Blue Eyes and a Hairy Chest

I would like to live my life without having absolutely anything to do with the government beyond being regularly bled for E-vat and income taxes that ultimately end up paying for some ugly politician's behemoth SUV and his retinue of beastly bodyguards and grasping mistresses, the yearly treks to the LTO to register my car, passport renewals, driver's license renewals (every driver has been required since the past few years to pee into a plastic cup to prevent junkies from being on the road, but only take a full turn around Quezon Circle and it's plain to see that everyone still drives like they're high), and shooting dirty looks at traffic aides and policemen convened at a hot spot in a patently obvious attempt to bushwhack motorists for bogus violations. Had to add the SSS to this unsavory list yesterday. The people at the office, who were more pained at the sight of me hobbling around for the past two months than I ever was, convinced me to make a claim for the ankle injury. Russell drew up my papers and submitted them on my behalf, then was told that I should personally appear to show the doctor the foot in question. I drove to the SSS along East Avenue yesterday at half past ten in the morning, had to drive around and around the tiny parking area allotted for members till noon before I could manage to grab a slot, and then after I had waited in a barely moving line for 15 minutes, I realized that I was in the wrong branch in the first place. I was supposed to be at SSS Cubao. Desperate call to the ever-reliable Jonny Tuazon, Carlos Superdrug's Man Friday. He drove for me so I wouldn't have to tear out my hair looking for a place to park. My encounter with Dra. SSS, annoyingly, took all of three minutes. She didn't even look at my blasted foot though I was prepared to unroll the bandage that would unleash the remains of the blotchy red convalescent tissues and the odor of a sockless afternoon in sneakers. She waved me off before I even warmed the seat next to her computer. I wouldn't be surprised if I find out next week that my claim's been denied. So much for the Amazing Race: SSS edition.

I had expected that errand to eat up the the whole afternoon, but seeing that it was only 3pm, I went to see a dear old friend at the hospital. The Makati Dog and Cat Hospital, to be exact, and the friend I went to visit was Sammy, our 9-year old Siamese who had fallen sick and disappeared from home two weeks ago. I went looking for him at the neighbor's house and found him at ten in the evening in terrible shape, drenched from the rain and looking like death. I wailed to my sister to drive us to the vet, and I sniffled all the way to Makati with the cat bundled up in my arms like a baby.
Sammy's first tests came out like a death sentence. Dehydration, anemia, kidney failure, liver failure. The vet said he could die any time during treatment. I never forget that Sammy is a cat, but to me he may as well be human, and that day when I was forced to prepare myself for what might be goodbye, I cried the most painful tears I've ever shed in years. Technically, he isn't my cat. He is my sister's. He was a gift from her in-laws, brought home in 1998 when he was a little slip of a kitten, and I remember that he was shy, and stuck his head in between the sofa cushions like an ostrich. I loved him from the moment I opened the basket he came in and he stared at me with his pretty jewel-blue eyes. I've always been the cat person in the family, so it was my lap that Sammy came to prefer to sit on, my bed that he liked to sleep in, and my closet that he napped in while I worked at my computer.
It was heartbreaking when I came to see him a few days after we had taken him to the vet. He was on dextrose because he hadn't eaten, he had a bad cold, was skin, fur and bones and was drooling. His eyes were no longer blue; they were the color of mud. The following Sunday we almost agreed to have him put to sleep, but when my mother and I saw him, neither of us could go through with it. He looked so happy to see us that it would have been cruel to say goodbye when he didn't look as if he wanted to. So we decided to wait another week. When I came to see him yesterday, the vet was all smiles. Sammy had finally begun to eat, and though he isn't in the clear yet, the cat sure was putting up a fight for his life. They brought him to me in one of the examination rooms, and I was so pleased to see that he was off the dextrose, no longer drooling, no longer sneezing, and his eyes were blue again, blue as on the day he came to live with us nine years ago. I picked him up and he was so light I was afraid I'd crush him. So I sat in a chair and he curled up in my lap, just like old times. We sat there for half an hour, me scratching his head, and he making up for the lost lap-time I hadn't been able to give since I moved out from home. Some people will think it excessive to treat pets almost as if they were human, but it makes perfect sense to me to make no distinction between friends with two legs and those with four.