My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [89]
As for Maisy, our new doggie vet refers us to “the Mayo Clinic for pets” in the suburbs, where Maisy’s operated on by a board-certified surgeon and her follow-up chemotherapy will be taken care of by a canine oncologist.
Yes, canine oncologist.
Apparently they exist, too.
Maisy comes through her surgery like a champ. In the meantime, Chuck, Odin, and Angus171 finally get to come home.
One might think the kittens would show a little bit of appreciation for the people who wrote enormous checks on their behalf.
One would be wrong.
For the first few weeks, they actively hate us, and every time we go into their room, they cower and hide. At one point, Fletch asks me if someone couldn’t get sweet, socialized, nonferal kittens for twenty-five dollars at PAWS.
“Um, yeah,” I reply, “but only if they don’t like a challenge.”
We’re slowly winning them over, one can of kitten food at a time. Now their hissing and cowering is cursory at best.
Maisy’s in fabulous spirits, too, although I have to try to keep her from leaping, cavorting, and frolicking until her stitches come out. She acts like everything was like the season on Dallas that turned out to be Bobby’s bad dream.
As for me, yesterday was the first day in a couple of weeks that I didn’t have to spend hauling pets to specialty clinics or having panic attacks.
That was nice.
Which means now I can get back to the business of culturing up, a task made less easy by being stared at by seven and a half sets of eyes.
To: stacey_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: why you bring home tiny devils?
I’m in the process of rearranging the furniture in my office. As it’s my desire to jam every inch of living space full of as much furniture as humanly possible (at least according to Fletch) there are still some unhomed items floating around the middle of the room. Presently I have a rolling office chair pulled up to the front of my desk and Maisy’s climbed into it.
She’s sitting upright on her haunches and facing me.
We appear to be having a meeting.
I keep cracking up while I consider what we might need to meet about, e.g., “Items on Maisy’s Agenda.”
1. Why U No Give Maisy More Cookies?
2. Maisy Prefer Make Poops in Front Yard and Care Not If U Think It Kind of Ghetto.
3. Maisy Never Forget Time U Drop Pork Chop on Floor and Maisy Quicker Than U.
4. U Hurt Maisy Feelings When U Call Her “ArmpitBull.”
Maisy Not the One Too Lazy Give Baths and Maisy Tongue Only Capable of Clean So Much.
5. Maisy Beg to Differ—Guest DO Want Maisy Jump All Over Them.
Speaking of Maisy, she’s doing really well. Her stitches are healing up nicely and she’s in her usual high spirits. She was extra-snuggly the first night she came home, but outside of that, it’s business as usual.
Now what we need to work on is keeping her from sharting herself every time one of the Thundercats hisses. . . .
ALTGELDSHRUGGED TWITTER:
Watched Singing’ in the Rain today for the first time. Note to self: BUY TAP SHOES.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Either You’re In or You’re Out
Back in the dot-com era, the big thing for newly minted executives was to join superexclusive private clubs. Previously these clubs had been the bastion of old Chicago families and businesses.172 But because everyone was caught up in the glamour of the dot-com lifestyle, these staid old institutions began opening their doors to new members. In fact, they started bending their own rules about income and selection, offering specials to those of us in certain industries.
Fletch and I snapped up a membership at a club housed in the Sears Tower. Instead of making us pay something like five thousand dollars, they let us in for a discounted rate of five hundred dollars. Nothing made us happier than to put on our finest clothes and pop on down to the Tower for some drinks and a quick bite. Didn’t matter that we had to eat at the club because we were both a week away from payday and had no cash for groceries; we could just sign for everything and pay later.
Eventually the dot-com bubble burst, and we didn