Friday the 13th and the Day After

Following Friday's Lake Writers meeting, five of us went to the diner in Moneta. Not only did we get great food and service, but we were also seranaded.

While we were eating, four guys in matching red vests and black bowties came in. They were the Ice Cream Quartet, a barbershop singing quartet from the Harmeneers, and they'd been taking a break from delivering singing valentines. Their picture is on today's Smith Mountain Eagle website. They went to a few tables and sang. Our table was one.

On another Valentine's note, yesterday and today, Daisy the Curly Cat blog has photos of Daisy modeling her Valentine's Day outfits. If you like cute cats and whimsical blogs, check out Daisy's blog.

Now, my own cat news which isn't whimsical—it's more deadly serious: Wednesday night, Foxy— my big cat—crawled into my lap. Foxy is pretty much her own cat, and not a lap-cat at all. I stroked her fur and felt a huge lump on her left hindquarter—a lump as big as my fist.

Since she has long thick hair, I hadn't noticed the lump. In fact, I even had to look hard to see it when she walked. Thursday morning I took her to the vet. Diagnosis: fibrosarcoma, a type of feline cancer. (Some info is here, but don't look if you're squeamish.) Surgery would buy her some time—maybe a couple of years.

Foxy is a least ten. When she signed on as my cat in 1999, she was full grown but skin and bones, had the worst case of earmites I'd ever seen, and also an infection in one eye. I doctored her up and she thrived. She became the boss cat of the household. In her prime, she could stop three dogs in full run. She's still a big cat —sixteen pounds.

Now that she's past her prime, she's slowed down and spends more time sleeping than mousing. She still goes to the barn everyday and makes her rounds just before daylight. Then she comes in and shares my breakfast. Or she did until Thursday.

The vet quoted me a price on the surgery—less than the computer I'd planned to buy; considerably less than some of the work I wanted done around the house. But still pricey.

I looked in Foxy's eyes and saw life looking back at me. Foxy wasn't ready to go yet. The vet could do the surgery Friday morning and, if all went well, I could take her home Saturday.

Friday, while the quartet sang to me, the vet was leaving a message on my answering machine: Foxy had come through the surgery fine, but the growth was a lot bigger than he had expected. He'd had to remove some muscle, too.

This morning, I picked her up. All her long fluffy hair is gone from her left hindquarter and part of her belly. She has one heckuva scar. She can't use her left leg yet and will probably always limp. But she's alive and pretty much her feisty self.

Her eye looks a little weird because of the flash. It's really not that green.

For the next couple of weeks, Foxy will be on pain medication and antibiotics. She'll get her stitches out in two weeks.

Speaking of stitches, you might not want to look at the next picture if you're easily grossed out. But it's not too bad.


The vet thinks he got all of it. And that's really something to sing about.

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