my parents cat is dying the slowest death of any animal ever. it is, unfortunately, a death by diarrhea. (this has been going on for over a year. i have written about it before.)
despite the fact that she is single-handedly responsible for the introduction of the phrase "poo-pocalypse" into the vernacular of our family, my father is surprisingly unwavering in his determination that mimi will not be put down unless her quality of life is compromised. because a total loss of bowel control apparently doesn't qualify as compromised quality of life, mimi will likely outlive us all.
but i dare say my quality of life is severely hindered by the continuance of hers. i am not a classy lady (surprise!), but still there are topics i'd rather avoid. excrement is, by and large, one of them. alas, it is everywhere.
all anyone in my family can talk about these days is the cat's shit. joe, burvil, debo, doesn't matter, it's all the same... gary's cat is really sick. she's pooping up a storm.
i don't even know what that means beyond the fact that it sounds appalling.
over christmas, mimi was kenneled. not because we were going anywhere, but because my dad didn't want to have to deal with a house full people on top of all the cat shit. within hours of her arrival, the doctor called to report that mimi was obviously near death as she'd had back-to-back episodes of violent diarrhea. no, my father told him calmly, that is just who mimi is.
we seem to be caught in a vicious cycle here. with each shift in mimi's treatment- which has run the gamut from cans of $50 food to thrice daily shots- the initial euphoria has been punctured by the diarrhea's inevitable return and the subsequent poop report.
this unending quest to resolve the matter of the cat shit is my father's latest anthropological endeavor. in his eagerness to report back from the field, i am treated to his findings daily:
it is now my greatest fear that my father will one day write a sci-fi novel/memoir and that it will be entitled poop storm.