Sir Archibald Taiga's Terrible Ordeal

I am home after a night in the hospital, mes amis, if that horror of steel bars, glaring lights, and plastic tubes can be called by that name. It was a night that left me yearning for the familiar flatlands of boredom and ennui. What I have been through surpasses the labors of Leopold Bloom and is best not described in too much detail. Suffice it to say I have been poked, injected, palpated, inspected, and invaded. My bowels have been thoroughly evacuated, and I was grossly handled by complete strangers in ways that were a violation of my person and an offense to my dignity. Were it not for drugs that left me momentarily senseless, speechless, and stranded in Xanadu, I might have been forced to take violent action to rip my being from the clutches of a team of white-coated maniacs.

My human companion, who was having one of the worst days in her life anyway and had been sobbing and gripped by emotional paralysis, at first mistook my condition for an attack of common constipation. I assure you, there was nothing common in my condition. Soon she was drawn right out of her grief by the realization that I was about to die. Contrary to a myth circulating among idiotic and gullible humans, we cats do not have nine lives. Like everyone else, we have only one, and that one can be wrenched from us in a heartbeat. I was seized by hideous contractions so painful that after I vomited in five different places I was rendered helpless, lying on my side, panting, lolling my tongue and rolling my eyes. I know all of this only because once I began to be snatched back from the maw of death, I heard her description to the head of the team of white-coats.

I heard them tell her, "He might not make it through the night," and that galvanized my intention to survive. I am not ready to leave this world of crows out the window and raindrops on the glass, of the Goldberg Variations played intelligently and amusingly on the sound box by a grunting Glenn Gould while afternoon light slants over the branches of the Oregon Plane trees. This may be a small kingdom, but it is mine, and I mean to reign for a while yet to come. Long live the king. C'est moi!

Should you find this black and white portrait unnervingly shell-shocked, you can find a much more attractive color portrait that brings out the lovely greens and golds in my eyes here. Mon cherie Sallie, although you have fallen silent for the nonce, you are still in my heart. This one's for you.

P.S. A message from Kendall. I have learned much in the last twenty four hours. First, I know now that messages of condolence and sympathy do ease a heart stunned by loss. I have been known, in years past, to stand in respectful silence with one who has lost a loved one, because I felt I could not say anything to ease the pain. I am corrected. Words do help. Sobbing helps, yielding to the grief helps, acknowledging the pain and receiving the blessings of others does help. Thank you.

Funny coincidence. It was Taiga this day last year as well.