Mini Muffin Disaster”.

You loved chicken, fish, muffins, pancakes, potato chips, banana bread, and cat food – all kinds of cat food except for the healthy stuff. There were times we were told you had to go on a diet, but seeing you hungry broke my heart. So I never could really cut out everything.

You knew the words “Treat” and “Schmitty”. You knew the word treat so well I had to spell it out when we were discussing any future distributions. And I don’t think a day ever passed where you didn’t come when one of us called your name. Although, toward the end of your life, it took an awful lot of energy for you to walk over to me. Yet, you still did it. If I had known how sick you were, I would have come to you. I’m so sorry, Big Guy. All you ever did was practice kindness and not once did you cause a person (or another animal) pain. Even when Tucker would tackle you or pick on you, you just stood there and took it. And you never once, not in all your 14 and a half years, scratched me or bit me. You never bit anyone. A Buddhist would have called you an “Old Soul.”

The last time we saw you and you weren’t on the drugs was Wednesday night. You were still you. I kept telling you that I loved you and that we needed you and that we were doing what we were doing because we wanted to make you better. You put your head down against our really stinky bath mat and waited for Tobyjoe to lay his head against your belly. You two had the greatest relationship. If either of us had known how badly the cancer was eating away at your insides, we never, ever would have put you through that operation. I do hope you understand why we did what we did. And I will spend my lifetime hoping that you weren’t in any pain after you awoke from your surgery. I’m so sorry, my friend.

Do you remember the time I rushed you to the hospital because your own urine was poisoning you? You were four. I was out shopping. I will forever remember your voice when I walked in the door and it kills me to wonder how long you were in pain before you began to yell so loudly. You were on your side and you looked at me, eyes filled with hurt and told me you were sick, really sick and that I needed to do something immediately. We rushed you to the hospital – my mother and I – and the doctor gave me a choice, “you can have him put down, or we can heal him for a thousand dollars.” Of course I told the doctor to do whatever it took to save you. And thankfully you ended up OK. I am still haunted by the look you gave me. But I was given another ten years with you; ten years filled with a lot more looks, and happier ones. Ten years that my mother (a big fan of yours), called “Borrowed Time”. Ten years of borrowed time wasn’t so bad, was it?

All of your life I made decisions for you based on your eyes and how you meowed. You had several different meows. There was one for joy, pain, confusion, attention, and “Hello”. There was a meow for “I am talking to late night Ghosts”. And one for “Help me, Tucker has me in a headlock.” To which I always intervened. There were so many. You had a voice for everything and I grew to understand and interpret each of them. We were a team, you and I. But our team wasn’t complete until Tobyjoe came along. That’s when you fully relaxed. That’s when you entered old age and stopped having to look out for me all the time. Before I introduced you to Tobyjoe I have some regrets about how I treated you, or didn’t.

I made some not so great decisions based on your voices. For starters, I shouldn’t have moved you around so much but I couldn’t part with you. I just couldn’t. And I hate that you had to live in a basement for a few months while I got settled in Washington, DC only to find out that I hated it there. And so you must have thought I was crazy when we moved back there a year later. I am sorry I was so irrational before I met Tobyjoe, so flighty and confused. I did hold onto you, however, which is why it has been so hard for me to face the fact that you’re no longer with me. You were my one constant, Schmitty. You were the one being in life who never held anything against me even when you should have. It pains me to know that in the time that you spent with me, you lived in 13 different places. That’s almost one place per every year of your life. I always pictured you spending the evening of your days in a sun porch, away from pain and suffering, watching the birds pass you by. I’m so sorry you never got to see that.

On Saturday, when we went to the hospital to feed you again, Tobyjoe came up from the ICU and I knew by the look on his face that things weren’t good. You hadn’t eaten. He sat with you for over an hour singing all the songs we wrote for you over the years, saying all of your nicknames. He even told you that we were going to tell our son about you one day. He asked you what you wanted him to do, if you wanted a feeding tube and to come home with us, or if you wanted us to let you go. You wanted nothing to do with the food and you were too weak to say much. And when your surgeon came back to the room and told Tobyjoe that it was time for the feeding tube, that you were starving, Tobyjoe told him that I wouldn’t agree to that. A feeding tube would have been too devastating for you. You were too proud.

We sat upstairs and talked for another hour, trying to figure out if we should take you home and see if you’d eat there or let you go. Toby didn’t want to put you through the 30-minute car ride home. And I knew you wouldn’t eat once we got there and we’d have to bring you back again especially since your cancer had spread so much. I kept saying, “I think it’s time. It’s time. It’s time.” That’s all I could get out of my mouth before breaking down again. And we sat there in the waiting room waiting for someone, anyone, to help us decide; what should we do?

I watched other people in the waiting room reunite with their cats and dogs, and if they hadn’t been animals, I would have been filled with jealousy and anger. But all animals are good. You taught me that. Sitting among all that joy made me realize that you probably wouldn’t be coming home again. You were too sick. Tobyjoe reminded me of the fact that, at one time, I had been those people. I had been reunited with a healthy you while someone else was receiving terrible news about his or her pet. He was right, of course. I got to spend a lot of time with you. In fact, up until Sunday morning, I had spent almost every single morning waking up next to you for the last 15 years. And my stomach is eating my heart as I write this. Sunday morning bored a hole through my chest.

Tobyjoe and I sat in the waiting room for a minute in silence. He had been asking me to go down and talk to the doctor, ask any questions I might still have, and then decide. He said he didn’t want there to be anything left unsaid or unanswered. It must have been hard for him to suddenly become your sole decision maker, but I am an emotional and hormonal wreck right now and I was concerned I might not make the best decision for you. That’s when your surgeon came upstairs and walked over to me. He was a kind man. You were in good hands, that’s one very solid piece of ground I have to stand on now that you’re gone. I’m regretful about a lot of the decisions I made for you during the last couple of weeks, but putting you in his hands is not one of them. Your doctor sat down next to me and waited for me to speak.

“Doctor,” I said. “What is the best case scenario here? Does he have a chance?”

The doctor shook his head no. And then I fell apart.

He told me what he told Tobyjoe, that it’s entirely different per patient, but that the cancer inside of you was growing so rapidly and so viscously, you probably didn’t have much time left and the time you did have left would be time filled with pain. I hate your cancer. In no time at all it had moved across your entire abdomen and was looking for an organ or a set of organs to latch onto all the while destroying your drive for food. I couldn’t take it away from you. I hate that. I feel like this inability to accept a lack of control is going to turn me into a terrible mother. I wish you could have enjoyed one more giant meal before you went to sleep for the last time: chicken (cooked to perfection by Toby) and a slice of banana bread (baked by me).

Do you remember the time you stole Tobyjoe’s banana bread from the bedside table? I think that was your way of telling us we shouldn’t have been eating in bed especially in a place like the Dorchester where the roaches outnumbered humans. He had just gotten into bed, set the banana bread down on the table next to him, went to grab a book from the foot of the bed, and in that time you snuck over and took the entire slice. Just like that. Gone. We laughed really hard as you nibbled away at its spongy crust. He got another slice and eventually I took the stolen one from you. I liked you fat and happy but I wanted to keep you around forever and cats aren’t meant to eat large quantities of banana bread. Or pancakes.

The doctor gave us another option, although he prefaced it with, “I am not trying to convince you to do this but…” and then he told us that if we wanted to we could take you home for a few hours, to the place where you once felt most comfortable, and try and feed you there. And I have to admit, the thought of having you at home again brought me joy, but we knew you had no interest in food. And the needless trips back and forth in the car seemed cruel.

I was able to say a few words to him like “prolong the inevitable?” and “without the pain killers?” and “you don’t know Tucker.” The doctor answered all of my questions. At one point I said, “I wish I weren’t pregnant.” And then I realized that came out wrong. I corrected myself and said, “No, I wish he weren’t dying. Not now.” And the doctor and Tobyjoe nodded their heads. I told him I didn’t want a feeding tube and that taking you home would just mean that every passing second was another second you would spend starving.

I looked at Toby and said, “It’s time to let him go.” And then I couldn’t speak anymore. And neither could he.

That’s when the doctor said something to me that I will never, ever forget. He put his hand on my hand and said, “You’re making a very rational decision. I want you to know that. You’re decision is not wrong.” Schmitty, that’s all I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear it from you, but you couldn’t say it because you were too sick. Tobyjoe didn’t know what to do either; we were both so emotional. But hearing your surgeon – the man who had been face-to-face with your cancer two days earlier – say that we were making a rational decision made me realize that I wasn’t giving up on you. I will never forget what he said to me nor how he said it. All I wanted was for someone to say that it was OK to let you go. That we were making the right decision.

Somehow I managed to make it downstairs again to say goodbye to you one last time. The surgeon brought us into a room where we waited for him to bring you to us. The room had a smorgasbord of open cans on its table, cans of cat food, each accompanied by a wooden stick. I imagined Tobyjoe holding each one an hour earlier begging you to eat from his fingertip. The wooden sticks lined up like soldiers, untouched gobs of food still stuck to each one. And I couldn’t help but think that there were so many varieties of food on that table, had you entered this room as healthy Schmitty, you would have thought you were in heaven.

I used to tell Tobyjoe that I needed to have a baby before you died. That living in a world without you meant I needed to become a mother. We would chuckle about this, but you were my firstborn. You were like a baby to me, one that never grew up or learned how to talk or walk on two legs. People say that I won’t know a real love until our baby is born. And I believe there’s probably some truth to that. But why compare love? What good does it do a person to put a quantitative value on love? I’m not going to assign meaningless, human levels to something so wonderful. The love I have for you is not something that will go away. No matter how amazing our son is, you will never be replaced or compared to him. I need you to know that. I didn’t belittle your existence when you were alive. I won’t do it with the memory of you either.

You died six months into my pregnancy. And we’ve guessed that you started to get sick when I reached my second trimester, the trimester that ensured me that everything was probably going to be ok with our son. How did you know that? Did you know that? Tobyjoe and I have discussed this over the past couple of days. The both of us cry every time we discuss your timing.

When the doctor brought you into the room you immediately ran to my chest and pushed your head into my breasts. I began sobbing. Tears fell onto your coat and I couldn’t breath so I opened my mouth and my saliva fell onto you as well. I said I was sorry, so sorry. I told you it would all be over soon, that we were letting you go, that we would miss you and love you forever. I said I was sorry again. And I kissed you all over your head and I kissed your face and your eyes and your pink nose. Oh Schmitty, I am so sorry. I’m sorry that cancer took you away from us. I’m sorry for being pregnant and not paying as much attention to you as I used to. I’m sorry for moving you around so much. I’m sorry for the operation, San Francisco, not feeding you more banana bread. I’m sorry for not being strong enough to watch your doctor put you to sleep. I’m so, so very sorry.

Tobyjoe misses your snugs each and every night, and the way you demanded rides from him when he got home from work. I miss the way you used to scare the shit out of me when I sat at the computer by standing up on your hind legs and tapping me on the shoulder. And since you were so big, you were able to reach all the way up to my shoulder. Time and time again, I thought someone had snuck up behind me and then I would look at you, startled at first, and you would speak and I would pat your head and that was enough for you for a little while. I would give anything to have you do that again.

I know I never much believed in God or an afterlife but I’m starting to realize why people do; it makes losing someone so much easier to face. I want to believe that you’re with Katrina (who loved cats), or my grandmother, (who had the same skin as me and might bring you comfort). I want to believe that you’re making another couple happy, bringing them together with fits of laugher, doing “The Horse” for them, accepting rides, and pooping anywhere you want whenever you want. Try and stay away from orange cats, though. They like to put you in headlocks even when you don’t feel like playing.

Oh, Schmitt, I want to feel OK again. This is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I want to stop crying so much and I want to start laughing about all the wonderful things you did for us. But it hurts so badly right now, my heart, my head; even my face is chapped from all the crying. We love you. We miss you, you great big old soul, you wonderful little creature.

Goodbye, my Big Guy.

Michele

(Comments closed for this article.)

Schmitty

mihow — Sun, 22 Apr 2007 08:59:00 +0000

October, 1993 – Saturday, April 21st, 2007.

Rough Days Ahead.

mihow — Fri, 20 Apr 2007 17:20:00 +0000

We got a call yesterday saying that Schmitty did pull through the surgery. That’s good news. The bad news is – the really bad news – is that Schmitty’s cancer has spread, which means he doesn’t have much time left and the time he does have left, as well as its quality, is probably going to be up to us. Of course, in the wake of the news, I am now unbelievably regretful for having put him through this surgery in the first place. I only hope that he’s not too scared right now and not too lonely and not in any pain. Tobyjoe and I spent many tearful hours yesterday discussing what we need (and want) to do now. We have decided that no matter how badly we feel, we need to start thinking for him and putting him through anymore unnecessary pain just to prolong his life 3 to 6 months is out of the question.

I have to be honest with you, I haven’t felt this sad in… well, ever. That’s pretty shameful to admit considering I have had to say goodbye to family members and friends. If only I could ask him what he wants and explain to him why we did what we did, then maybe it wouldn’t feel so horrible. And I knew this day would be hard. I pictured the tears and the puffy face, the hard time sleeping; I was ready for all of that. But what I didn’t think about was the actual experience of reliving the memories as well as letting go of our routine together. I’m going to miss him so much. And I can’t stop crying. I can’t even see the computer screen as I type this.

How do people get through this? Do we go in and say goodbye when they finally put him down? What should we do with him when that’s over with? We have no yard in Brooklyn. Last night, I started to read more stories about people who lost pets and it made me feel a little less awful knowing I wasn’t alone. Misery loves company. That old cliché is true. I didn’t have any pets growing up so I never had to say goodbye to one. Schmitty is my first. What happens now? How do you do this? How long do you cry? When does it get easier? Have you done this before? When will I stop wondering if he’s going to follow me to the bathroom? Or run to the food bowl in the morning? Or greet me at the door?

My heart is shattered.

Update 2:

I feel that I need to do this for the sake of history and writing it down makes me feel better in the time that it takes for me to type.

The doctor called earlier today. I answered. I should not be answering the phone right now, which is why Tobyjoe has taken it away from me. In the past couple of days, every time someone calls and even hints about Schmitty, I begin to cry and literally can’t utter a word. It’s terrible for the person on the other end. Anyway, a doctor called and he said to me that the cancer in Schmitty’s abdomen covers the size of two human hands put side by side. He’s also running a fever. I was trying to find out if he was in pain or if there was any hope at all. Unfortunately, the oncologist doesn’t return until Monday and the results of his biopsy don’t come back until then either. Which means we might have three more days of wondering ahead of us. And I’m not sure I want to go through that.

When the doctor told me about the size of the troubled area, I began to cry. It took every bit of composure to say the words, “I have to call you back.” That’s when I broke down and began sobbing again. Tobyjoe came out and I told him it was time for us to let him go, that the cancerous areas seems to be way too large. We both agreed that that was what we’d do today; say goodbye. And then the phone rang.

Tobyjoe answered this time. The same doctor called apologizing for how he had acted. He said he spoke with the oncologist and she said that Schmitty is going through what every animal goes through after this type of surgery and that we should wait until we get the biopsy results back to make any decisions, that the infected area could be fatty deposits, not necessarily cancerous and inflamed tissue. (Earlier, when I brought up chemotherapy again with the doctor he told me that if the infected area came back as cancerous, it would be extremely painful for the cat, hence the catalyst for my breakdown.)

Tobyjoe is going to head in to see him tonight and make the decision at that time. As much as I want to go, I don’t think I can handle this right now. It doesn’t help that I’m pregnant. And today I had a small contraction, which I read is fairly normal. But still. Tobyjoe reminded me that the most important thing in our lives right now is our unborn son. It’s probably best I avoid visiting Schmitty, especially if he’s cut up, shaved, and not well. I am sad enough as it is. I could spend 13 lifetimes with Tobyjoe and never, ever make what he’s about to do for me up to him.

I’m leaving this horrible decision up to Tobyjoe. We’re having an ethical dilemma at the moment. But if it’s time to let Schmitty go, then Tobyjoe will know tonight when he looks into his big green eyes.

Update 3:

Because I am a total worrywart with the imagination of a person on hallucinatory drugs, I insisted we go in earlier today, before visitation hours, to check on Schmitty. Tobyjoe (bless his sweet, sweet heart) went in and asked to speak to a doctor and visit with the big fella. We wanted answers. We wanted to know that he wasn’t scared and suffering, lonely and in pain. I told Tobyjoe that the decision was up to him. If Schmitty looked uncomfortable, he could ask them to put him down. I stayed upstairs and sat in the waiting room, crying, watching yet another breaking news story about some gun fire at a NASA building. I sat and waited; the Nation seems to be in shambles right now – one nation under guns – and all I selfishly care about is my fuzzy, fuzzy man.

Eventually, Toby resurfaced from the ICU with a smile on his face; Schmitty looked OK. He was in good spirits and immediately perked up when he saw Toby. He’s on medication and feeling no pain. Plus, and this is the best news, he ate! I had made the decision earlier (Thanks to Pete) that I didn’t want to have to resort to a feeding tube, that if he didn’t eat, I didn’t want to force him to go through another operation to insert a feeding tube. Schmitty gobbled food off Toby’s finger, and happily.

Since he isn’t in pain and seems to be doing fine, with both eating and the post operative care, we have decided to wait until Monday’s test results come back from the lab. On Monday, we should know how much of his body is cancer-ridden. At that time, we’ll make our decision. I keep asking myself if we’re prolonging the inevitable, but I won’t know that until later. Hindsight can knock the wind out of a person. I’m already preparing for such a blow. As much joy that cat brought me, this mental pain is so tangible right now. I almost don’t want to fall in love with another animal as long as I live.

But it just wasn’t time yet. Not today. Maybe next week, but today isn’t the day. Even though this hellish emotional roller coaster I’ve been on is so very tiring, we need to give him until Monday.

I have received countless emails from people. Each and every one of you has helped me more than you can possibly imagine, with both your comments here and via email. I have read stories, heard about heartache, and have been given hope that things do get better even though I can’t see that side of things right now. I can’t even begin to thank you all. Your stories and words and encouragement have literally gotten me through the day with even a laugh or two.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Pictures of Schmitty at the Hospital

mihow — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 09:03:00 +0000

This is Schmitty. He’s currently in the hospital with colon cancer. So we packed up his favorite bath mat and drove into the city to visit him. I took pictures.

I got Schmitty when I was 19-years-young. I am now 33. You do the math.

He’s probably the sweetest cat you’ll ever meet. For those of you who haven’t met him, you’ll simply have to take my word for it. For those of you who have, can I get an amen?

I met Tobyjoe when I was 27. I knew pretty much the moment I met him that I would end up marrying him. Sure, this had to do with how amazing he was, but it also had to do with how kind he was to my cat.

They’ve been the best of buddies ever since.

Schmitty has surgery tomorrow. The doctors are going to try and remove a mass that has collected in his colon. It is cancerous but they’re pretty sure it hasn’t metastasized. We’re crossing our fingers that he’ll be OK. I can’t imagine not having him around.

(Here’s to The Big Guy. We need you here. Be strong.)

Schmitty Goes into Emergency Care.

mihow — Wed, 18 Apr 2007 23:53:00 +0000

Tobyjoe and I cut our romantic getaway short because Schmitty took a turn for the worse. We left DC on Monday night at about 10 PM. We arrived back to New York City just after 2 AM. We dropped him off at the vet on Tuesday morning. He’s going to be hospitalized for a while to find out why he won’t eat. It’s depressing. And I’m really, really tired. I finally need a decent night’s rest. (More about not sleeping later.)

There is a lot to report, including the bit about how I fell getting out of bed, landed on my knees, and smashed my cheek against the wall. When I don’t feel so horrible, I’ll write more. There is a much-needed shower and nap in my immediate future.

UPDATE: I don’t even know where to begin. For starters, the vet we were going to missed some pretty huge signs back in February and I am so super upset about this I can’t even begin to explain. After spending another 600 dollars at that same vet today, she called to say that we had to come back into the city and take him to emergency care. At that time she said she thought he had a bladder infection. We drove back into the city and took him to the specialist. After doing a few quick tests and a quick ultrasound, the specialist told us there is an abscess and that she thinks he has cancer. We will know more when they do a more thorough ultrasound. If he has cancer we’re looking at either chemotherapy or an operation. I’m not even sure what to say. I’m so exhausted I’m numb.

I’m also very frustrated with our vet and we have vowed not to return. We spent 1500 dollars on dental work in February, another 600 today and we’re looking at thousands more at the specialist. I’ll pay whatever I need to in order to make Schmitty comfortable. And until he’s in pain and I am told there is no more hope, I can’t very well put him down. I know that might seem absurd to some people, spending so much money on an animal, but he’s a part of our family. I’ve known him longer than I have most people.

I’m going to turn off comments for this post because I can’t sit around and manage the site right now. When I feel better emotionally, I’ll return and write more and coherently. Until then, please keep good thoughts for our most beloved cat.

UPDATE 2: We got a call from the ER doctor this morning stating that Schmitty’s blood work came back A-OK. He does, however, have some type of mass in his colon, which probably means cancer but they can’t be certain until they do a biopsy. They are going to attempt to do that this afternoon. If it works we should see results by Friday.

The doctor said he’s in good spirits, his vitals are totally normal, and he can probably go home today if he eats and it stays down. We’re crossing our fingers.

I feel that I was a little hard on our vet yesterday. I was very upset for obvious reasons and unfortunately I took it out on her. That was entirely unfair and I am regretful for my words today. There may have been no way of seeing the mass in the past. The only remaining frustration I do have, however, is that we brought him in for his bowel problems and lack of appetite in February and his teeth were all that they addressed, which were indeed a problem just not the problem that could become life-threatening. Next time we’ll be more persistent.

I’m sorry I keep droning on and on about this especially since our nation is in mourning right now after what took place in Virginia. I don’t quite know sorrow like that. I feel a little shameful; I can’t even handle the possibility of having to say goodbye to my pet.

Finally, I thank you all for your email. Again, the Internet has proven itself kind beyond words.

(Comments closed for this article.)

Meow

mihow — Sat, 07 Oct 2006 21:21:00 +0000

We took Schmitty to the vet this morning. Thanks to this post on Gothamist and Jen Blossom (who helped answer questions), we discovered The Cat Practice, on Fifth and 20th in the city. It was a pain in the butt getting there and finding parking but it was totally worth it in the end. Schmitty was not only treated with the greatest of ease but I also saw the vet sneak a smooch on his head. He was the perfect big guy. He did so wonderfully. He had his anal sacs squeezed out. (Which basically exploded all over the vet when he applied the smallest amount of pressure. It was all over the table as well. Thankfully, I was in the other room having the other vet fax over his old bloodwork. Otherwise, I would have probably vomited or at least gagged.) He also had some blood drawn and was told to go on a diet. Uhoh.

I love this cat as does Tobyjoe. He really is a considered a part of our family. Quite honestly, I can’t imagine this apartment, or our life, without him.

(I really want to thank Gothamist and Jen for helping me find the vet. It takes a huge weight off when you find a group of strangers who care about your cat as much as you do. Thanks, guys.)

Fatty Poopington

mihow — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 22:32:00 +0000

This is an animated gif of my eldest, Schmitty. He likes to roll over.

He’s the greatest.

Are You Cool All the Time?

mihow — Mon, 03 Jul 2006 18:44:00 +0000

For those of you who live in hot areas but lack central air, I have a question: do you leave your AC on all the time? Do you turn it off during the day? If you do, do you have pets? Does it cost you a fortune? I want to know everything about your AC units, anything goes.

Oh, and that reminds me, if you haven’t already seen it, please stop by Cool Props. We have a few more.

Now, about your AC…

Let Me Introduce You to My Little Face Pets.

mihow — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 19:35:00 +0000

When I was 18, I discovered that my eyebrows were unruly. Not only were they really hairy, but also they liked to migrate. You might be asking yourselves, “What did Michele do about it? What did she do about her eyebrows?” I did what any normal girl would do with unruly eyebrows. I started to comb them with a toothbrush.

Here’s the deal, back then I flat-out refused to buy a 10 dollar eyebrow brush. I was that cheap. Instead, I decided to employ an old toothbrush.

Yeah, I know, it’s really freaking gross. I did not primp the toothbrush before taking its picture. And I keep this one (I have two) in my gym bag. My eyebrows aren’t made up of long, red hairs. That’s my hair hair. It got mixed up and whatnot.

I have used a toothbrush to maintain my furry eyebrows for over a decade now. I’m so cheap; I have used an old toothbrush to comb my eyebrows instead of buying a 10-dollar eyebrow comb. But here’s the irony. When I’m at the gym and it’s time to pull it out to beat them into shape, I do so on the down low. Sometimes, I hide in the corner or bend down and let my hair cover the event. The damn toothbrush embarrasses me. I imagine being approached by naked ladies armed with sentences like, “Hey, what are you doing with that toothbrush?” So I hide from the naked people.

The question still remains, why not spend 10 bucks on an eyebrow comb and proudly comb my face pets? What’s wrong with me?

Murtha’s Proposal

mihow — Fri, 18 Nov 2005 16:07:15 +0000

Although I only heard snippets of yesterday’s Murtha speech the parts I did hear were unbelievably moving. Who could doubt a man with such a military track record?

President Bush, in South Korea, continued on Friday to be questioned by reporters about the debate over Iraq. His press secretary issued an unusually blistering statement responding to Mr. Murtha’s call for a pullout, declaring that the Democrat was “endorsing the policy positions of Michael Moore and the extreme liberal wing of the Democratic Party.” Page A16.

Hmmmmm excellent. Comparing a House member to Michael Moore is classy.

And then there was this:

House Speaker J. Dennis Hastert (R-Ill.) accused Murtha of delivering “the highest insult” to the troops. “We must not cower,” Hastert lectured the old soldier.

And this:

And Rep. John Carter (R-Tex.) said the likes of Murtha want to take “the cowardly way out and say, ‘We’re going to surrender.’

Idea Assassination

mihow — Mon, 24 Oct 2005 17:18:47 +0000

On Thursday, I came up with an idea. At the time, I thought it was a good one. I decided that it’d be fun to record the folks in my life and hand out snippets of each person’s voice. So, for example, whenever mentioning Gerry I’d put up a sound file of him speaking. In my head, this seemed like a fun idea especially considering folks often assign voices to people no matter what he/she actually sounds like.

Today, I have been listening to what I’ve recorded so far. I must tell you, I am inches away from actually hating myself. What a humbling experience, hearing oneself converse with folks.

In summation, one of two things might happen should you try this at home: You might suddenly discover that you’re kind of an idiot and you might work to change that about yourself; or you might become a statistic for the nation’s overall suicide rating.

Brooklyn Loves NOLA and I Won!

mihow — Tue, 04 Oct 2005 05:09:29 +0000

On Friday, Toby Joe and I went to Enid’s for the one and only Brooklyn Loves NOLA benefit. Originally, we were just gonna pay our entrance/donation fee, have a drink, and then leave as we’re not much into big crowds and the place was packed. Instead, we had the most excellent evening, sharing drinks, and smiles, and laughs with some of the kindest people of Williamsburg.

I feel like I’m in Athens. This feels just like Athens.

I know! Isn’t it great? The bar reminds me very much like New Orleans as well. And everyone here is so pleasant and happy!

My friend, Matt, (who I met through ginar) helped put it all together. He’s also how I heard about it. They had a New Orleans style jazz band whose name I am unsure of. But what an ensemble! There were about 8 of them. There were horns, and trumpets, tambourines, tubas, things I can’t describe, and trombones! It was incredible. Plus, there was this most adorable girl whose job it was to SLAM two cymbols together, on the floor, in the air—she stole the show.

Toby Joe and I paid for the 2 Drink/All-You-Can-Eat special which came with two raffle tickets as well. I stuck a purple feather behind each of our right ears and we sipped our drinks, smiling from one ear to feather. I talked to Matt for a while and met his new(ish) boyfriend. I also gave out several free Bush T-Shirts which were a hit and all I had to do was lay them out on the table and people came to me. The whole evening was amazing.

And then the raffle came. And, well, I won. Here’s an early morning question for the Internet. Out of the five items below, which prize did I win?

1). Sexy Underpants
2). A bottle of wine
3). Hair Highlights at an uppity salon
4). An Eno Indie Rock ‘Goody Bag’.
5). 30 dollar Gift Certificate to Play Video Games at Barcade.

Indeed.

Events like the one we attended on Friday night restore any faith I lose in humanity while riding the MTA to and from work every day.

I Support Sweatshop Labor.

mihow — Tue, 19 Jul 2005 13:00:00 +0000

I got off the L Train at Bedford Avenue in hopes of sneaking a little Tasti D-lite softserve before meeting up with Toby Joe. There were grumpy people everywhere due to New York’s newfound wave with heat and humidity. And all I could think about was ice cream. Earlier, I had put half of what I owed down for the Bush T-shirts I’m having printed. The funds are going to be low this month, especially since I’m pretty sure I won’t sell nearly enough to cover the cost. But that’s okay, as I’d never done anything like that before. And I had wanted to print the shirts for over 2 years.

As I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I saw a bunch of books for sale and stopped to call Toby Joe as I had planned. I began to slowly move towards Tasti D-lite even if I didn’t actually sneak a sweet before dinner, I could at least take a peak and know what I was turning down. I hit the #2 on my phone.

“I’m at the Bedford stop. You leaving soon?”

“Yeah. Very soon. In about five.”

There was another man at a table. He was next to the book guy. It was the laughter that got my attention first. A passerby was peering over this man’s booth and laughing.

“How much?”

“Seventeen bucks. That’s a great shirt.”

I moved closer to the table. The man was selling anti-Bush shirts. A lot of them.

Meanwhile, I still had Toby Joe on my right ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I have a question for you. There is a guy here today. He’s selling anti-Bush t-shirts—like, a lot of them. I am wondering, should I ask him questions? Should I show him the shirt I sent to print today? I want to find out how much he makes, sells, whether mine is even OK at all. I don’t know. What should I do?”

“Well, my guess is he’s a bootlegger. I might suggest not saying you have a shirt you’d like him to see but just picking his brain a bit. You never who’s gonna rip you off and who isn’t.”

“OK. I’m going to talk to him. There isn’t any harm in talking to the guy. He seems nice enough. I’ll meet you at Park Cafe. See you soon.”

I walked back over to the table and asked the man for his card. He handed me one and then told me about the plethora of women’s tees he had available.

“Like this one. This is a great shirt.”

He held up an image of Bush with a mouth like one of those puppets that make me think of the 1950s. They have weird mouths that move by pulling on a string somewhere from behind. Ventriloquists in black and white would use these puppets and their funny mouths to speak for them. It was a nicely done shirt.

“Actually, I just sent off my first ever anti-Bush shirt today and was impressed with your supply. I have one to your—what? 430?”

There weren’t that many. But there were a lot. He had dozens and dozens. And they were all very good quality. And the designs were pretty nice as well. The number amazed me. He pulled out a notebook to write something down. Just then, another passerby stopped and put his drink down on the table on one of his shirts. The man moved it away from the merchandise.

“Name’s Wat.”

“Michele. Nice to meet you.”

I asked him about his printers and his cost. I asked him how he does. I’m not sure why I was so intrigued. I guess I always figured there weren’t many shirts out there because I hadn’t really seen any on anyone. And just like that I began to figure out why that was; no one really wants to wear political gear. They might be given to someone as gifts or worn to parties, rallies or on special occasions but you’re not really gonna see people sporting an image of Bush getting his nose sucked by Monica Lewinsky like you’re gonna see a Nike swoosh or ACDC’s bolt of lightning. Maybe I had just wasted a lot of money. Oh well. I work every day for some reason.

Wat answered all of my questions. He was really quite nice. And then he started to ask me a few.

“Do you have the design? May I see it?”

I actually had the drawing printed out on some paper in my bag. But then Toby’s voice came back to mind and I lied and told him no. I told him that I wasn’t showing it to anyone and that I was sort of superstitious. Which is not true, I’m showing it to whoever wants to see it. I always have. I have had that thing on here so many times I’ve lost count. Someone could have easily stolen the idea and printed out these t-shirts by now. Why in the hell was I suddenly being secretive? Who came by to take me over? What in the hell was I doing? I’m not a liar.

I was just getting ready to tell him the truth and pull out the design when he asked me about the actual shirts.

“Do you use American Apparel?”

I thought for a second. I didn’t remember what I had used right away. I pictured the piece of paper I had written everything down on and saw the word G-I-L-D-A-N.

“No, I used Gildan this time.”

“Cheap?”

“Yeah, pretty cheap.”

I lied again. Or at least I think I lied. For me, they weren’t very cheap but they were cheaper than some of the other brands out there.

“Sweatshop. I only ever use American Apparel.”

And for some reason my lack of knowledge annoyed me. I blurted something back without missing a beat.

“You do realize that the owner of American Apparel is being sued by four female employees for sexual harassment some, of whom, are barely 18, right? Nothing’s safe.”

And I meant that. But I also had no idea that Gildan tees were made in sweatshops. Had I known, would I have printed the shirts on them? In less than two seconds I concluded that since I wasn’t printing something about how Globalization is the destroyer of everything, I might be OK.

He avoided my comment about the Dov Charney and tried to make me feel better since I was a novice in the t-shirt business and he, too at one time had no idea what was sweatshop and what wasn’t. He, too, at one time had his tees printed on sweatshop t-shirts.

The people of Williamsburg kept grumpily pouring by us. I put his card into my bag and then began to think about the ice cream again. We said our goodbyes. He was a nice guy. I began to wonder if Tasti D-lite supported sweatshops, too. Maybe their polyester uniforms are made in sweatshops. They are a sweetshop. I snickered. Just then, a van drove by featuring one of those really long “MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT OF A CERTAIN NO-NAME HIGH SCHOOL.”

I amused myself with an idea for a new bumper sticker.

“MY CHILD IS A TERRORIST”

What would people think if they saw a mini-van with that on the back of it? That they had a screaming child on board? Would they be offended by this sticky piece of paper? As I stepped into Tasti D-lite I was surprised at how excited I’d become regarding their peanut-butter chips. The world really could stand to take itself a lot less seriously.

Grand Master Funk

mihow — Tue, 28 Dec 2004 14:20:14 +0000

It seems that some kind of funk has snuck up on me. I’m not depressed, outwardly. And I don’t feel down, necessarily. But I do feel sort of “whatever”, endlessly. I feel like walking around answering questions like Napoleon Dynamite. A conversation might go like this:

Hey Michele! What do you want to do for dinner?

GOD! I DON’T care. I’ll have whatever I FEEL like. GAWD!

And then I’ll stomp off with my head aimed towards the ground, killing pebbles (and something smaller).

I had a dream last night I had a pet ant (and something smaller). Having a pet ant as well as something smaller registered as normal behavior in this particular dream. Today, I have no clue what the “something smaller” may have been. In last night’s dream, I watched my bizarre pets run in circles for hours near a back door we don’t really have. I decided that a pet ant (and something smaller) needed “more room to move around.” So I let them go outside for a bit. In the end, someone either stepped on the ant (and something smaller) or they both ran off. Either way, I never found my pet ant (or something smaller) and I woke up antless. (If you think for a second I’m making this most ridiculous dream up, you’re sadly mistaken.)

My cat won’t stop screaming between the hours of 4 a.m. and 5 a.m. Last night was better, but he still screamed. It begins, like clockwork, at 4. Sometimes (like Saturday night) it goes on for 2 hours. Other times, it stops right after waking us up from a deep slumber. There are ghosts (or something smaller) bugging him. I just know it.

I wish they were day-ghosts.

It’s a day, you might say. And it’s cold out and there is no more holiday and my bank account is screaming at whatever carnage I put it through last month. There are trips I must take to that post office, the bank and the Laundromat. There is shopping to be done at the grocery store. Missy arrives tomorrow. Today is her birthday.

(P.S. Happy Birthday, Missy! Bring me your self, a pet ant [and something smaller], and I’ll take you out on the town in search of a smile.)

An Ode to Schmitty

mihow — Sun, 12 Sep 2004 17:18:58 +0000

This is our cat, Schmitty.

I don’t talk much about my cats on here for obvious reasons, but I figured it was o.k. to do so today. Recently, faced with the idea of losing him, I think it’s due time for an ode. But I will warn you, I sound age 7 when I talk about my cats. Especially this one.

Schmitty is the $1000 dollar cat. Actually, he’s worth much more than this but that’s how much we spent on vet bills over the years. And we’d spend much more to keep him around forever.

Schmitty is 12. He was born sometime around today but 12 years ago. I would like to give him anything he likes today – like fishcakes or mini muffins – because he’s perfect and unbelievably sweet.

Let’s see, about 10 years ago, he had his penis removed because his momma was feeding him a variety of cat food equivalent to the human’s McDonalds. (I didn’t know any better back then. Pets should coem with manuals.) We could have paid 40 bucks to put him down, but that was out of the question.

Schmitty has a plethora of nicknames: The Big Guy (comes with a song), Fatty Poopington, Professor Snugglesworth, Schmittholio (also with song), Tubbs, Turd Mahone, Tub-a-lubba, Buddha, and just plain Schmidt. There are others but they pop out during musical moments. We love this cat. Everyone who meets this cat loves him. It’s strange the way he looks at you. It’s as if he knows something. I am convinced he knows how to solve every problem, every war that ever was but doesn’t know how to tell us. But if he ever figures out how, I’m sure he’ll have a blog.

Schmitty brings me joy. Real joy.

Toby and Schmitty are the best of friends. When they met three years ago, something became complete. Toby takes Schmitty on rides when he gets home from work every day. These rides are sort of like a human’s cruise. And that’s what it looks like, too. Toby bends down, Schmitty puts both paws in the air and places them onto Toby’s shoulders. Toby scoops The Big Guy up. Schmitty’s tail wraps around Toby’s waist and they go on rides around the house. They stop at windows and high up places, places Schmitty could once jump to but can no any longer as he’s getting older and he’s not as agile. Toby lets him down for a few minutes to visit and then picks him back up again and they continue on. And every time this happens, I picture Toby with kids. It’s unbelievably charming.

Schmitty sleeps a lot. He weighs 17.5 pounds. (He once weighed 20.) Schmitty purrs constantly. Shcmitty will never attack someone. His claws come out only when he has to be put in a cage, and even then it’s not to fight, but to hold on for dear life.

Recently, Schmitty was taken to the vet for a check-up. We were told he would have to have his teeth removed. He had to be put under for this. Which we agreed to. During the day he was away, I worried non-stop. The house wasn’t the same without him around. It was empty and not nearly as fun or warm.

Schmitty is tall, and sometimes when I’m working, he’ll stop over, stand up alongside my chair, and tap me on the shoulder. It’s a little freakish knowing you’re alone in the house with three cats and something taps you on the shoulder and you look over and see that no one is there. But then I look down and see Schmitty and everything is o.k. again and I scoop him up and we snuggle.

I love this cat. Everyone who knows him loves him. It’s physically impossible not to. You’d have to be one heartless snake to hurt or pick on the Schmidt.

This is an ode to The Big Guy. May he live many more years, happily, fat, and with us.

STOP THE PRESS!

mihow — Wed, 01 Sep 2004 15:55:03 +0000

I made a video for Toby yesterday just to drive him more mad with the Muppet theme song.

I’m going to put this here instead because I’m tired of bitching and worrying. (Warning: Sound. The sound of my voice.)

That’s all she wrote.

mihow — Thu, 06 May 2004 15:27:45 +0000

Well, the movers come today. And they’re taking away all of our stuff. We have our parking spots blocked off using empty laundry containers. And I’m not kidding. I used an old ruler to tape the sign to a crate. Couple our ghetto reserve parking techniques with Toby’s seatless scooter and my Sony monitor, and we’ve named ourselves the trashiest couple on this gay block.

I also got a new phone number. I’m now a TMobile customer as ATT strapped on a Big Fred and had their way with me. And the torment only cost me 400 bucks. Yeah. It’s now official. We are moving. I have a 415 area code.

Comcast is here to take away the internet as well. And cable. So while the rest of the nation is watching the last episode of Friends on the TV, Toby and I will be sitting around creating finger puppets on our wall. I actually considered taking the TV with us in the van. Then it occurred to me how heavy that damn TV really is.

And there is a minor snag in our departure. It seems we will not roll out until Saturday. There was a mini-van mishap.

All that said, this may be my last post for a few days. Until we find a TMobile hotspot or hijack someone’s DSL.

New York City

mihow — Mon, 09 Sep 2002 14:52:00 +0000

I’ve been known as a fruit from time to time. I’ll wonder about and toy with and tickle all the oddities life casually sneaks to us, those weird circumstantial roads one ends up going down where everything (once you’re there) seems almost too planned, as if it was or is meant to be. I can play with this idea. I do it every day. It keeps a bit of hope inside me. The me who, as of late, has been somewhat troubled. I’ll suspend all my cynicism just to take a gleeful glimpse into something that might appear horrific and confusing. I’ll do it just to avoid how ugly life is at times. And perhaps it’s all just a way to make nothing seem more attractive, to give nothing some meaning. And perhaps we make it up to make this life a little more enjoyable and “necessary”.

I can buy all of these little things, these indefinable things that just are, and I play with them like intriguing, new toys.

There’s this concept of the unconscious, and up until I met Toby, I did not pay it much mind. I just filed it under the “something I studied in college and can forget about it” folder in my head. (Ironic, isn’t it?)

Friday, I left work early. I left at 4. I did not have approval to do so, but sitting behind my computer much longer would have surely brought me to tears. So I left. I gathered my bags and my headphones and a CD and wandered out onto the sidewalk. I thought about grabbing my metro card and hopping on a subway, uptown, to sit in the park. But instead, I began walking. There was no thought, I just walked. I headed downtown. I headed south. I headed towards the water.

I watched the streets move by me. It was sort of sad. I watched the people on Broadway head north, I was undertow, fight flow towards the not known (in my head). It was too late to hop on a subway. I was headed south. There were less and less shoppers. There were less and less storefront displays. There were less deli places and food stands and men selling weenies and pretzels and 3-dollar bottles of water.

I was headed towards the WTC. (Again).

I hadn’t thought about doing this. And I’m not saying I needed it. I’m not saying that I sought out to understand and grasp that day or any day or anything within me while I was at work. None of this crossed my mind.

(Could I have sought this trip out, even before I left my office? Could I have unconsciously wanted [needed] to see the site of my most unsettled memory before I left New York City? Before outsiders show up and trample on it on the anniversary of its destruction? Maybe this was planned. Maybe I planned this.)

I don’t know why I was there. To be honest, I feel rude being there. I have felt this way since it happened. I stood aside and watched people wander around the gates and watch the workers file from behind the green screen. I just sat back and watched, emotions, jerking my head around. Unsettled fears about that day and leaving New York sat next to me. Loneliness.

The area down there is sad. It’s in need of a home. It’s like a battered animal at a shelter. It needs a hug and a snug and a person to take it home and pay them some mind and mind it some pets and just let it sit on a pillow to get older and wiser. It needs to regain its strength. It needs to sleep.

I kept walking until I hit water. I sat on the edge of the river and watched the water bubble and kiss the tongue-like tip of lower Manhattan. And it spit its ferry boats to and from New Jersey and Staten Island letting everyone know every minute that it was still there, troubled, but still there. I watched the blimp pass overhead, I watched the men try and sell ugly, gold chains, watches and cheap sunglasses. I listened. I listened to the helicopter, the guy on the phone, to toot of the boat’s horn and the water lap up against the city’s lower lip. I do love this city. I really do. I always have. I always will.

Friday turned out to be an entire day of therapy. I can’t say that I feel better about everything, but I can say I understand that I don’t understand and I may not for a long while. I may never. I do know that I love the people I love and that I can’t always plan for things to make sense or walk towards them and know what they will look like once I get there. And I’m not sure what the future holds for me or it or here or there. And I’m not sure I won’t be back.

Sometimes I personify this city. And lately, part of my turmoil is thinking that I may actually be turning my back on it, leaving it in a shelter for someone else to try and love. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out that I’m not as angry as I have been and that I can relax again.

Images taken while I walked.

morning

mihow — Tue, 04 Jun 2002 13:49:00 +0000

If you could leave right now and pick apples all day would you do it? Perhaps it’s the Pennsylvania in me, but I have this overwhelming want for dirt and grass and fireflies and fruit and bugs and water sounds and places to go where there is no man made sound. It all reminds me of youth. When I was a kid dusk used to spook me, it meant there was night to come, night surely meant sleep, sleep surely meant fear, fear meant frustration, forced to lay there till morning waiting for the sleepers to come to. At night the kids were called in one by one as soon as the sun set and the sound of big trucks took a near distant highway with loads they wished to deliver before daybreak. Later that night I would swear to you those same truck sounds were the moaning ghosts of dead kids. I slept with a light on. I bright one. All night long, glaringly bright, keeping the monsters away from me and my goldfish. I loved the getting up in the morning part. Sleep never really was all that settling for me, I wanted to spend all that wasted time making new things and collecting wooly bears in the front yard, pretending they were pets.
If I could be anywhere else other than work right now, I would want to be hiking in search of turtles and on quest for ripe fruit and vegetables for a massive afternoon salad. I would want a good conversation to walk with or maybe a decent book. Morning’s are still the best, they’re like a little secret others might not know about yet. They are untouched, empty pages waiting for scribbles and thumbprints, mistakes and memories, ouches and ahhhs.

worry

mihow — Fri, 10 May 2002 22:30:00 +0000

I think I could enjoy this more if someone would just say, “Hey, you know what? It’s all going to be alright. Stop worrying so much.” And if they did I probably wouldn’t believe them anyway. I want to take everyone I like and put them in my pocket and take them to the park. We can sit down on the grass, (where there is no such thing as the other side) and make pets out of clouds. We could sit there and blow big bubbles where the only hint of negativity is the distant sound of an airplane.

I want to know that next year people will be nicer and that bills will be paid off and that we’ll live somewhere closer to relaxation and fresh vegetables and stability. Where my only relative annoyance is having to mow the lawn or rake the leaves. And my laughter isn’t one huge insane burp but a more evenly-paced, loyal friend. I think I need some sleep. I think I need a Saturday morning. I love Saturday morning.

Mihow » pets

Dog Abuse: What Does One Do?

Related posts:

Abby Needs Your Help!

Related posts:

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 69)

Related posts:

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 53)

Related posts:

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 48)

Related posts:

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 38)

Related posts:

Chemicals In Our Children

Related posts:

Bedroom Chaos.

Related posts:

Sick Pet Support (Pet Bereavement, Health, Etc)

Related posts:

Hello, Big Guy.

Related posts:

Schmitty

Related posts:

Rough Days Ahead.

Related posts:

Pictures of Schmitty at the Hospital

Related posts:

Schmitty Goes into Emergency Care.

Related posts:

Meow

Related posts:

Fatty Poopington

Related posts:

Are You Cool All the Time?

Related posts:

Let Me Introduce You to My Little Face Pets.

Related posts:

Murtha’s Proposal

Related posts:

Idea Assassination

Related posts:

Brooklyn Loves NOLA and I Won!

Related posts:

I Support Sweatshop Labor.

Related posts:

Grand Master Funk

Related posts:

An Ode to Schmitty

Related posts:

STOP THE PRESS!

Related posts:

That’s all she wrote.

Related posts:

New York City

Related posts:

morning

Related posts:

worry

Related posts: