Our cat doesn't care what language we speak to her; the response is the same, the usual "cat thing," of turning her head in the other direction, "surely, you're not talking to me."
Modern medicine, which I rail against when it has to come to my body, seems to have worked a needed "miracle" on this fur beast of ours.
Within 12 hours of our shoving a soggy gel cap of anti-fungal powder down Katrina's throat (she howled, she bit me with one of her seven teeth), as well giving the first dose of the much-easier-to-administer liquid antibiotics, the cat is actuall alive.
She rolls over coquettishly, she asks for attention, she meows, she even plays and finally grooms. Now, she's set to become a nuisance, the regular kind of cat that I was afraid of having around. Gone seems to be the sleeping lump. I guess she was in a bunch of pain.
Speaking of Katrina, it seems that all of us should be hoarding antibiotics ourselves. The five seconds of the only episode of Jericho I caught already taught me that. That and we are not well-armed. The director of the Kansas City Health Department, Dr. Rex Archer (what a name, eh?), reported to the Neighborhood Committee on Wednesday (City Council) that more people were hoarding.
He introduced a new hire, who is in charge of educating the public about pandemic things such as bird flu. In the course of that, which was mostly mumbled, much like nearly everything else that was "said" during the meeting, he alluded to how people are "getting the message" about preparedness. The federal and state governments won't be able to help you, that's the nature of pandemic, resources stretched too thin, no one available on the other line, etc.
No one I know is stocked up, except for the 50- and 60-somethings (hello again, boomers) who have more freezer space than they know what to do with. They also know how to can things and have shelves. Apartment people such as we can hardly find space to store a week's-worth of eatables, much less nutrition for any kind of long haul.