Drinking Beer on Antibiotics

My shirt is ripped and bloodstained.  Our office looks like a crime scene.

A couple weeks back we saw a sick-looking cat (please understand I am not using slang of any kind here)  and decided to save it, if we could.  We took this leaky-eyed, scrawny, clotted-fur cat home, fed and watered her (she wanted that food and water, desperately) and took her to the vet.  We named her Tinkerbell (as in "clap your hands if you want her to live").  The next day we took her to the Vet, and found that Tink has FIV, a fatal disease.  We did some research and found that cats can live with FIV for years, and that they're unlikely to transfer the disease to another cat (only cats can get it) unless one of the cats bites the other.

We decided to keep Tink in our office  and keep her separate from Mr. Two, our cat.  Miss Tink responded well to food and love, and slowly became a healthier, comfortable cat; eyedrops and medicine gradually changed her from Zombie Stray to Actual Housecat.  She proved to be sweet and gentle, with a pleading stare that compelled me to give her treats.  Meanwhile we kept her presence a deep dark secret from Mr. Two.  We joked about the Jane Eyre/Lost-ness of the situation; Madwoman in the Attic, The Others.

Today I strolled into her room to do some trivial thing or other, when I heard a banshee yowl.  Mr. Two had discovered the horrifying truth about why we were keeping him out of the office.  Mr. Two (understand: a sweet, gentle, affectionate cat, but unneutered and hormone-soaked) attacked.  I lept into the fray like a class-A dumbass who loves cats more than is reasonable.  CHOMP!

The big questions: had Mr. Two partaken of Miss Tink's infected blood?  Could I get Mr. Two's fangs out of my arm (apparent answer: not anytime soon)?  Would Mr. Two rip my whole forearm off?  Where did Tink just go?

I got Two off me and trapped him in the bedroom.  Blood all over the house; all mine, I hoped.  Blood pulsing from holes in my arm.  I grabbed the cheapest-looking towel from the bathroom closet and covered my wounds, then spent the next few minutes looking for Tink.  I began to seriously believe that Mr. Two had SWALLOWED HER WHOLE.

Anyway, Tink is now boarded at the Vet, Two still has blood matting his fur, and it appears the only broken skin belonged to me.

What are we gonna do with Tink?  We thought we could give her a safer, more comfortable environment than the street, but apparently not.  And who else can take her?  No one wants a sick cat.  Poor Tink did nothing to deserve this suffering.  Maybe the kindest option we have is to let her suffering end.

I'm angry at our cat, but what's the good of that?  He was just acting on instinct, thinking his territory was imperiled.  I'm mad at myself for allowing Two to get past my scrutiny, but if I was gonna flush screwing-up out of my system one would think I'd have managed by this stage of my life.  I'm mad at God Almighty for letting innocent living creatures suffer like Tink does, but God Almighty only exists so we can claim He has a reason for everything that happens.  That Bastard better have some good reasons, is all I can say.

Happy Thanksgiving!