FRANKENFRANC (No aminals were harmed in the creation of this blog)

A funnier person than I might not have put off writing this story, because a funnier person would have an easier time making it funny. A less procrastinating person than I might have asked a funnier person to guest-write this story a long time ago, because a less procrastinating person would have meant it when they said this post was "coming soon."

This is my very bad kitten Franc, starring as Frankenfranc, the villain of our story. And yes, those are staples in his stomach. And no, there was not animal cruelty involved in the creation of this photo. He was purring the whole time, I promise, because that's the kind of villain he is. I hope there was no cruelty involved in the stapling of his belly, because the Lord and the vet know how much his anaesthesia and pain pills cost.

If you are a cat hater, you will love the story of Frankenfranc, and if you are a cat lover, Franc is happy to accept your total adoration in the forms of food and cat nip. And if you have an easy gag reflex, you should maybe carry on with your day elsewhere, and be very thankful that you weren't at my house Tuesday morning.

It was Monday when Abe and I noticed that our 9 month old Franc was mouthing off. He was making strange with his mouth, opening and closing it a lot, and sticking out his tongue (yes, you should have been there). Before I left for work, I noticed two spots of white foam on the carpet. It wasn't long before there were white foam spots all over the apartment. We wished and hoped he was working on a hairball, and I went to work. Abe called me halfway through my shift, and said "I know why Franc is throwing up!" And I said, "Why?!" And he said that he had found a rubber band in his vomit. (Aside: I think that vomit is a very disgusting word, so I'll try to call it "throw-up" for the rest of the story. Which will make all my sentences redundant, but possibly less gross.) I felt relieved and guilty that I had laughed off the warnings I read about mixing your cats with rubber bands. My cats were clever. And they play so nicely together with the rubber bands! My cats are above those things.

Oh, no. No, they are not. It was just a tiny taste of the negligence I would feel when we took Franc to the vet the next morning. After throwing up the rubber band, Franc continued to throw up. And throw up more. And throw up liquid-er, and yellower. He hadn't used the litter box or had anything to eat or drink in almost 24 hours, so at 5 am my husband tempted him with a can of Fancy Feast roast beast. Franc finally ate a little, we went back to sleep, and then Franc threw up all over the bathroom. I heard him, and went in, and found not one or two or three or four or five or six or seven or eight, but nine earplugs in the middle of his vomit (there's that word again. Sorry, I know I promised) all over the bathroom floor. And half of another rubber band. We called the vet, who of course wanted to see him right away (I thought probably just to laugh at us, or maybe to alert the Humane Society to tell them we are unfit to raise kittens). They took x-rays, one of which will someday be featured as a lamp shade in our apartment, if Abe has anything to do with it, because he charmed the lady vet into letting him take one home for keeps, and in the x-rays there was a tiny round gray thing in what we were told was Franc's small intestine. It was a tiny, round, earplug-shaped gray thing, that was doing exactly what an earplug should : plugging... the entrance to his intestine from his stomach. There was also something spotted in his stomach. A lady bug? A leopard? My red and white polka dot blouse? It could have been anything. So the vet kept our little Franc, who seemed a little uncomfortable, but not nearly as concerned as the vet, or his parents (negligent as we are), cut him open, removed what didn't belong, and stapled him back up. He's done with his meds now, which were scheduled for such awkward times that one day (known forever as 'Bring Your Fatty to Work' Day at Florence Crittenton), he came to work with me, charmed all the ladies, and tried to escape by jumping over the counter that is my desk. Like Zorro. So in the end Frankenfranc is fine, really, and completely non compliant with the vet's orders to avoid strenuous activity. They'll take his staples out on Monday.

Now he's on a special kitty diet of food for the gastro-intestinally impaired, which he is not remotely interested in, but which Kina (his kitten sister) seems to love. The weirdest thing I learned through all this (besides the obvious: that my cat, who can hardly open his mouth as wide as an earplug, is well and capable of eating ten at once) is that cats take Pepcid AC for heartburn just like you. They should put that in their commercials. And in the cat's version of Us magazine: "Cats - they're just like us! They want to nap! They lose their hair! They eat and play! They take their Pepcid!" "They get their over the counter medication at Harris Teeter!" At least Abe bought Franc's at the Harris Teeter. Kitties just take tiny, tiny bits, though, so if you need some relief from painful heartburn, we have plenty left over.

Frankenfranc is now sleeping on my delete button, which is making it slow to type. So I'm almost done here, except for a short explanation of why we had so many dog-gone earplugs at our house in the first place. Our little Kina, the girl cat, is especially bright, and she is in love with playing earplug fetch. She really will chase them, bring them right back, and drop them right in your hand. As a treat one day, Abe brought an actual pound of them (which is a lot; they are foam earplugs) home from work, where he's supposed to wear them to protect his hearing from the constant nosie of jet engines. Franc has always been ambivalent about them; he tried to pick one up in his mouth once, but he didn't seem to care for it. He spat it out and made a face like "that's not food. What's the point of that?" That, of course, turned out to be NOT HIS TRUE FEELING, since a few weeks later he turned around and ate 10 of them.

So what have we learned? You can never trust a Frankenfranc.