I moved Bug back upstairs. The Polish contractors guys are here, but leaving soon since a lot of the stuff they did last night -- you know, about 9 hours ago -- is still wet. I'm not surprised. Bug saw them, her tail puffed up about the size of a Louisville Slugger (thanks to Sars of Tomato Nation for that image --it's damn accurate), and she scared the hell out of them by tearing all over the apartment looking for a hiding place. As my bed is propped up on its side against the wall, she's behind the couch. Poor beastie.

The Polish subcontractor guys were here til about 11 last night finishing up their work for the day. Bizarre. Now I have walls and a tile floor in the bathroom, and a solid ceiling in the kitchen, and soffits throughout the house, a non-cracking wall and ceiling (but no skylight) in the bedroom. that's very cool. Today and tomorrow and maybe Saturday they sand and prime and put the bathroom back together. By the time I get back from Galena, my house will most likely be my own again. Huzzah!

Yeah, I'm going to Galena for the long weekend. It's already paid for, and god knows I could use a break. A bunch of us are renting a house out where there are fields and hills and trees and boats and horsies (and golf courses, alas -- some people think that's a good thing), and we're bringing alcohol and blenders and trashy books and cards and such. Plus we'll have a hot tub there. It should be fun.

So I won't be updating over the weekend, most likely. Sorry, any adoring fans I have out there (Hello? Anyone?), sorry to disappoint you, but, um, get over it? I'm going on vacation (or holiday, as the Europeans style it).

Not that the house will be unprotected, I hasten to add. I have a grief-stricken, possibly mad cat here, and insane Polish contractors that could show up at any time and have strict instructions to kill anyone they find in the house who doesn't happen to live here -- and they've got power tools, my larcenous friends -- and a couple of feral Mormons in the basement who also are authorized to use all necessary force. Don't let the white shirts and nametags fool you. They're dangerous, I tell you. Dangerous!

So please don't rob me while I'm gone, I've had a crappy enough week as it is.

Thanks to everyone for their messages about Mongo -- I really appreciate it. If Mongo hadn't been such a wimpy cat, he'd appreciate it, too. But as so much concentrated attention, even in a good way, would probably probably scare the bejeezus out of him, imagine that he's thanking you from under that big old metaphysical bed in the sky.

Mongo died today. I scratched his ears as the vet injected a viscous pink fluid into his IV. It took less than a minute for him to die.

I adopted Mongo about six years ago from Tree House, a no-kill shelter near my apartment at the time. The staff and volunteers there knew all the cats well. They interviewed us to figure out what sort of cat would suit us, and would work well in our house. In a room full of cats running and leaping and vying for our attention, our counselor directed us to a 6-foot cat tree. In here, she said, was Little Bubba. He was a staff favorite -- affectionate, loving, cuddly and sweet. However, he kept getting passed over for adoption, because he was miserable and scared around the dozens -- hundreds -- of other cats in the shelter. We looked into the tube, and saw baleful yellow-green eyes, crooked ears, bristling black fur and, way at the other end, a twitching, fluffy black tail. He looked like a bruiser, a big tomcat bully. I was skeptical, but Tripp was charmed (at least a little by the name) and decided that Little Bubba would be his cat. I picked out a smaller, demure young tiger-striped cat to be my pet.

Shoshonna, my choice, was identified as shy and needing socialization before we could take her home. But Little Bubba would be ready to go immediately. The counselor pulled this huge black beast out of the cat tree. He's going to take over, I thought.

I quickly discovered how wrong I was. Little Bubba was petrified when we got him home, and immediately disappeared under the guest bed. I spent the first week lying on the floor with my arm under the dust ruffle, rubbing ears I couldn't see. He would come out hurriedly for meals, then disappear again. This cat was freaked.

Little Bubba didn't seem like an appropriate name any more, so we weighed alternatives. After a long debate, and a strong showing by "Ivan the Terrified," we decided to call him Mongo.

Mongo eventually came out from under the bed, and got used to seeing us around, even affectionate around us. (Shoshonna, now called Bug due to her penchant for chasing insects, was ready to own the place after about two hours. And she was supposed to be the shy one.) This was helped along by the discovery that he had bad ear mites, and needed medicine and an Elizabethan Collar, one of those horrible lampshade things you put around a pet's head to stop him from scratching at his face. Now, if he wanted to get under the bed, he had to back into it, so his collar would fit. Also, he discovered that we were good for something besides food: We would rub his ears for him, and thus calm the ear-mite itchiness. By the time the collar came off and the ear mites were gone, he had decided he'd keep us around.

Mongo had been a street cat for who knows how long -- we think he was six or seven years old when we adopted him. He had obviously had his share of street fights: His ears were crooked, notched and nearly hairless in back, and a smattering of small scars was scattered across his nose and face. When we adopted him he was 14.5 pounds and exceedingly hairy. He had a mane of hair and an extravagantly fluffy tail. At first we just left food out for the cats, refilling the bowl whenever it was empty. Mongo hadn't gotten over his street-cat roots yet, and could not pass the bowl without eating the food. I guess his thought process went something like this: "Look, food! I don't know when I'm gong to find food again, so I'd better eat it. Look, more food! Better eat it. Food again! Can't take any chances -- better eat it." Suddenly he was 17.5 pounds.

He was also the quintessential lap cat. He discovered that I was the more sedentary of the food-bringers, and claimed me for his own. He would pounce on my lap the moment it was formed, and crawl up on my chest or drape himself across my neck as I read or watch TV. He purred extravagantly, and head-butted me when he felt he deserved more attention or when my ear-rubbing slacked off. At night he slept curled around me head, purring me to sleep. We adored each other.

He didn't move much, but when he played, you could see his street-cat roots. He didn't bat around the fuzzy mice or poke at the Cat Dancer -- He annihilated them. Wham! that mouse was dinner, no question about it.

He wasn't necessarily the smartest cat. We moved twice, and both times he fought and cried as I put him in the carrier and took him away from his familiar surroundings. As soon as the hubbub had subsided, he'd come slinking out from his hiding place and fling himself into my lap, looking for comfort and refusing to let me go. "Thank go it's you!" he seemed to say. "There was this horrible person who looked just like you who took me away and there was all this noise, but now you're here I know I'm safe." And he settled down to purring again.

Tripp and I broke up, and it was obvious that Mongo was not his cat. Bug was likewise attached to Tripp, but less passionately, it seemed. So I kept the cats. They moved with me to my new house, settling in on the wide windowsills and cushy couch. Mongo still proclaimed himself my lap cat -- he'd get first dibs on the preferred position whenever I sat down. That tended to mean stretched out against my chest with his head under my chin or next to my ear, or draped across the arm of the sofa along my neck. I would read, and he would bask in the warmth of the reading lamp and purr.

He was getting old. His teeth were bad, and he had one big fang sticking out of his mouth. He started loosing weight -- a good thing, for a while -- and went down to about 10.8 pounds. The vet discovered he was hyperthyroid and put him a regimen of twice-daily pills -- medicine that mercifully came in a tuna-flavored package. He was old, but he could still fight.

He stopped purring a few days ago. He seemed distracted and skittish Saturday night. I woke up Sunday morning to find him staggering, unable to use his right side, He kept stumbling and falling, walking into things, and crying. Mongo never cried. He would only meow when I put him in his carrier or tackled a particularly knotty part of his thick fur. Something was seriously wrong.

I took him to the emergency vet clinic, where they discovered he had a very low temperature, enlarged kidneys, a bladder stone, and possible heart problems. Because of the right-side weakness, they thought it might be a stroke. Cats can recover pretty well from stroke, though, so there was a good chance he's be ok.

He wasn't. His temperature wouldn't rise, and he had to be nestled in hot water bottles. He dropped a pound in a week and a half. He still couldn't control his limbs, and would scrabble helplessly while trying to get away. He stopped purring, and looked at me and cried.

The vet called me after lunch today. He wasn't going to get better. So I went in, and rubbed his ears and stroked his paws and told him what a good cat he was, and how much I loved him. And I let the vet put him to sleep, and I was there when he died.

Goodbye, Mongo. I love you.

The cats were pretty freaked, so I decided to sleep upstairs last night. When I got out of bed, Mongo was stumbling around, falling over, walking himself into corners and bumping into things. I called the emergency vet, and they said to bring him in. So in we went.

They think he's had a stroke. Plus, his kidneys are enlarged, he has kidney and bladder stones, and his body temperature was way down. And he's lost almost a pound in the last week and a half.

He's still at the vet, on an IV and surrounded by hot water bottles to get his temperature back up. Apparently cats can recover from strokes pretty quickly and successfully, so we'll see what happens.

I know this is a weird situation: I'm going to be unemployed, and I don't have massive amounts of money to play with. And I'm socially conscious enough to know that for every pampered pet, there are people in this city starving to death, living on the streets, and/or unable to get medical care. And that's just in Chicago -- throughout the world there is massive famine and disease, human beings dying of things that are eminently preventable. And I care, and I try to do my part to relieve suffering how and when I can.

So I do feel a little guilty/foolish for spending so much money on medical care for a cat. I realize that it's a hell of a luxury. But that doesn't change the fact that he's my responsibility, and part of my family. When I adopted him from the shelter, I promised to do everything I could to take care of him. And he's been a wonderful cat for me: snuggly and affectionate and engaging, keeping me from getting too depressed and comforting me when I'm sick or down. Cats know. And they love you. And I love them.

He's old, and he lived on the streets for god knows how long, so I have to be prepared for things to go wrong. I hope they don't. I want him back here, draped across my chest while I read, head-butting me when he wants attention, sleeping curled around my head all night. He's a sweet, sweet cat, and I want him to be all right.