Parish goes mad, elects Saint Pat

Yes, gentle readers. That was the other thing going on while Saint Pat was discovering the big "D." Saint Pat got elected to the vestry at her church.

There was a whole new slate of us, just about, so it wasn't too hard. A couple of people nominated me, and there was no opposition. It ain't easy getting people to run for vestry, I figure.

It will be interesting. I believe we have a good vestry. We'll have to be able to work together to bring our parish through these trying times. Like just about every parish, we're struggling with dwindling finances and other assorted problems.

Our former rector asked me about running for the vestry a few years ago, but experiences at my former parish were still too fresh in my mind. I ran screaming.

Now, well, fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

I'm praying I'll be a blessing to the parish I've grown to love so much.

Nose-to-nose with the big "D"

Elvis the cat isn't the only one in the Saintly household facing a change.

St. Pat has the big "D" -- diabetes. She's doing the finger prick and glucose check every morning, and taking medication.

It's the type 2 diabetes that can be controlled largely through diet and exercise, and losing weight, which I'm doing.

I'm guessing I've had it for a few years. I hadn't had a real physical in a good dozen years.

Something hadn't been right with me for a while, and it was getting worse. That virus that was going may have spiked it up -- I was sick from the middle of November until after the first of the year.

The doctor sent me off to a lab for some tests, and her office called me a few days after I got them. I was to go get another blood test right away. A follow-up doctor's appointment was already scheduled for me. There was no "Will this date work for you." Just "Get in here."

So, there I was, and here I am.

It could have been the big "C" or something I couldn't do anything about. I can do something about this. It's God's way of dealing with me.

You see, I had been praying for God to help me in my struggle to lose weight and get healthier. I believe this was his wake-up call, to spur me into action.

My blood sugar has been dropping steadily the past 10 days, though it's not quite yet to where it should be. Patience. I'm losing weight and working myself back into regular exercise.

And working to remember to take the medication. That's the hard part - I'm not used to taking prescriptions, just a vitamin when I think of it. But I have to be on a regular schedule with medications and foods.

I was in a Catch-22 -- the more fatigued you feel, the less you want to exercise, and the less you exercise, the more fatigued you become.

Extreme fatigue is one of the symptoms of diabetes.

The diet hasn't been bad. It's a healthy one -- leaner proteins, lots of healthy vegetables -- complex carbohydrates -- and simple ones here and there. I'm dropping weight.

No, Padre Mickey!!! I'm not going to start eating a steady diet of steak tartare! I don't care if raw meat cured Sra. Chompita's metabolic problems!!

I've been curing my chocoholic tendencies by eating a piece of sugar-free dark chocolate now and then, and sometimes, sugar-free chocolate ice cream for dessert.

And I feel a lot better than I have in a good while.

Thank you, Lord, for not putting me in the belly of a whale.

Thank you for looking after me, and getting me to the doctor, even when I didn't want to go. Thank you for the medical advances that are helping me and so many others.

Thank you for getting me on the road to better health.

Cat speaks out about inhumane treatment

It's a new year, and a lot new is going on. First, though, an update from last year. Elvis (see black-and-white cat in previous post's photo) has a grievance to air.

Elvis speaks

I want to tell the world of the indignity inflicted on me and my comrade Jack these past few months.

Now, I know I'm a bit on the portly side, but that's as it should be, for a cat of my stature.

The indignity began when the Saintly One got some wild idea about taking me to the vet, and put me in a defective cat-carrier for transport. As she lifted the carrier to put me in the car, it just fell apart. It was none of my doing. It was clearly defective workmanship in these newer, more cheaply made carriers that just snap together. It was workmanship, not my weight that was the problem.

Anyway, the carrier split apart, and I came tumbling out. The Saintly One quickly grabbed me and put me back in the horrid thing. She drove to the vet's office, where she carried it and me in, holding the carrier in her arms, instead of grasping its handle.

The vet's staff seemed to think that was pretty amusing. Then they weighed me, all glorious 24 pounds of me, and shock spread over their faces.

The vet took on a stern tone and said I simply must lose weight. Humph. The vet used no tact or sensitivity to my feelings. She sold the Saintly One some simply ghastly raw, frozen food for me and Jack to eat.

Oh, it was horrible. Jack and I both curled our lips at this stuff, which was billed as being like what cats in the wild would eat. Yucchhh. We are sophisticated housecats, thank you very much, not some kind of barbarians! We wouldn't even eat it when she cooked it for us.

We planned our strategies. We refused to eat the stuff, no, not even any kibble that brushed past it. Jack was most adamant about it, and lost a noticeable amount of weight. I timed it so I could steal food out of the dog's dish. Despite my efforts, I lost some weight.

Finally, the Saintly One gave up on the vet's stuff, either raw or cooked. She cooked it and fed it to the dog, Betsy, who refused to act in solidarity with us, and ate it like it was good. Paugh.

I eagerly looked forward to the return of our regular rations, but they remained small. My heart soared when the Saintly One came in with some canned cat food, but alas, she added only little bits of that to our diet.

Betsy caught on to my pilfering out of her dish, and guards it vigilantly now.

I've had no chance. I've lost some of my glorious girth.

Oh, I've worked hard to save it. For example, I stomp up and down the length of the Saintly One while she lies sleeping, in a vain attempt to get her to get up and add food to my dish. She just knocks me away.

I eat my canned food quickly and go for Jack's, but I'm not always successful at getting it. Then, I eat the dry food.

I beg and beg, but my normal rations have not been restored. I'm just a shadow of my former self.

Is this any way to treat a dignified, 10-year-old cat? I ask you.

I'm calling on all cats to support me. Start sending cards and letters to the Saintly One, demanding this inhumane treatment stop now.

NOW!