I've written about my two ginger-colored cats that we adopted at the same time, but I didn't elaborate on the medical baggage that Tootsie came with. Along with an ID chip in her shoulder and a mandatory spay, she arrived at our house with a health record that rivaled an orca at Sea World. Mind you this little girl was barely 5 months old, and she already had been dosed with a series of antibiotics that were supposed to cure a bout of upper respiratory disease.
The shelter caretaker swore that since she's been exposed to this virus, she won't get it again. Once is more than enough, I figure, judging by her med chart. The little boy, Toodles, has had the infection already, according to Madame Caretaker, so he receives the all-clear signal. Later, when I take both the kitties to my vet, Dr. B gives me the bare-bones lowdown on Tootsie.He sends out some blood that the lab tests for about 100 different viruses. The results? Tootsie has not just one but two different viruses--one that sounds a lot like myopia, but I know that can't be right since she doesn't squint.
Dr. B gives me some antibiotics and is upbeat about the treatment, but about two weeks later, and 28 squirts of antibiotic in Tootsie's uncooperative mouth, I find out that some viruses can become chronic. That means they don't really go away, but lie in wait for just the right time to flare up, say a car trip to Colorado when she has to bunk with her "brother."
"But it doesn't really bother them," says Dr. B. "All that sneezing and frantic head movement is just for show."
Oh sure, I think. Why is this vet trying to cheer me up? It must have something to do with the bill."I don't think she's faking," I whine. "You should see her when she really gets going. She looks like she's whiplashing in one of those bumper cars you see at amusement parks. She throws her head around like it's an AK-47 and I don't get the feeling she's having fun."
Dr. B gives me a dog biscuit (I have no idea why but I think he's zoning out on me) and kicks me out the door with one last helpful hint: Just remember, she's a cat with a maximum 2-second attention span. She'll forget about the sneezeathon before you can pop the lid on her next tuna souffle.
So I try. Real hard. To not feel sorry for her. But I'm a sucker for animals, and I really look at their faces and imagine what's going on behind them. For instance, when I eyeball Toodles, Tootsie's adopted brother, I can tell that this long and lanky cat thinks he's a chihuahua. Behind those burnt-yellow eyes is a sneaky little guy in perpetual motion. He swats his paw at every member of the family, but his secret to staying alive amidst a menagerie of six schnauzers is his fast reaction time:
Schnauzer #1: Did he do what I think he did?
Schnauzer #2: Oh yeah, he laid one on you and you didn't say boo.
Schnauzer #1: Well, who says you can do any better? Last week, I saw him push your beard into the water bowl.
Schnauzer #2: Sez who?
I know this kind of doggie dialogue goes on and on if I don't bark at them to cut it out. The saving grace is the six of them never gang up on Tootsie, and I know why. Behind those greenish eyes and come-hither purr is a little girl who figures as long as she has a chronic upper respiratory illness, she's going to make the most out of it. She can go for weeks without a sneeze but then something floats in from the Great Oudoors--maybe it's a laundry scent or an orange blossom, or even a toy dragged in by one of the dogs--and she appears to be heading for a new record in hacking--stuffy nose breathing, violent head thrusts AND nasal detritus. Yup, Tootsie can produce big beautiful boogers, and I'm proud to say that sizewise hers are almost as big as mine. And, by golly, she disposes of them just the way I used to when I was her age: she eats them.
I know, I know, it sounds disgusting, like something you'd see on Nickelodeon or the Playboy channel, but if you got lemons, you make lemonade, right? So if you got boogers, well we all know what to do with them, don't we? 
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