Bob Barker Would Be Proud

We got a kitten last year. The mother cat’s family said they called the little girl “Squeaks” because she always squeaked for her mommy to come back to the basket.

We took the kitten to the vet for a check up and found out surprising news. She was a he. To remind ourselves of the sudden sex change, we took to calling him “Mr. Squeakers.” We even painted it above his little cat house.* (Can I say that I’m cracking up at the thought of someone doing a blog search on “sex change” and being directed here?!)

Unfortunately, at least in his point of view, Mr. Squeakers reached the age of tom cat maturity. We took him in this week to be neutered. Now we’re thinking of dropping the “Mr.” from his name.

It’s been a medical week, come to think of it. I finally did something I’ve been putting off for almost a year. Called our friend, a naturopathic doctor, and set up an appointment to figure out what Joshua is allergic to.

About, oh, fifty times a day he complains of his stomach hurting. I’ve been dreading this because my awesomely cool cousin, Cody, has celiac disease and can’t have any gluten or… you guessed it, his stomach kills him. I like my junk food, my quick carbo-heavy dinners. What will I do? I’ve been down this route before, but only for about a year, with Andrea. We had to remove all corn from her diet. Sounds easy, but did you know that the inside of food boxes are coated with corn oil? That practically any food that is powdery contains corn starch? And anything runny has corn syrup? Even flash frozen chicken or added Vitamin C has traces of corn. Praise God, she outgrew that one quickly!

The easiest way to determine allergens is with a blood test. Joshua is five. Those two thoughts did not meld very easily in my mind. You will think I am exaggerating now, but I promise I speak only truth: Joshua loved having his blood drawn.

When he was two, we went to the doctor for routine vaccinations. He told the receptionist, the nurse, and the doctor, “I gonna get shot.” He calmly watched them put the needle in. As the nurse applied the character-laden Bandaid, he said, “I got shot!”

When he was five, he needed four vaccinations in one visit to be ready for Kindergarten. The doctor–a beginning practitioner who hopefully has learned better by now–actually asked him if he was ready for the shots as she had them all laid out on the tray. But my boy wasn’t the least bit put off. “Yes,” he said. She gave the shot. Then asked him the same question! He said yes again. One more time, they shared identical dialogue. Before the fourth shot, she says–and I am not making this up!–“Now this one’s going to sting.” The only experience Joshua had ever had with that word involved a wasp and a very long pointy part protruding from its rear end. He began to fuss and I had to hold him down. As I buckled him into his car seat, he swiped at his tears and said, in an angry tone of voice, “She lied! It didn’t even hurt!”

I shouldn’t have been surprised at the blood draw, but I still was. He stuck his arm out, laughingly asked why his hand was shaking, looked away for the millisecond the needle went in, and then watched the rest with fascination. No big deal.

*My husband whipped that cat house together, making the door too small for the dogs’ heads and adding a hinged top for easy access to his food dish.