Doctor Behnoodzadeh is a young doctor. I like him because he’s relaxed. He doesn’t scare his patients into unnecessary procedures or medicines. He has a great bedside manner and is very efficient as well as competent. Oh who am I kidding, I just wanted some Ambien. So that’s enough about him.
The flight to South Africa was broken up into two 11+ hour stints. One from Los Angeles to Paris, then next from Paris to Mauritius--an island off the cost of Africa in the Indian Ocean. The plan was to stay awake for the first flight and sleep through the second. Since neither my would-be-bride nor myself excel at sleeping near strangers in cramped quarters, we were advised that a sleeping pill would help. Ambien being the drug of choice, I asked the good doctor what his thoughts were.
“You want some Ambien, sure.”
Easy.
“Any shots I should take?”
“Check with the CDC. I think you’ll be fine.” I shoved the Ambien prescription into my back pocket and started walking home.
I had found, over the years that two healthier-than-drinking-at-lunch tricks helped me stay sane at my job. The first was playing music in the evenings and the second was walking to and from work. The 3 miles usually takes 45-55 minutes depending on how adventurous I get with the route. That’s enough time to fully digest an album and some bonus tracks. At the time, I was deep into Joe Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen. A magical live recording at the energetic peak of the white Ray Charles’ career, it was the raw live answer to the digital bullshit I’d been surrounded with. I was walking in LA. I had nowhere else to be. I had just stopped by the pharmacy in the Grocery store, picked up my Ambien ‘friends’ and was on the way home when I got the call. Frantic fiance on the phone:
“Hey love?”
“Yes?”
“Kobe’s sick.” That’s the cat.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I took him to the vet because he was doing this weird crouching thing and he was dripping urine in weird spots around the house. They thought he was blocked and they tried a catheter but they can’t get the catheter in.”
“How’s that possible?”
“He needs surgery.”
Of course he does, I think to myself. I’m coming off sick leave pay and 10 days of unpaid suspension. We’ve got wedding expenses and a scheduled honeymoon. We have plenty of money for Operation Cat Operation.
“Come pick me up.”
The green Beetle swooped by and grabbed me in front of LACMA and I held the crying Kobe on my lap all the way to the west side. I told him, not really knowing, that everything was going to be fine. I swear he looked at me and questioned my credentials.
Once inside the Veterinary Hospital, they quickly took Kobe into the examination room and we tried to make light of the situation by joking around. It’s what we do. We joke, mostly. I sometimes think I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. Even so, it’s hard to be merry when there are sick animals all around you. Any and all attempts at humor come to an abrupt halt when they ask you what level of resuscitation you want to go with.
“Huh?”
“Well basically there are three levels of resuscitation, and three associated costs. The first level is your basic CPR where we try and resuscitate using the traditional cardiopulmonary methods. In the most extreme level we open up the rib cage and attempt to hand-massage the heart back to it’s blood-pumping self.”
Oddly enough, I don’t remember what Combo plate number 2 was, but that’s the one we chose. Fortunately, we wouldn't need it.
The doctor came back into the waiting room and delivered a line neither of us will ever forget. “Well. He’s special.” Read: expensive.
“How so?”
“Basically, his penis is scabbed over.” I feel my own testicles recoil up into my stomach a little. Yikes. “That’s why he’s having trouble urinating.”
“What could have caused that?” The fiancé probes.
“Well, we don’t usually see it in adult cats. It usually only occurs in a litter of confused kittens and it is usually the result of excessive suckling.”
“Whoa, what?” I instantly try to figure out in my mind if this scabbing is the result of self-imposed suckling or if the other cat, Tyson, had anything to do with this.
“Yeah, it is a bit strange. But you know how a cat’s tongue is coarse like sand paper?”
Testicles contract again.
“Yes...”
“Well, with enough suckling, that could cause the penis to scab over and close up.”
“Okay!” I jump up to shake my balls out from wherever it feels like they’re hiding and pace around the room a little. The doctor continues.
“I can build him a...kind of...vagina.”
“What?!?” Are you kidding me?
“I mean, it’s not that different. I would just slice open the penis and fold the two sides back and sew it that way. The urethra will be open and he’ll be able to urinate.”
It baffles me that doctor’s can talk this way. I once thought I could be a doctor. I really don’t think I have it in me though. I remember in this moment why I abandoned Pre-med Psychobiology--I can’t pretend, in moments like this, that I don’t have a dick of my own.
The operation goes off without a hitch and we return the next day to receive the good news. Instead of paying for a sex change, Kobe got a new three-thousand dollar penis. The doctor was able to perform some blah blah blah and well, I’d heard enough. We grabbed the antibiotics, the new-dicked, cone-headed wondercat and headed home. We needed a drink.
Funny thing about spending that kind of money on a cat, you feel much better about spending $60 bucks on Mexican food and margaritas. So after we got the cat home and sequestered him in our walk-in closet by blocking it off with a folding table, we carefully administered a pill of antibiotics and told the cat to chill. We then drove to El Compadre. You have to laugh at these things. So we did. A couple of Flaming Margaritas and marginally good mexican food later, we were ready to relax. We get back home and I reach for the second round of cat medicine. Hmmmm....where did I put those cats pills?
Funny thing I learned about cat antibiotics and Ambien: They look exactly the same.
FUCK!
I race upstairs to find that Cone-head has managed to leap, probably fly, over the folded table, make his way onto the bed and was writhing around between the pillows purring like an Apache helicopter.
“Oh shit!”
I look at his eyes. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t gaze into his eyes that often. Should they be mostly black? I need a comparison. Where’s the other cocksucker?
“Get Tyson!” I yell.
“Why?” Katie asks, handing me the black and white one.
I pick up both cats and take turns listening to their heartbeats. Since one was scared shitless and the other higher than James Brown, it was pretty hard to tell. I hold both cats to my ears at the same time, like some crazy homeless DJ. I pause. I listen. The second starts purring now and I think, “hmm, he might be fine.”
Knowing that most humans we know, averaging 150 pounds, take only half of an Ambien to fall asleep and that this cat, tipping the scales at 11 lbs., took a whole one, we decide, somewhat reluctantly, to head back to the Veterinary Hospital. To figuratively die of our own embarrassment is one thing, for the cat to literally do so as a result would have been something else.
Fortunately, the keepers of the kennel took mercy. “Oh, that’s nothing. Usually it’s intentional. Owners are like ‘one for me, and one for you!’ You guys are fine. He’s just high as a kite, so we’d like to observe him overnight, if that’s possible. We’re positive he’ll mellow out and finally get some sleep.”
Overnight. Right. Just....put it on our tab.
Those were some expensive margaritas.
Following ten days of emails, resumes, and hiking Runyon Canyon while listening to new music--I had come to a sobering conclusion. I had already been off work enough this year. I had collected more than my share of unearned income while rehabbing my shoulder. At this point, I wouldn’t be able to start a new job until after my return from Africa in June--over 6 more weeks. Too much time not working. I can’t do it. I wrote an impassioned e-mail and sent it to The Lady. I wrote my own obituary. I cited how much I would be missed, that I was a valuable employee and that I would be a safe bet going forward because I wouldn’t be taking any chances. She knew it was all true. She knew I was more of an asset then I was a liability. Lazarus had risen.
Cock Bombay feigned friendship in his legitimate astonishment. “I’ve talked to all other managers, none of them ever has seen anyone come back from the suspension. You’re like legend.”
I was back, yes, but under a final written warning. For one year I had to watch my every move and tell customers “no” more often then I liked to. But I kicked ass that year. So much so that I had earned, at the end of 2007, the honored distinction of going to the company’s Pinnacle Awards Weekend. The Pinnacle was reserved for the top 1% of sales people. This is an all-expenses-paid trip to a five star resort. I mean ALL EXPENSES. Drinks, food, skydiving, golf. I had earned it even in spite of shoulder surgery, suspension and the resultant missed three months of work. Then, The Lady told Cock Bombay and Cock Bombay told me: I couldn’t go because I was still on a final written warning.
Aw jeez.
