Tense

The midsummer sun was pounding down on me while I dug my hands into the dirt. I could feel the wetness in the layers of mud as I kept sifting through the moist soil. My daughter’s voice ran through my head after every rinse in the water hose, just wear gloves, Gideon, but I never listened—why would I? I liked the feel of it. The grunginess of my hands after a long day outside, they made me feel like a mechanic. At first, I thought it was unusual that planting flowers and various herbs was my way of escape, but it felt right. So, I quickly got over the judgmental stares of passersby watching a six-foot-tall man with his knees in the dirt because I kind of had to.

Today though, it wasn’t about the flowers or the herbs. Today, I was tasked with tearing apart the dirt in front of my daughters’ home. Tasked to destroy what was once beautiful, but it had to be done. There were unwanted dandelions, chickweeds, purslane, and bluegrass interrupting the growth of the sunflowers and morning glories I planted a few months ago. These pesky weeds were relentless; they kept coming back, even over the summer. Although, I could never understand why she couldn’t do this herself. All it took was a good pair of gloves, and a little patience. The task was easy, but ever since we buried her husband a couple months ago, she wasn’t motivated to do any of the outdoor chores. Although, I was amazed that she even invited me over—my wife must’ve had something to do with it. We never got along, even before my grandson’s father died. Our relationship was fine, but it was always uncomfortable. The tension was inevitable though; she’d never forgive me for what happened.

My thoughts were quickly interrupted by a checkered ball hitting the window and landing in the array of weeds in front of me. Soccer. They were playing soccer. My grandson quickly rushed over, apologized, retrieved the ball, and ran back to continue playing with my daughter before I could respond. I looked over and she didn’t acknowledge me; she was still mad. She’s lucky my wife was persuasive enough to get me here.

Last time I saw my daughter was a week after the funeral when I let slip that I thought his son should return to his biological mother. I’ll never understand why she couldn’t let him move back. She always had this way about her where she just had to control everything; including him.

His son’s life was never just his, just like my daughter’s was never really hers. After my son-in-law was six-feet-under she had to start anew. Discover who she was, where she belonged, and what she needed to survive. She barely scraped by after his passing, it’s no wonder she never let his son leave her side. Don’t get me wrong, I love the kid; he just doesn’t love us. The word grandpanever came out of his mouth, but collectively we were a familyfor over a decade. It wasn’t his fault though, it was his fathers. He alienated them from us, and if I hadn’t have done what I did, I’m not sure how much longer it would’ve been before I lost my daughter completely.

It’s Okay.

It’s okay to be sad.

It’s okay to let your guard down once in a while and to just wallow in your emotions.

It’s okay to express how you feel.

It’s all okay.

Because you’re human.

Hi, I’m not sure if you’ve read my resolution post for 2018 yet aptly named The Year(s) of Growth, but if you haven’t, then these were my top ten resolutions:

  1.  Stop comparing
  2.  Break my bad habits
  3.  Leave the house more
  4.  Eat healthier
  5.  Listen to more music
  6.  Read more
  7.  Produce more art, whether it’s paint on a canvas or a new blog post — writing is an art too
  8.  Make it on to the deans’ list
  9.  Stop letting people take advantage
  10.  Ignore the insults

It’s a long and hopeful list, right? I’ll dig into them in December, so for now, we’re only going to focus on number two; “break my bad habits.” I didn’t discuss this in that blog, and I’m not sure I’ve talked about it yet (maybe I should “clean house” and check all of my blogs), but my all-time worst habit is not letting people in. For some reason, there has just been a mental blockade around that portion of my brain, and I’ve just discovered how to cope with it.

Today, I had what I like to call a Twitter Episode, which is where I air my “dirty laundry” out publicly, with hopes that my tweets get lost in the abyss of memes and self-deprecating humor. Yet, today they didn’t. I was seen, heard, asked about, and apologized to. No one knew exactly how to fix my problem, but I was still seen. A few people reached out and they helped me realize that it’s not going to be the end of the world–at least, not yet anyway.

But see, that’s the thing. As I write this blog about opening up, I’m still extraordinarily closed off. I’ve closed myself off from those that care about me, and today I realized just how self destructive that can be. Not only for myself, but to everyone else around me.

It isn’t fun seeing those you care about be sad or upset, but you have to remember that if they’re hurting, don’t ignore their cries for help. Don’t let them do it alone because if you truly care about them, you’ll help them in any way you can.

Honestly, the hardest thing to do, is to ignore those posts that tell you how toxic you are when you are upset, because those are complete bullshit. It’s not okay to build a fortress around how you feel. If something’s bothering you, don’t just let it pass; TALK about it. TEXT about it. WRITE about it. Do anything you can to get those thoughts out of your head and into the world. It doesn’t matter if it’s going to be written in a note on your phone, in a Word.doc that you never open again, or even if it’s in a diary that’s closed off to the world… as long as it’s written down, it’ll help.

Also, I realize how this must sound coming from me of all people. Like I said before, (or did I?), I’m an expert at bottling things up. I have almost twenty-two years of it under my belt, so you might be wondering; “Who are you to give me advice on letting people in?” Well, my dear reader, I can only write how I personally feel, and you can take from it as you please. It’s entirely up to you and you alone. However, with as much experience as I have, I can say for sure that one thing helps when it comes to opening up, and it only takes a few steps:

  1. Get. Out. Of. Your. Bed.
  2. Move.
  3. Don’t slow down.
  4. Find a friend(s).

After you’ve established some sort of trust with said friend(s); open up. Let people in. Don’t let your anxiety, inability to trust because of your past, or your overthinking affect the fact that there is someone out there that will listen. They may be hard to find, but they are out there. Somewhere. You just have to go out and look. You honestly just have to trust me.

Once you find your person, or what us Grey’s Anatomy fans like to call “your Cristina,” never let them go. Your Cristina might not always be the same person as your Derek, but if they are then that’s great! It’s much harder to find two people who care about you as much as Cristina and Derek did for Meredith, but if you’re as lucky as I am; you’ll find them both.

November 12, 2014

It was a humid, yet chilly Wednesday night; which oddly isn’t unusual for Texas. The sun had just left to awaken a new part of the world and I was just getting off work. As soon as the clock hit 10:23, I would leave the confinements of C.R. Clements and set off to my destination: home.

Copperas Cove, Texas was a small town that I knew like the back of my hand. It used to only take 20 minutes to get through the entire thing, no matter which direction you went through. Surrounded by five hills, with a school district that worships the Bulldawg football team and faculty scandals, Copperas Cove isn’t a place that is well-known. Yet, it’s very close to the third biggest military post in America: Fort Hood (1). Primarily made up of military brats (me included), the town only holds 32,000 people as of 2016 (2). So, it’s a melting pot.

Now, the school that I worked at was my old intermediate, my fifth-grade alma mater, and where I walked the halls as a part of Ms. D Smith’s Snakes; my homeroom class. As a freshly graduated eighteen-year-old, it was a bit uncomfortable to walk the halls as a custodian, but I did it anyway. I started the full-time custodial position in August of 2014, so by November, I was already three months into my job. At the time, I was living with my mom and I was about to hit my one-year mark with my boyfriend Cody Lee. We started dating my senior year of high school, but we went through a long and winding path until we finally were the complete high school definition of official; it was on Facebook. However, we won’t go too far into those details because they’re pretty personal. Let’s just say, that we were both involved with other people when we first started hanging out, I met his parents, he met mine, and we were basically dismissing the inevitable.

“You know you like him, I don’t know why you’re staying with that guy who hasn’t talked to you in two weeks,” my mom would say while I’m on my way out the door to see Cody.

“I know. I know. I know. I have to break it off because we’re going through the same cycle of nonsense that we go through. Every. Single. Time,” I’d tell her.

This wasn’t the exact conversation, but at the time I still dismissed it. Eventually, I realized I wanted to be with the beautiful brown-eyed boy I met in the aisles of Wal-Mart a few months prior. So, I had to break it off with the guy in Indiana who had been ignoring me for weeks. Since he blocked me on Facebook (wow, I was clueless when I was seventeen), I decided to text him and break off the relationship officially before we finally crashed.

Cody on the other hand, well, his story is for him to tell. All you need to know is that, after months of self-doubt, we officially got together on November 12, 2013.

After he got off a shift at Wal-Mart at 10pm, he walked up my parents’ driveway with a bouquet of roses and asked, “Will you go out with me?”

To which I promptly replied, “No,” and walked away.

“Okay then,” Cody said as he walked back to his Suzuki Forenza.

“No, no, no stop, wait! I was kidding! Yes,” and I ran up to him, put my hands on his face, and kissed him.

Now, there we were almost an exact year later. November 11th. While I was walking to my car after a long shift, my “David Tennant as the Doctor” text tone went off and I checked it.

Are you still coming over, Cody asked. (We had an agreement that I’d sleep at his parents’ house tonight because we stayed at mine quite a few in a row.)

So, I texted him back: Yes? Let me go get my things and I’ll be right over.

Drive safe. Text me when you get there.

I arrived at my moms’ house at around 10:40pm, sent a quick text to Cody, and went inside to get my stuff and tell my mom about my day. It was my usual routine, so I grabbed my makeup, hair products, pajamas, and a few outfits. I always tended to overpack, so it all went into a suitcase. After a year of dating and sleepovers, Cody’s parents were definitely used to me hauling in my things. So, I updated my mom, said a quick goodbye, and as I headed out the door she said, “If he proposes, you better come back here and tell me.”

“We’ll see,” I yelled back at her as I shut the door.

When I pulled up to Cody’s house, I texted him that I finally arrived at around 11:45pm.  The moon was glaring through my ’77 Chevy C10’s windows and the air was cooling down. As I got out of my truck and went to grab my array of bags, David Tennant went off again.

Just come in the front door… don’t knock.

The text wasn’t usual. The whole thing wasn’t usual. So, I decided to leave my bags. Cody would’ve normally helped me with them, or he would’ve at least came out and opened the front door for me. Walking straight into the house though? That never happens. The door was always locked after 10pm. However, I continued my journey down the driveway and up to the front door where there was a note. Since this was a few years ago, I don’t remember the exact words, but I believe the note said to walk inside and follow the clues.

Inside the house, the lights were dimmed and there were red rose petals scattered on the floor. On the side table, next to their brown pleather couches, were more rose petals and another note. It read:

Danielle, if you’re a piranha. Then I’m a piranha.

The next note is where we baked our first batch of cookies together.

The saying was from Finding Nemo. Originally it was from the little girl in the dentists’ office, named Darla, who tried to shake Nemo awake (3). She was kind of a terror. Sitting in the dentists’ chair, she revealed her braces and said, “I’m a piranha.” Somehow, it evolved from there.

On the way to the next note, I avoided stepping on the rose petals on the destined path while I walked through the house. The next note was found on the kitchen table, also scattered with rose petals. This makes note number three over a span of maybe thirty feet from the front door to the back door. The clues were unneeded, but they were such a nice touch and the moment felt so surreal. My mom’s voice was running through my head, “If he proposes, come back and tell me.” Nevertheless, I continued to read the note:

I love you to the moon and back, now check the back door.

Quickly, I looked behind me. The back door was unlocked, but there was a note covering the peephole. This made note number four. Which simply said to open it and when I did, Cody quickly told me to shut it which caused my anxiety to act up. I started to get a little shaky, but I only waited a few minutes before I cracked the door a little and asked if he was alright.

“I’m fine, I’m ready, come on out babe,” he said.

I walked onto the back porch and there was a fire going with stuff for smores on a chair next to it. The air was only getting colder, so I was glad that I was wearing my letterman that night. Along with the fire, the smores, and the cool winter night, there was Cody. Kneeling on one knee in a suit holding open a silver box.

My hands flew quickly to my mouth. I was in complete shock. After all of the clues, I kind of knew what was coming. I had my mom’s voice in my head yet, I still couldn’t believe what was going on. My boyfriend, of a year almost on-the-dot, was kneeling in front of our favorite pastime; roasting marshmallows.

“Danielle Mahriahna-Skillings Johnson, will you marry me?”

Tears streamed down my face before I could even get the words out; this moment was so surreal. “Yes, oh my gosh, yes!” He stood up, put the ring on my finger, and it fit perfectly. I was seriously in-awe that he remembered my ring size; I couldn’t believe it. He wrapped me in his arms and I just continued to cry. After all the failed past relationships I went through in the past to get to this point; I was engaged, I was happy, and I was utterly in-shock.

It immediately hit me that I had to tell my mom. It couldn’t wait, and she wouldn’t have liked it if I waited until tomorrow. I had to tell her. So, I told Cody and he said that he already knew we would have to go over there. In fact, he planned to take me back home afterwards to tell her regardless.

So, we walked back in to the house and both of his parents were standing there in their pajamas with their chihuahua. They were in on the whole proposal the entire time.

“Welcome to the family! Even though you’re already like a daughter-in-law to us,” they said while hugging the both of us. I still couldn’t believe it. I was going to be an AllBee.

Flash Memoirs

Below are 10 six-word memoirs that I concocted:

  1. After learning how; she endlessly read.
  2. He proposed; she cried and accepted.
  3. Writing, like painting, is her art.
  4. Two weeks notice; she’s quitting again.
  5. By procrastinating, she fell behind homework-wise.
  6. Twenty-pound cats were her feet warmers.
  7. Fine arts are her biggest strengths.
  8. She collects records, Legos, and books.
  9. Over summer, she hopes to tan.
  10. Supernatural creates paranoid nightmares and illusions.

Writing as a Metaphor

Writing is an art. 208cf27b2e80467fb7fed0b834ee564f

As Lakoff and Johnson state in Metaphors We  Live By, life, in general, is a concept. It’s a concept that we cannot understand because it is not obvious (Lakoff). However, it’s up to us on how we choose to live that concept. Sure, it’s easy to dissect and evaluate your own life, but there always seems to be an underlying meaning behind it all. The simple four-word sentence I wrote above could be dissected in a number of ways, so here I am to do just that with help from the aforementioned book.

When anyone asks what I do, the first word that comes to mind is “writer.” Yet, it used to be “artist.” I often wonder why it can’t be both. Writing is an art. It’s a form of expression and it leads to a result you’re proud of; even though you’ll always be your worst critic. After all, writing is never perfect and neither is art.

secrets-of-short-story-writingIn Metaphors We Live By, they used the metaphor “argument is war” as an example. They said that if we were to change “war” to “dance” we would view arguments differently (Lakoff).  When I think about war, the first words that come to mind are strategies, defense techniques, artillery, military, treaties, and foreign countries (unless it’s a civil war). When I think about arguments, the first words to come to mind are defensive,  close-minded, social media, debating, and a resolution. By combining the two, it makes the word argument out to be this horrid thing when in fact, it can be eye-opening. However, would comparing an argument to a dance make arguing come off as any less evasive? Yes, yes it would, but would it make the statement about an argument being similar to war any less true? No, it would only lighten the load a little. paint-brushes-jar-over-wooden-aqua-blue-background-51063951

Well, let’s get back to the original metaphor at hand. “Writing is an art.” When we take the two contents of the metaphor; writing and art, what do you get?

Personally, when I think about writing, I think about pens, pencils, laptops, BlueTooth keyboards, and notebooks. Coincidentally, art involves most of those things too. When you write, the whole point is to put your voice on a page. When you draw you’re putting your personal view of things on a page. No artists are the same, they merely contain different mediums or styles, just like writers do. Except in the writing world, we call our styles our, well, styles and we call our mediums fonts.

Putting a pen to paper, a brush to a canvas, or your fingers on a keyboard are all similar. They all do one thing: express the style of the person behind it.

download (4)As a writer, I feel it’s important to consider writing as an art. It’s not just a task you set out to do just because you’re assigned a paper or have to write a resume for a job. Writing is another form of expressing yourself, as I stated several times above, therefore, it is an art regardless. While you read you can create your own versions of the stories you read in your head. You create the images, but the writer creates the imagery. The mind is such a crazy, imaginative, and wonderful thing and when you express yourself, it’s even better.

 

 

 

Reference

Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Univ. of Chicago Press, 2011.

15-20 Seconds of Creative Non-Fiction

As I laid my head down on the already fluffed pillow, I heard a small sound. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was or where it was coming from. It sounded almost in agony, yet it was so soft, so quiet; I didn’t realize it was coming from my own bedroom. Quickly, I threw my maroon comforter off of my recently cocooned body and I got up. My first instinct was to turn on the flashlight on my phone and check under the bed.

Around the light, it was pitch black,  and the chilling feeling of someone watching me crept over me. The darkness under my bed always creeped me out; I’ve seen too many horror movies. After too much overthinking, the hairs on my neck stood up; the noise was back. Except, this time, it was closer. I quickly scanned the room with my flashlight in hand and I saw it.

Or rather…  I saw her.

Underneath the dark wall of clothes that lined my closet, I shined my flashlight in her direction and her shiny blue-eyes looked up at me with exhaustion washed over her face. I walked over to her and saw that the blanket on the floor was spattered with blood. I quickly inspected the area around her and at a closer glance, I saw quite a few jellybean toes, along with ten unopened eyes, and five pink and black noses. My beautiful blue-eyed baby girl just gave birth to five squeaky little kittens.

Disclaimer: This is a creative non-fiction story about a 15-20 second moment in my life. I decided to write about this particular moment because it was the day my grandkitties were born (April 24, 2015). I kept two of the five and they’re pictured above.

Theodore Toe-fur Meowsevelt is the kitty on top. He almost died at six-months by eating a shoestring (you can read about it here: A Matter Of Four Days ). I’m so happy he made it through and he’s still my baby munchkin.

Patrick Meowsevelt, on the other hand, is still a chubby little man. He’s definitely grandpa’s cat, but he’s very particular and judgmental when it comes to who is in his house. They’re both such characters, and they’re little punks, but I love them unconditionally.

To read more on my boys and their mama, see the following:

Baby Blue Eyes

They Pounced

Theodore “Toefur” Meowsevelt: A Memoir From a Cat’s Perspective

Baby Blue Eyes

Baby blue eyes,

sitting on my lap,

how do you stay,

when I move my legs?

I’ll set you on the floor,

because my limbs fall asleep,

but you still come back.

Is it love?

Do you just,

want my chair?

Mama cat,

Oh,

Mama cat,

I don’t understand.

I’ll always appreciate,

your little claws.

Especially since this is,

a rare occurrence.

Or rather,

it used to be.

Do you miss my brother?

Is this just you,

being a sad little cat?

I know you hate,

your bratty kids.

I know you love,

to be squished and held.

But mama cat,

Oh,

Mama cat.

with your,

baby blue eyes,

what’s going on,

in that little head?

They Pounced

 

His brown hair flows,

in the subtle wind of the basement room fan.

His eyes set forward in a trance,

watching and waiting for his food.

Patiently,

 with his butt in the air,

he pulls his ears back,

and waits.

He waits for his prey to still,

before he can attack.

The creature watches as the human,

picks up the dish,

scoops out the pellets,

and puts the dish back.

His prey was ready.

The ritual was about to begin.

He looked over to his brother and nodded,

they were both ready for this exact moment.

The creatures weren’t sure,

when they were going to be fed again.

So, they pounced.

They pounced for the food,

that they weren’t going to ration,

because they didn’t know how.

All they knew,

was that they were hungry,

and there was food.

Right there,

in front of them.

They finished it off within minutes,

but their bellies were still growling,

like the beasts, they were.

The blobs of fur laid by the dish,

for what seemed like hours,

but it was only minutes.

They let out little sounds.

They yelled at the humans impatiently.

“Feed us!” they shouted.

But no one came.

Not for hours.

They were left in the basement.

Alone.

Minutes turned to hours.

Hours turned to days.

They were hungry,

and felt like they were withering away.

When finally,

the human came back.

“I just fed you five minutes ago,”

the human lied.

The human always lied.

We watched as they scooped,

they scooped the food up,

and set the bowl down.

The furry creatures put their,

butt in the air,

folded their ears,

and they pounced.

Dinner was finally served,

or was it second breakfast?

Theodore “Toefur” Meowsevelt: A Memoir From a Cat’s Perspective

It was a very long night when my momma, Lylah decided to give birth to 5 beautiful baby kittens. On April 24th, the girl human got home from work at almost 11 0’clock at night and my momma was settled into her little box in the back of the closet. Meowing. Groaning. Whining. By the time 1 o’clock arrived I was born alongside my brothers and sister. We were nameless at the time until the humans decided what our names would be but eventually I learned that my name would be Theodore Meowsevelt. I have long hair and apparently, I’m the worst behaved one.

When we were born we couldn’t really hear or see much but we still knew where our momma was. She was always with us. From the time we were born from the moment we started walking. Lylah was no ordinary mom. She loved us unconditionally and made sure we were groomed well and fed. Every time we tried to roll away from her she would pick us up by our scruffs and pull us down for a bath.

“No, mom! Stooppp! I wanna play with my siblings!”, I’d scream and protest while she continuously pulled me back from the spot I rolled to.

“Theodore Meowsevelt, get your tiny furry butt back here!”, she’d faintly scold at me while I proceeded to protest.

No matter how much I tried to roll, momma always got me. She wouldn’t let us go further than 6 inches away from her. How ridiculous is that? I mean, we were only a couple weeks old at the time, but I still wanted my freedom.

We later learned that our mother wasn’t just a mother. She was a smother. From the time we were born until we were a couple months old. Our momma was the cat version of Beverly Goldberg.

Sooner or later, our eyes and ears started to open more. I could see blurry little blobs I could only assume were my siblings and we could hear our mom a little bit more clearly. The latter part was not very fun to say the least, considering I was always in trouble. Momma seemed to only yell at me rather than the other four.

When our eyesight was no longer blurry I could finally make out what my siblings looked like. Alistair was the oldest by a couple of seconds. He had, what looked like white eyeliner around his eyes and he had long hair like me! Winston was a little gray tabby cat who looked just like our daddy, an outdoor alley cat named Oliver. Winston was so friendly and he had a twin sister named Daisy, who was the only girl of the group. Patrick, well Patrick kind of looked like a squishy ball of fur. He had short hair and we believe he was the baby because he’s clueless most of the time.

It wasn’t long after our eyes and ears opened until we started to learn how to walk. Walking.. Well. Walking was weird. One little paw in front of the other. My siblings and I took on a new task together. All of us stumbled, some of us made it a few inches, while others (mainly Patrick) decided to stay next to mom.

“Come on Patrick, let’s go explore the world!” we would try and protest with him.

“Guys, I’m so comfortable. I don’t wanna leave mom.”, he’d say while proceeding to get groomed, yet again, by momma.

Patrick would not budge. He was just a squishy ball of laziness. So, we just left him to his naps and over-bathing tendencies.

A couple weeks went by before we learned how to jump. We were on the girl humans bed when we were only a couple months old! It was so high up there. Sometimes we would just sleep up there and take up the girl humans leg room. It was fun and sooo much more comfortable than the floor my momma had us sleep on.

At 6 months old, my siblings started to disappear! It was the craziest thing.

A Matter Of Four Days 

Hello World of WordPress.

As any of you may know, I have three cats, two are kitties, the other is the mama. Well, my little man Theodore decided he wasn’t going to feel well when I got off of work on Friday (08/28/15). I mistook him acting weird as a sign of a belly ache (kittens get those sometimes) and went ahead with my plans to sleep at my fiancé’s parents house (we still live with our parents so we move back and forth). Well. Saturday comes around and we go check on the furbabies.

Let me tell y’all, Theodore Meowsevelt looked so horrible. He was so lethargic, not eating or drinking and he just kept vomiting. Everywhere.

Poor thing.


Needless to say we stayed with him and attempted to nurse him back to hydration but he just wouldn’t do it. My fuzzy monster was not acting like himself at all.

We called the emergency vet and they said to try everything that was on the Internet (flavored water, tuna, wet food) and we tried. He wouldn’t drink. He wouldn’t eat. He didn’t even sleep with us. He just stayed by the door while his brother Patrick groomed him and napped with him.

(Theodore is on the left, Patrick is on the right.)

Around Sunday night my boy started drinking the tuna flavored water and he even went to the bathroom! Things were slowly starting to look up, but he still wouldn’t eat or play around; then the baby decided to spit up a hairball and eat it! Nasty boy. We figured that would be the problem right then, so we decided to take him in.

Monday morning we took him in to the vet with a “walk-in” appointment ($33). The first step was to weigh him, he was a whopping 4.9 pounds. Then they took his temperature before the vet came in. Well, as any pet owner knows, they put the thermometer in his butt and he started PURRING. Oh my gosh, the nurse was laughing and Cody and I couldn’t help ourselves because we always call him gay for sleeping with his brother (we’re not against gays or anything before any of y’all start hating). His temperature was 100.3.

(Patrick is on the left and Theodore is on the right.)

The vet came in and felt around his tummy. He said there was a hard mass about 2×2 in width and about 4 inches in length (which was the size of the hairball he spit up).

Well, the vet gave us three options.
1) go with the laxatives
2) do barium tests
3) the exploratory surgery

The only logical thing to do was the surgery. So we signed up for a CareCredit card and admitted him.

We left him in the vets hands and went back home.

A couple hours later the nurse calls with a bad ultimatum, she said that we could either pay more to get him fixed or put him down. We chose the first option even with the 50/50 mortality rate, because that’s my little man and I couldn’t lose him.

I checked my phone every hour, hoping to not get the bad call.

One hour went by..

Two hours…

Three..

Then they called.

Theodore was out of surgery and sleepy, they said we had to keep him overnight to make sure he goes potty and is still healthy.

I still waited for that call that something was wrong or that we could get him.

Well, hours went by until I could fall asleep.

wpid-20150927_234727_hdr4.jpgThe next day, we called and they said Theodore was awake and healthy! I could go get my boy at 3pm!

3pm came and sure enough Theo was acting like himself, he was up and bumping against the little carrier for attention. My little man was back to being himself.

We took him home and he ate more than what the vet thought he would and he slept with me for a couple of hours until Cody got home.

Today he’s just as hyper with a little bit more weight on him and he’s a happy growing grandkitten!