What Possessed Me

I love New York (and a piano)

{Last night on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade}

Living in New York is like living with a handsome, brilliant and charismatic brute: it dazzles you, then it beats you up, and then, when you're really fed up, it makes it impossible for you to hate it. New York knows - like a manipulative boyfriend you just can't quit - that its got you. Where else would you go? What on earth would you do? Who else would accept you?

And so you live for those beautiful, rare moments - the dazzling sunlight of a summer evening on the Promenade, the roller boogie rink in Central Park, the kinetic energy of a pick-up game on the West 4th courts. They're what make all the heartbreak and the hassle and the minescule square footage worth bearing.

I've been down on New York lately (no A/C in blazing heat and dripping humidity will do that), but this video made my heart say, "New York, I take it all back! I love you, you crazy bastard!"

Sing for Hope, a non-profit that makes art accessible for all, put pianos in public spaces all over New York City. Tony DeSare played one song on as many pianos as he could over the course of one day and recorded the results.

Four minutes and 59 seconds of pure joy.

Proof of life

After a harrowing, thumb-gnawing week, we took Vernie home from the hospital. He was skinny, scruffy and glassy-eyed, but meowed up a storm and flopped on his back for a belly scratch to let us know everything was OK. 

In between cuddles, we poke him with needles full of insulin and jab him in the ears to draw blood for glucose testing, which requires a steelier nature than I possess. It's a good thing Vernie's not too bright, because he hasn't yet associated cuddling with the bloodbath that typically ensues. He only knows something's up when the glucometer doesn't turn on and I start flapping my hands, or when I cry over missing the miniscule vein barely detectable by the naked eye. Poor Verne.

Roy is completely perplexed by his little friend, who has now become the dominant animal at the food bowl. Verne body-checked him over kibble early yesterday morning and Roy stalked straight over to the bedroom to tattle.

Vernie seems to perk up a little every day, mostly out of courtesy and an eagerness to please, I think. Your sweet comments, emails and tweets of support have helped so much - thank you all.

xox,
P. 

Paws crossed

If you follow me on Instagram, you may already know that Vernie, the dopier and naughtier and sweeter of the Fucking Cats, is fighting for his life in the hospital. Over the last few weeks, we've struggled to figure out what's wrong with him - diabetes? pancreatitis? cancer? - jabbed him with insulin, fed him special food, emptied our bank accounts at the vet. In the meantime, he's stopped eating and lost nearly half his body weight. When that happens, cats go into ketosis, a coveted state for human beings on the Atkins diet, but deadly for cats. The vet says he has a 50% chance of survival. 

Readers of old may know that I have a complicated, allergy-inducing relationship with Verne, mostly influenced by a mystifying aversion to poop in the shower, a bias toward dogs, and his insistence on sleeping draped across my head. The cats came with the marriage, but despite my complaining over the years, they've really grown on me in ways I never expected.

He is a simple, pleasure-seeking creature, a skilled mouser and birder, and an uncommonly empathetic healer kitty. He has an uncanny ability to find the place that hurts – and then lie on it. I can't tell you how many times I've cried about my dad only to have Verne stretch his body across my heart, smothering me with his furry paunch. If I have cramps, he sits on my uterus, if I have a hangover, he makes a Verne hat around my head. In short, he is a good boy and I didn't tell him that enough.

After a sleepless night of imagining Verne dying alone in a cage, I showed up at the vet, begging for a cuddle and a chance to atone for my sins. He was skinny and pathetic, hooked up to a million tubes, but he purred when I stroked him, as ever making an effort to reciprocate for any kindness given him.

I told him that I was sorry for being such a shit and for not appreciating him enough. I told him that if he wanted to be baby spoon or sleep on my head he could, even if it made my eyes swell shut and my skin break out into hives. I told him that I loved him, that he was a good kitty, and that we've missed his unexpected gifts.

Good people of the internet, please keep your paws crossed for Vernie and wish him safe passage to wherever this will lead him.