'Tis the seaon to be jolly, unless you're a cat with a blocked bladder.  This I found out the hard way, today.  Well, actually, my cat Wallace found that out the hard way.   I just found out the monetary way.  He had the body that was suffering....I have the wallet that is hurting.  Me, I prefer a suffering wallet over a suffering body any day.

I thought it was a regular ole UTI, here today, gone some day shortly soon thereafter.  Just two nights ago, my cat Wallace was chasing fake mice around the room alongside his brother Willie.  He was happy as a cat who'd caught a lark.  But now and then, over the course of the past week, Wallace would get up and move to a corner and, um....how to say politely??.....lick his little kitty family jewels.  And growl.

Well, hell, if any guy I know could lick HIS family jewels, I'm sure he'd be growling too.  

But seriously, that was the first sign of trouble and it started a week ago.  

I am familiar with some of the signs of kitty UTI because, unfortunately, before I adopted Willie and Wallace from the North Shore Animal League (a no-kill pet adoption center in Long Island, NY) back in 2006, I lost my previous kitty Jupiter to kidney failure due to an unrecognized case of UTI.

I will not sadden you all with the particulars other than the fact that I did not get Jupiter to the vet's clinic in time and he ended up dying in my arms on a very heartbreaking Friday night in the middle of December of 2006.

Instead, I will tell you that I turned right around and adopted two seven month old brother kitties who had lost their hope of being adopted from North Shore just days later.  Each cat was supposed to cost me a donation of $75 each, which I was prepared to pay.  But the handlers and volunteers at NSAL were so grateful to see these two brother kitties (so much bigger and less cute than all the new young ones) get adopted together that they let me have them BOTH for $75 total.  I would've given more, but I spent the balance on toys and beds and food and accessories.

When I brought Willie and Wallace home, they were terrified of me and my apartment.  They really seemed to want their tiny cage back, that they had shared....where one slept in the litter box and the other slept on top of the food dish and water bowl.  They wanted their comfort zone, and it was a whole two days before Wallace allowed me to pet him.  When he allowed me to stroke his ears, he liked it so much he immediately rolled onto his back and let me stroke his belly....all the while purring.  So much for being afraid, eh?

Over the past two years, these boys have become my sons.  Literally.  They are My Boys.  Da Boyz.  

I keep Jupiter's cremated remains in a little urn up on the top of my bookshelf, so he can both be near me, and look over them, but otherwise, they know nothing of him.  They only know they are Da Bomb.  Da Boyz.

So when Wallace started moving beyond the growling while licking his balls stage, and moved very heartbreakingly quickly into the "Mommy, I'm sick and you don't know how to understand what I'm saying" stage last night, I got scared.  I panicked.  I called the vet and left a message to have them call me and let me come in today anytime after 2 PM when my office closed early for the holiday.

And they did.   They called me back this morning and said, bring him in as soon as you can.

Before I went to work, Wallace's health had so deteriorated that he could barely stand on his own four feet.  

When I got home from work I found him lying on the bathroom floor, unable to stand, with Willie sitting by his side, as if both nursing his sick brother and waiting for me.

I put Wallace in his crate and drove him to the vet and within three hours, he had gone through his life-saving procedure and was waking up, feeling better.

He will be spending the next three days in the hospital, recovering, and when he gets home on Friday he gets painkillers, antibiotics, and a new special diet that will last him (and his brother, because they eat together), a lifetime.

I'm very lucky that it snowed last weekend and I was not able to use the bonus I received at work to go Christmas shopping with.  Because my whole bonus just went towards my cat's surgery, hospitalization, meds, and food instead.

I was embarrassed to call my mother and tell her I'm coming to see her and my sister, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews sans gifts.  I sobbed and apologized to my mother for having spent all my money on my cat rather than on my family.

My mother said, "Don't be silly.  He's your baby.  What matters is he's safe, you're happy, and you're coming here to visit us for the holiday.  That is what matters."

So, never mind the fact that I usually blow my bonus on my family, buying gifts they don't always need or want.....what matters is that I spend the holiday with them, sharing laughter and good times and love.

What matters is that my family understands my beloved pet's health took precedence over gifts this year, and my family not only loves me anyway, but they all understand and would do the same.

What matters is that no matter how little we have to give, the gift of being ourselves is more important, and in ample abundance.

Happy holidays, everybody.