Treats and Cats

And last night, another one. Delerium -- Del -- was closer this time, and Dream was farther. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but I could hear him perfectly clear.
I will continue, later.

We're still giving Tuesday her prednisone and terbutaline, morning and night. We were wrapping the tablets in the Pill Pockets, cat version salmon flavor. But for some reason she has turned away from those. She prefers the dog version beef flavor. When I give Ralph aspirin, tucked into the dog version, Tuesday comes running and begs. In fact, all the cats do. It must be the beef and vegetable taste. Cats crave meat more than dogs, I think, because cats are obilgate carnivores (although I hear you can actually feed a cat a vegan diet so long as it is very powerfully nutritous or something like that; I say it's just easier to feed the cat meat). So I think these dog treats, which contain more meat, must call to a basic nutritional instinct in Tuesday. In any case, she's eating her hidden pills, which makes me happy because Adam won't need to trap her and force them down her throat again and suffer bite wounds and claw marks.
We have an appointment this Saturday at noon, to take her to the vet's for her first anti-allergy injection, which means we can stop giving her pills anyway (I will keep the pills just in case).
So if you have a cat who needs to take pills and you value your skin, I suggest Pill Pockets. They cause much less bleeding in humans. Trust me.

Treats and Cats

And last night, another one. Delerium -- Del -- was closer this time, and Dream was farther. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but I could hear him perfectly clear.
I will continue, later.

We're still giving Tuesday her prednisone and terbutaline, morning and night. We were wrapping the tablets in the Pill Pockets, cat version salmon flavor. But for some reason she has turned away from those. She prefers the dog version beef flavor. When I give Ralph aspirin, tucked into the dog version, Tuesday comes running and begs. In fact, all the cats do. It must be the beef and vegetable taste. Cats crave meat more than dogs, I think, because cats are obilgate carnivores (although I hear you can actually feed a cat a vegan diet so long as it is very powerfully nutritous or something like that; I say it's just easier to feed the cat meat). So I think these dog treats, which contain more meat, must call to a basic nutritional instinct in Tuesday. In any case, she's eating her hidden pills, which makes me happy because Adam won't need to trap her and force them down her throat again and suffer bite wounds and claw marks.
We have an appointment this Saturday at noon, to take her to the vet's for her first anti-allergy injection, which means we can stop giving her pills anyway (I will keep the pills just in case).
So if you have a cat who needs to take pills and you value your skin, I suggest Pill Pockets. They cause much less bleeding in humans. Trust me.

Treats and Cats

And last night, another one. Delerium -- Del -- was closer this time, and Dream was farther. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but I could hear him perfectly clear.
I will continue, later.

We're still giving Tuesday her prednisone and terbutaline, morning and night. We were wrapping the tablets in the Pill Pockets, cat version salmon flavor. But for some reason she has turned away from those. She prefers the dog version beef flavor. When I give Ralph aspirin, tucked into the dog version, Tuesday comes running and begs. In fact, all the cats do. It must be the beef and vegetable taste. Cats crave meat more than dogs, I think, because cats are obilgate carnivores (although I hear you can actually feed a cat a vegan diet so long as it is very powerfully nutritous or something like that; I say it's just easier to feed the cat meat). So I think these dog treats, which contain more meat, must call to a basic nutritional instinct in Tuesday. In any case, she's eating her hidden pills, which makes me happy because Adam won't need to trap her and force them down her throat again and suffer bite wounds and claw marks.
We have an appointment this Saturday at noon, to take her to the vet's for her first anti-allergy injection, which means we can stop giving her pills anyway (I will keep the pills just in case).
So if you have a cat who needs to take pills and you value your skin, I suggest Pill Pockets. They cause much less bleeding in humans. Trust me.

Best. Poem. Ever.

I will be putting this in the info for womenofthemoon.

***
What Are Big Girls Made Of?
-Marge Piercy

The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.

She visited in '68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.

Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.

How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.

A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.

If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?

Best. Poem. Ever.

I will be putting this in the info for womenofthemoon.

***
What Are Big Girls Made Of?
-Marge Piercy

The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.

She visited in '68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.

Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.

How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.

A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.

If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?

Best. Poem. Ever.

I will be putting this in the info for womenofthemoon.

***
What Are Big Girls Made Of?
-Marge Piercy

The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh
of bone and sinew
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned
every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel,
her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed
in the dark red lipstick of desire.

She visited in '68 still wearing skirts
tight to the knees, dark red lipstick,
while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt,
lipstick pale as apricot milk,
hair loose as a horse's mane. Oh dear,
I thought in my superiority of the moment,
whatever has happened to poor Cecile?
She was out of fashion, out of the game,
disqualified, disdained, dis-
membered from the club of desire.

Look at pictures in French fashion
magazines of the 18th century:
century of the ultimate lady
fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet
each way, while the waist is pinched
and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out
offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper
never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache:
hair like a museum piece, daily
ornamented with ribbons, vases,
grottoes, mountains, frigates in full
sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy
of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes
that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape
rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh:
a woman made of pain.

How superior we are now: see the modern woman
thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning,
fits herself into machines of weights
and pulleys to heave and grunt,
an image in her mind she can never
approximate, a body of rosy
glass that never wrinkles,
never grows, never fades. She
sits at the table closing her eyes to food
hungry, always hungry:
a woman made of pain.

A cat or dog approaches another,
they sniff noses. They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick. They fall
in love as often as we do,
as passionately. But they fall
in love or lust with furry flesh,
not hoop skirts or push up bras
rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs
that poodles are clipped
to topiary hedges.

If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves
like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed
to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads?
Why should we want to scourge our softness
to straight lines like a Mondrian painting?
Why should we punish each other with scorn
as if to have a large ass
were worse than being greedy or mean?

When will women not be compelled
to view their bodies as science projects,
gardens to be weeded,
dogs to be trained?
When will a woman cease
to be made of pain?