Published: May 7, 2020

In a different world, the adjective “tragicomic” would have withered from disuse and irrelevance. Some of the time, we would be laughing, and some of the time, we would be weeping, and we would never get confused about whether we should be laughing or weeping.

But in the world we actually have, the tragic and the comic have refused to sign on to social distancing.

Suppose that, a few months ago, an acquaintance had claimed the gift of prophecy and told me that, in the very near future, I would stay in my house nearly all the time, and I would sometimes tie on a bandanna and present myself to the world looking like a Western outlaw with a dastardly plan to hold up Walgreens or Costco. I would have known right away that I had wandered into the company of a troubled soul who had divorced reality and was not interested in a reconciliation.

And suppose that this same self-styled prophet next said to me, “But there is good news: you will be able to cope with these wild changes because you will become a home health care aide for an aged cat, and that role will give your life a regularity and rhythm that will give you your bearings.” At that point, I would have had only one thought: “This is an extremely wacky person whom I should make every effort to avoid.”

But then events took a tragicomic turn.

In mid-March, the University closed down, and we all shifted to working remotely. At the same time, almost like clockwork, my twenty-year-old cat, Alley Cat, went into a slump.

Since he makes house calls, Dr. Robert Irmiger has relieved me of the misery of persuading cats to get in carrying cases and yowl themselves (and me) silly on a drive to a distant office. Even though Alley Cat did not have an advanced directive, Dr. Irmiger and I had covered that base on her behalf. He knew I did not want Alley Cat to suffer; when age caught up with her, I wanted him to arrange for her peaceful passing.

So when Alley Cat seemed to be headed into rough times, I called Dr. Irmiger, described her symptoms, and said that I thought we were approaching the time for euthanasia.

This was Dr. Irmiger’s response: “You either have an old cat that is heading into end of life, or you have an old cat that has a urinary tract infection.”

Expert advice is always worth our attention. And, in truth, if euthanasia were the standard treatment for urinary tract infections, I wouldn’t have made it past my twenties.

The element of comedy then went on a steady ascent. Ordering antibiotics from a veterinary supply company produced a digital misunderstanding that left the company determined to send me fourteen packets of thirty pills each, a commitment blessedly corrected after the second packet arrived.

But now what to do? These were “chewable” pills, and Alley Cat was not willing to chew them. Thus, I began and ended each day with the painstaking mincing of pills and melding of the fragments into small portions of tuna fish.

Meanwhile, doctors, nurses, and aides were putting their lives at risk to care for people afflicted with an illness that could be devastating and deadly, and I had become the home attendant for a 20-year-old cat with a possible urinary tract infection.

And absurdity had only begun its ascent.

Symptoms persisted, and arrangements were made for Dr. Irmiger, properly masked, to conduct an exam in person, including taking a blood sample. Alley Cat may be in a slow decline, but she remains vigorous and possessed by a strong sense of her boundaries. In other words, Dr. Irmiger is a solitary rider on the range of veterinary practice, and Alley Cat was not giving her consent to a blood test.

When I chose the title, “Not My First Rodeo,” for this blog, I had not anticipated that I would soon be hosting a rodeo in my own home. But the primal dynamic of rodeo—a human being’s determination to prevail over the defiance of an untamed animal—was soon under way, with my living room sofa serving as the arena.

Experienced, brave, and quick to anticipate Alley Cat’s action items on behalf of self-protection, Dr. Irmiger got the blood sample. But other fluids figured in this diagnostic adventure. And with that recognition, the level of comedy soared.

I have a character trait of embracing unexpected challenges, and it is no easy matter to design a mission that I will refuse without first giving it a try.

And then Dr. Irmiger charged me with securing a urine sample.

Was he calling my bluff? Could this possibly be an achievement within the reach of an amateur? Wasn’t this the sort of activity for which the cautionary statement, “Don’t try this at home,” had been invented?

Everywhere in the world today, a cheerful breed of commentators declares that the coronavirus crisis is inviting us to discover in ourselves capacities and skills that we never imagined were in our reach.

Taking up Dr. Irmiger’s challenge, I have proven those commentators right.

Should I ever get around to retiring as Faculty Director of the Center of the American West, I have now established a foundation for my second career. In three or four years, you can expect to see me recognized as the American West’s preeminent expert in persuading cats to supply fluid samples. (I have never been much for asserting claims of intellectual property, but it does seem wise to classify my technique as “proprietary information.”)

Alley Cat is twenty years old, and her prognosis is not promising. And yet she has lived long enough to become a minor Zoom celebrity. In many digitally supported Zoom meetings over the last six weeks, Alley Cat (and her coworker Yofi) have shamelessly upstaged me. Just when I make a striking remark in a Zoom-supported discussion, another participant in the meeting is almost sure to say, “Oh, look, there’s a cat behind you!” W. C. Fields cautioned us against ever appearing on stage with an animal, but Fields did not foresee Zoom.

And now, having covered the last two syllables of “tragicomic,” we move to the first two syllables.

On May 4, the day of Dr. Irmiger’s Living Room Rodeo, I had started the morning with the news that my wondrous friend John Freemuth had died suddenly from a heart attack. A political scientist at Boise State, John was the best comrade I have ever had in the search for solutions to the West’s problems.

photo of John Freemuth

By that evening, I was sitting at my computer, reading John’s obituary, crying hard, and hugging Alley Cat.

John Freemuth (and you will hear more about him in the next weeks) was a person of great empathy. And his sense of humor was (nearly) as irrepressible as mine.

So I am sure of this: if John could have known that I would grieve over his passing while clinging to an old cat, he would have laughed with me—or at me. Either would have been fine.

photo of Patty Limerick's signature