Feeling pretty negative about the positive

Of all of the topics you thought I’d pull out of my ass, I bet you weren’t expecting this one: Cat HIV. You and me both.

Last Thursday, Marshall had his second round of vaccines, and at that time, they also ran the standard test for FIV and FeLV. The former came back positive.

There I am, sitting in my running vehicle, watching Rhett go from 20 miles DTE down to 5 (no, I had not gotten gas yet; no, it didn’t really occur to me that keeping the car running while parked would use that much gas; and no, I did not think of the environmental impacts — I just thought I’d be parked for a whopping ten minutes while they jabbed my kitten a couple of times and then sent us on our way, also it’s Florida and it’s hot out). Gotta love the new Covid-friendly practices of never having to get out of your car, enter a lobby, or be amongst the unwashed masses. Anyway, it was not my kitten that they returned to me a whopping 30 minutes later, it was a confused vet tech attempting to answer my questions, failing, and then ultimately the doctor coming outside to talk to me (my summoning powers were in point that day).

The gist of her message was this (legal disclaimer: do not quote me nor quiz me on any of this; I am not a medical professional nor person who pays attention all that well): like Covid testing, there are two kinds of tests for FIV: one that is rapid and looks for the presence of antibodies, and another that is fancier that looks for the presence of the virus itself (thus far more accurate). The test they ran was the rapid test version. As such, the fact that he was positive for antibodies of FIV could very likely have been thanks to his whore of a mother who passed the antibodies to him through her milk, and he just still has them lingering in his system. The vet suggested we not panic and retest him at six months of age to see if they’d cleared yet.

But what to do in the meantime? Should we keep him separate from the others? If so, uh, that’s a long time to be imprisoning a kitten. (For the record, he’s only 10 weeks old right now, so we’d be looking at mid-September for this second test to be run). The doctor recommended imprisonment quarantine. I immediately reach for my go-to solution to everything: throw money at the problem. “What about the fancy test? Let’s do that!” For the first time ever in my life, I was talked out of forking over more cash to a business by the business. “It’s really most likely a false positive. I wouldn’t want you to waste money for no real reason,” she said.

And I was about to leave it at that when I texted Hank to tell him about the situation, and he immediately said to spring for the test. So I actually got out of my car (I had turned him off ten minutes prior anyway, as I now had no gas and a guilty conscience from idling for over an hour), donned a mask, and headed inside to find someone to milk my cat of his blood. That I did, and then we were on our way home, via a gas station.

They told me that the results would be available within three to five days, so I decided to simply assume that I’d thrown hundreds of dollars away for no good reason, it would be negative, and that we weren’t likely to hear anything until today anyway, so I’d enjoy my weekend without another thought about it.

That plan was promptly destroyed when the doctor called on Saturday afternoon to tell us that the results had come in: Marshall indeed has FIV.

What is FIV and why is this a big deal? FIV, Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, is the cat version of HIV. It means a likely shorter lifespan and a potential for health problems including dental issues, kidney problems, urinary tract problems, etc. It means being hypervigilant to any little illness that may pop up, as he’ll be unable to fend it off like a normal, healthy cat, and it could quickly spiral out of control and kill him. And it means the potential that he could transmit FIV to Cash and Wynton. Typically, FIV+ cats are to never live amongst FIV- cats, and if at a non-no kill shelter, they’re most often euthanized.

The vet asked us what we wanted to do, and when I said I didn’t know, she said she’d give us the rest of the weekend to think it over and call again today to discuss next steps.

Cue simultaneous crying and panic Googling.

After a few hours of both, it seemed like maybe it wasn’t as gloom and doom as it seemed? There was certainly plenty of evidence to suggest that more contemporary views on the matter consider cohabitating FIV+ and – together to be a relatively non-issue. The only way the virus could be transmitted from Marshall to the others is through a VERY deep bite (and unidirectionally — Marshall would have to be the one doing the biting). We’re talking the kind of bite that would require medical attention even if it came from an FIV- cat. I’ve had cats my entire life, and I’ve literally never had one bite another like that. And there was also plenty of anecdotal evidence that FIV+ cats could live long, healthy lives if kept indoors (which we obviously would be anyway, regardless of virus status) and well taken care of.

So maybe we could keep him after all?

But there’s still a risk. A small one, but a risk. Marshall could be on his best behavior every moment of every day of his life, and all it would take is one bad second to screw it all up. And we could take the bestest care possible of him, but there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t end up with some weird cold that could outright kill him at five years of age.

But what’s the alternative? How are we supposed to find him another home? Who’s rushing out to adopt sick cats? And if we bring him to a shelter (obviously a no-kill one), he could end up spending the rest of his life there because again, why bring home the sick kitten when you could have a healthy one?

And maybe you’re thinking, “Ruby, you’ve only known him a month — you need to think of Wynton and Cash.” Well no shit, and I AM thinking of them. But I really do love that little Marshmallow. He’s pretty much the greatest kitten I’ve ever known. (This is no offense to either Wynton or Cash, as we adopted them when they were a bit older; I’m sure they were amazing kittens as well). I’m just not sure I can kick him out to lord knows where because there’s a small chance he may not live to be 17 and an even smaller chance he could deliver Cash or Wynton to the same fate.

Hank seems to be of the mind that we’ll be fine, and he’s fine, and everything is fine; no need to shut down the economy and triple mask. Oh, wait, no, that was a response to a different virus. Regardless, to each their own on risk acceptance and risk avoidance, I suppose. Sadly, I’m farther on the AVOID AVOID AVOID end of that spectrum. But that runs contrarywise to my YOU’LL PRY THAT KITTEN FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS spectrum. I’m on many spectrums.

So yeah. Here we are. I think we’re keeping him. I think Wynton and Cash will be okay. I think the bigger risk is Marshall getting sick at some point eventually, but he’d have that same fate no matter where he ended up, so why not be with us? We have the means to take care of him. We love him dearly. He’ll have a good life. I may not be able to predict any kind of future when it comes to taking risks and how they may play out, but I can guarantee he’ll have a good life.

And now we wait for the vet to call. And to see how much judgement I’ll have to bear there.

Well that didn’t take long

I’m referring to, of course, my utter and total abandonment of this here blog revival. I can’t quite put my finger on it: is it a lack of interest? A lack of anything worth writing about? ADD? Maybe a combination of the above? I do have to admit, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here. As in, what am I supposed to be writing and why and for whom? There are literally five of you that read this (and I appreciate each and every one of you!); if I had something to say to you, I could probably just email you. I hardly think of this as some waiting in the wings trove itching to be discovered by masses of content-hungry strangers; who’s out looking for random blogs to read these days (or ever)? So let’s face it: this is just for me. And if it IS just for me, what do I want? An archival look at my life that I can return to and reread ten years from now? (Recent experience would indicate that that is NOT a fun time, but here’s hoping these years are more stable than the the facepalm-inducing content of 2009-2013). Or is this just simply a way to pass the time that is only slightly more rewarding than binge-watching TV series that I’ve already watched in their entirety three times over? Again, probably some combination of the above.

Oddly enough, some of these theories actually conflict with one another. When I was forcing myself to reread the dirty laundry of the past, I found myself hating the super long-winded rambling posts. I found the shorter “I have a story to tell, here’s the story, okay bye the end” posts far more entertaining and consumable. And yet, if I’m writing this because it’s the actual act of creation that I’m enjoying, well, baby, I looooooove to ramble. Sorry not sorry?

To take the pressure off of me today, how about we find a compromise: how about I make each topic its own number. That way, if I’m reading this in 2028, I can simply think of each segment as its own mini post. That’ll trick me, right? Sure. I bet 2028 me is super gullible. And as for the five of you, well… there’s always the comment section to weigh in on what, exactly, you’d like to see (or not see). As equal equity shareholders in this endeavor, your opinions go a long way.

1. Wedding Fun(?) Times

The wedding is back on. Oh, you thought I was already married? Sure I am, but who doesn’t like throwing massive, expensive parties a year after the fact to really drive the point home? Plus, presents.

Nah, it’s simply the same plans we had for 2020 but now sans pandemic. Mostly. Go vaccines! So yeah, we’ve set our new date — an attempt to be as close to the actual wedding date as possible but still on a Saturday. And now I’m thrust back into a mindset that I abandoned a year ago by simply throwing my hands in the air and boxes full of obsolete invitations under a bed.

The rereading of the Old Blog Days (OBD?) reminded me of just how much I hated weddings and how I vowed to be different when I had mine. No expensive dress that you only wear once and then allow to take up precious space in your closet forever after! No awkward ceremony where you force your closest friends to also buy expensive dresses that they’ll only wear once and then likely give away to Goodwill or wear ironically as a Halloween costume some years later! No blowing what could be the sizeable down payment on a house on a single fucking party (I love that this is an actual Netflix show now; and here I said my blogs weren’t waiting-in-the-wings-troves of valuable content — clearly someone out there’s been reading!)! No creating unnecessary stress for anyone and everyone involved over what should be a fun, joyous occasion!

Well, I managed to check some of those boxes. No clue what I’ll be wearing to the party. Ceremony’s already done (and was done in a dress I bought in a dive shop in Key West for $60 — true story. Hank wore a Mickey Mouse Hawaiian print shirt that he promptly spilled a drink on less than an hour before the ceremony, and Lizzy was modeling a lovely number from Kohl’s). No bridal party. But the rest of it… well… turns out that food and drinks cost money. I can skimp all I want on floral arrangements, table decor, videographers, live bands, string quartets, cheese fountains, caricature artists, or whatever the hell else is considered de rigueur these days, but it’s hard to get away with not feeding your guests, and in the case of our guests especially — providing an open bar with wells deep enough for everyone in attendance at Coachella.

As for the stress… I see now why wedding planners are a thing. If I want to strangle people whilst attempting to do the bare minimum, I can’t imagine what a real, full-blown wedding entails. Hard pass.

(Snark-free disclaimer to My Mother: I’m not complaining! The wedding will be fun and lovely and way better than it would’ve been in July of 2020. Things happen for a reason.)

2. Travel Fun(!) Times

I’m vaccinated! Whee! Friday will be my two-weeks-after-the-second-shot day. To celebrate, I shall… probably do nothing. Let’s face it: quarantine has kind of allowed me to live my best life. I spend my days wearing sweatpants and hanging out with my cats. I have built-in excuses to avoid any and all social situations. I can even avoid errands. Why would I want to throw all of that away and leave my house? I look gift horses straight in the eyes, never the mouth.

Though, I do have several trips lined up. I suppose I can make exceptions if leaving my house entails something more exciting than staring hatefully at anti-maskers in Publix and trying in vain to find gas stations that still have gas available.

a) Disney World next week (assuming I can find gas by then — Rhett is currently showing 20 miles til empty). It’s sort of a combo trip of my usual monthly trip/my last trip for a good long while/100 days sans booze! So, a celebration, a non-celebration, and a goodbye. Not in that order. Depending on how you look at it.

Anyway, yeah, typically, I try to get up to Disney once a month. But since its reopening last July, it’s slowly gotten more and more crowded to the point where it’s just fucking unbearable. I started last November attempting these mid-week trips, capitalizing on my ability to work wherever there’s wifi, hoping that avoiding weekends would help with the crowds. At first, it wasn’t bad. But it seems even school days are no longer sacred. I decided to try one last time (and splurge on Wilderness Lodge for my remote office as a gift to myself). But after next week… yeah, I don’t know. I get that revenge travel is a real thing, and I’ve been pretty fortunate to be able to continue to visit Disney this whole time — it’s other folks’ turns now. But… can they, like, get these trips over with in the next couple months and then allow things to just settle the fuck back to normal? I NEED MY DISNEY, AND I NEED IT WITHOUT HOMICIDAL RAGE.

b) New Orleans in a few weeks. Just a long weekend. Like I attempt to hit up Disney once a month, Hank and I attempt to hit up New Orleans once a year, and that obviously didn’t happen last year. WE NEED CRAWFISH, STAT. This will also be my first time on a plane and the first time leaving the state of Florida since December, 2019. Craziness. Anyway, as a newly sober person, I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do on vacation in New Orleans other than eat myself silly, but at least that’s a good starting place, yes? We also plan on renting a car to drive all around to parts of the city we’re less familiar with (what can I say? I may have lived there for five years, and we do visit regularly, but we always hit up the same areas; we like what we like).

In addition to simple exploration, this may or may not also be a scouting mission for potential home-buying locations. We’ve been talking for awhile now about relocating to New Orleans. And since I can officially work from anywhere, and since the housing market here in SWFL has exploded, that time could be soon approaching. We shall see. Nothing’s happening super soon, but it is highly entertaining to open my morning Zillow emails and see houses around here that are piece of shit dumps thinking they can fetch $150k more than what they’re really worth. And succeeding. Pass the popcorn.

c) New Hampshire to see MY MOTHER in July! Much excite. Many lobsters will be eaten. They’re like crawfish, but bigger, and you don’t suck the heads.

d) Vegas in July. Because that’s the perfect time of year to visit Vegas. And I have a real knack for picking sober-friendly vacation destinations. That and Hank’s nephew is competing in an American Ninja Warrior type thing there, so we’ll be there to cheer him on and question our life decisions that led us to not being even remotely able to complete even the simplest exercise on those courses.

3. Cat(!!!) Updates

Marshall is a doll. A screaming doll, but a doll none the less. He’s getting along well with Cash and Wynton. They both enjoy rough housing with him. Perhaps a little too roughly, but seeing as Marshall just bolts straight at them for more, I guess they aren’t hurting him that bad. Sure, it may look like they’re beating the ever-loving shit out of a tiny creature a mere fraction of their size, but apparently he’s not said the safe word yet, so. Open season.

And, really, the screaming is only around food time, so I can relate. I internally scream when I’m hungry, too.

4. Help (not of the mental variety) wanted

Anyone know a seasoned tech writer looking for a job? My most senior-level guy just gave his notice to go work for Amazon. Pfft. Like they’ll last. I’d really rather not have to do his job and mine, so I’m hoping to replace him as soon as possible. Added bonus: you can work remotely from Disney World if you want to.

5. Okay, maybe some mental help wanted

The whole not-drinking thing is fine. I guess. I’m pretty much just mentally twiddling my thumbs. I’m bored, but I’m not pulling my hair out and screaming externally, so… we’ll call it a win? Like, life and my outlook could probably be better, but I’m also not crying on a daily basis or at risk of saying “fuck it all,” so… “yay”? Hopefully as time progresses, I’ll just come to be used to this ho-hum status quo, and it’ll no longer feel so hollow. Again, I’m not at risk of throwing it all away and falling off the wagon. I’m not worried about myself in New Orleans, or Vegas, or alone at Disney World, or alone in my own home for days on end. I’m just wishing the wagon were a little more pimped out and a little less Oregon Trail no frills.

I think part of how I know I’m not teetering on the brink of self-sabotage is that when I picture drinking again, I picture DRINKING again. I don’t want to go off my vegan diet to tastefully enjoy a shrimp cocktail; I want to butcher a cow with my bear hands and lick its blood off a dirt floor while wearing its hide as a toga. Now, maybe you’re thinking to yourself, “um, Ruby, the fact that you’re thinking like a manic coyote may actually indicate a slight problem here? Not a reason for relief?” False. When have I ever wanted to butcher a cow or any animal? In what universe would that ever actually happen? And at what time during my meat-eating career did I ever do such a thing? Never and none and never. So we’re safe. It’s when I start wanting “just a simple shrimp cocktail, please,” that we need to worry. Get it? Good. Makes perfect sense to me.