Why yes, I do have cats. Three of them, to be exact, at the moment.

This past weekend, I was supposed to go to an annual party that I almost always attend, and look forward to each year. I get to catch up with some long-time friends, drink home-spiced cider, play with sharp instruments, and observe some associates (and now, some of their children) as they grow over the years. It means a slightly over 200 mile drive each way, but I generally stay the weekend.

Cats are no problem to leave behind. You can go away anywhere you want for a weekend. Right? Well, sometimes. But not this time. Oh, no, not this time.

Let's start with Madchen. Twenty-one year old pure white long haired Texas hunting cat. If you believe the stories (and I do, there are enough of them) in her prime she could feed a family of four in Appalachia with what she killed and brought home.

Well, I don't need any small animals, and that's good: she's gotten too old to hunt. She doesn't even go outside any more. She just hangs around on the couch, or eats, or yowls outside my bedroom door in the middle of the night (or early morning) and hassles the other cats.

Oh, yes: she can hassle. We have Hayes. Nineteen pounds of lumbering fur in battleship gray with a white tuxedo front. And Myst The Striped, who thinks he's invincible. I assure you he's not, but more on that in a minute. He loves to fight, and yes, he does have all of his claws. You can tell my looking at me sometimes. I don't have stigmata; I have cats.

But Madchen rules the house. Twenty-one year old Madchen, who practically creaks when she walks, and is so thin that a strong breeze blows right through her: she has the other two cats firmly in their place. And that place is... intimidated.

So. I woke up on Saturday morning, all ready to go to the party. I wasn't packed, but I didn't figure that that would be a problem. I was right, but for the wrong reason.

Many of you know that I Am Not A Morning Person. Well, keeping that in mind...

When I stepped out of my bedroom door all too early on Saturday morning I knew immediately that Madchen had been there. Have I mentioned yet that she sometimes has Litterbox Problems? Well, this was one of those times.

And we're not talking about any "I'm marking my territory and I've got a lot of ground to cover, so taste it, don't waste it." Oh, no. We are talking about "I've been saving this up all night. Aren't you proud of what I can do?" I was in bare feet, of course. "Proud" is not an appropriate word to describe my reaction.

In fact, none of the words I used for a long time were appropriate, and I'm not proud of that fact, either.

I got cleaned up and headed downstairs. I was already having minor doubts about being able to go to the party. I really didn't want to come home to a place that smelled like the service entrance of the Cleveland Zoo. But I really didn't think I wouldn't actually go. I have two kids, and I've volunteered at an emergency room: there's not a lot in the way of any bodily substances that I can't handle.

And then I got downstairs and let Myst in.

Remember Myst? I said you'd be reading more about him. Ah, Myst! Myst, who has dug his claws into the earth and arched his back when cars have pulled into my driveway, and has tried to stand them down. Myst, who's not bright enough to realize that he's a cat, and who consequently chases cars. And trucks, too. We caught him chasing the city Animal Control Officer's truck one day. Myst is not bright. He's the most lovable cat in the world, as long as you're human. Any other species? He chases them. And fights.

Now, this would be OK if he were a scrapper, but you've probably already figured out that he can't fight. Too bad nobody told him. (Well, we do, repeatedly, but he won't listen.)

So when I cleaned up and came downstairs on Saturday morning and let Myst in, he was limping. And yowling in pain. Left hind leg this time.

Last time it was the right rear leg, and he'd clearly encountered a dog. The teeth marks were plain. He got that leg chomped so hard that he's lucky he didn't lose it. This wasn't nearly as bad, but it clearly wasn't good.

Because Hayes has idiopathic epilepsy I cannot take him anywhere: the one thing that we do know sets off seizures, every time, is confining him at all. The seizures are violent and very scary: I don't even think of trying to put him in a cat carrier any more. Not even heavily sedated. He surprised the vet last time. They did not think that a cat shot full of three (3! but that's another story) kinds of tranquilizers could have a seizure. Note: they can. He did. Now I have a vet who makes house calls.

To the phone. I don't have speed dial, and still, I think that phone could dial the vet by itself. No luck. The vet's out skiing this weekend. Her message says call Central Hospital. That's OK, Myst is no stranger to Central, either. But they couldn't see him until 2:00.

When I found that out, I sent a very terse e-mail. I was not coming to the party this year. I was not in a particularly good mood. I think it showed.

I got to the hospital at 1:47. They didn't take him in until almost 3:00. No, that's no mistake: I do mean almost 3:00. They finally took him in and examined him. Almost another hour's wait for a diagnosis, they had to do an exam and then they took x-rays and had to wait for them to be developed. Pixel by pixel, perhaps.

Well, over two hours after I got to the hospital and almost $300.00 later they said...

"We don't know exactly what's wrong with him."

They think he has an infection. Or soft tissue damage. Or both. They gave me some antibiotics (for the cat) and sent me away. The antibiotics are in pill form. I thought it would be a problem, but no. That didn't cause a problem; they solved one. Now I know what to do with the soft sausage I got in one of those prefab gift boxes for Christmas. It tastes like absolutely nothing. But so does dry cat food (well, at least that tastes like cereal; this stuff has even less taste than cat food) so I thought I'd give it a try. Bingo! Myst loves it! Hopefully, the remaining pills and sausage will last together.

I trust my vet more than Central (they are a very good animal hospital; they just aren't My Vet) so I got the x-rays and she's coming to see him this afternoon. Myst Of The Boundless Energy has been doing nothing but laying around all weekend. He didn't even respond when I had to use a can opener.

So I spent my weekend doing all that I've described, plus helping repair a staircase, polishing a floor, and watching Myst. I've had worse weekends, of course, but I had really planned on this party.

I hope it was a good one.

I plan to be back next year. I can't imagine that Madchen will be around for another year. That'll leave only two cats. Right? Maybe we won't have so much unnecessary drama next year.

You know, even a blizzard couldn't stop me from coming, one year. But a single nine pound cat? Stopped me dead in my tracks.

This, friends, is The Power Of Cats.

UPDATE: January 14, 2003
The vet came yesterday. Over $300.00 more dollars later: Myst may have a torn ligament, an infected leg, or lyme disease, in decreasing order of likelihood. The area around his leg is very swollen. I have to keep him inside for two weeks. That's already starting to get interesting, as he recovers just a little bit. And, he's getting smarter about eating around the additional pills I mash up in his food. But he will recover.

Will he ever learn to run away from fights? Will I ever go back to this annual party? Will we have a second war with Iraq? Will we continue The War That Never Officially Ended with North Korea?

Will pointless random violence continue to rule much of the globe? Will terrorism define this decade, and the world sink back towards the anarchy and barbarism of competing superstitions until only the strongest and most ruthless (if any) survive? Will the majority of the populace ever figure out that this is the real implication of "fundamentalism" and reject that rapacious dragon, by laughing in its self-assured face?

Will we learn to turn our backs on the false promise of security cloaking the claws that are always at the heart of its message of A Return To A Simpler And More Virtuous Time?

Or will the threat of violence scare U.S. citizens into willingly relinquishing more of their rights? Will the U.S. remain free? If not, will it become a theocracy, a plutocracy, an oligarchy (or both of the preceeding) or a neo-feudal protectorate with our corporate-funded lords pulling the strings that move the flapping mouths promising Security Through Control?

I am writing this in the morning.

Perhaps you can see now (for those of you that do not already know) just how much I am Not A Morning Person.

I expect I will get much less cynical as the day goes on and the sunlight, and coffee, stream in. And out. :-)

But, if any of your utility companies adopt a coat of arms for their logo, just remember: you heard it here first.