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Published January 23, 2009

There is nothing funny about Feline diabetes.  However, syringe disposal can be hilarious. 

My cat Poe has had some litter pan issues of late.  Translation:  Poe no longer uses the litter pan and has decided that my house is his toilet.  Initial reaction is generally anger, but that really gets you nowhere.  Yelling at a cat is like yelling at British Royalty.  They tilt their head up, and stare at you down their nose.  Anything that they do, at any time is 'right.'  Even if what they feel like doing, is peeing right in front of my closet, so when I wake up in the morning, and silently tip-toe across the room attempting to not wake my beautiful sleeping wife, and I discover that my foot is suddenly soaking wet from pee, THAT is the 'right' thing to do for cats and/or for British royalty.  At that point a flash of red-hot anger generally washes over me (which on the positive side is better than a cup of coffee to wake you up.)

Sorry...  I digress.  Poe is a great cat.  We brought him to the vet.  The vet says,  "Poe has diabetes."  He shows me how to administer shots.  Twice a day now, I lure the cat over with the promise of a snack...  He looks up at me with a trusting gaze, at which point, I grab him securely and administer the shot.  He then turns around and says, "Meow” with a very disagreeable stare as if saying,  "Shit man.  You fooled me again."

So, he's been getting the shots for a while.  I have all the used syringes in a coffee can, a BIG coffee can.  The Vet's office will dispose of the syringes for $40 bucks.  That seems a little steep.   Annnnd they probably just toss them into the water at the Jersey Shore or something. 

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So, at my office, there is a syringe disposal hanging on the wall in the restroom....  I thought maybe I could just bring them to work with me and slip them in there.  I did that for a while, but the disposal bin is really small.  I've pretty much filled it, and it seems like nobody every empties it...  note to landlord...

So, I was getting gas at the station on the highway and had to use the restroom.  I go inside and see the Holy Grail....  The men's room has a LARGE syringe disposal bin.  I could fit a year's worth of syringes in it.  I'm giddy at the sight of it.  Should I?  Shouldn't I?  Would this be taking advantage?

Luckily it's winter.  Winter means I get to wear coats with lots of pockets.  Lots of pockets mean I can carry upwards of 50 syringes on me safely into the restroom.  I drive to the gas station and tell the attendant to fill it up.  I enter.  I'm a little nervous.  Nobody is in there.  I check for feet under the doors.  I feel like I'm doing something wrong...  Heartbeat’s fast.  Palms are sweaty.  I reach into my pocket, pull a handful of syringes out, and, of course, drop them all over the floor.  Then, of course, a very wholesome looking father and son enter.  They see me scrambling to pick up more than fifteen syringes.  I excuse myself and say,  "They're not mine."  The father grabs his son's shoulder and backs out of the bathroom.....  I don't even smoke weed!  I’m a good old-fashioned Irish semi-alcoholic, which really just means that I don't get hangovers.  It’s sort of my super power.  Super-Rob can put away a half bottle of Jameson and still be awake at 7AM!

I've rambled enough.  It was just embarrassing…. And funny…. I think


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