Never a good sign

If you live in one of the world's best known zip codes, it's not a good sign to have the police over at your house all the time.

My oldest friend told me that she has programmed the local police department's non-emergency number into her phone. She knows it's only a matter of time before she calls them again ... to protect her from her son.

Today he destroyed furniture. The police recommended a counseling center for her and her family. She sent me the link. I clicked on it, but my response was a yawn. Her daughter's guidance counselors have recommended the girl move to a special school for at-risk youth. Nothing came of it. Before that, my friend's own shrink suggested she send her son to live in assisted living for young adults with mental problems. Nothing came of it. Why should I think that anything will come of this latest counseling center?

My response to my oldest friend? I told her to call her shrink. Now. Tonight. And she should change their living arrangements. She has a bedroom, her daughter has a bedroom, and her son sleeps on the sofa. When he came to live with her 10 months ago, it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. He's a highschool dropout with no marketable skills. He is going to college fulltime, but with a GED and his woeful scholastic record, aid is not coming his way. Money is tight. He's an asthmatic, pot-smoking, anorexic, violent nutball who responds to tension by punching furniture and threatening his mother and sister. He is an abuser and he needs to get out of there.

But my oldest friend won't force it. Her son will continue terrorizing her. Everything about her move to California was wrong. There isn't anything more I can say to have an impact on this situation. I still love her and worry about her, but I cannot fix her. She didn't listen to me about this move, she hasn't listened to her daughter's counselors, and she hasn't listened to her own doctor about where her son should live.

So as much as I hate this situation, I have blogged about it, and now I have to let it go.

Our trips to the doctor

First Charlotte and I went to the vet. I thought it would just be her annual check up. After all, she's as lively and affectionate as ever, and remains my little feline treat slut. But the vet found a raised sore on her tongue. It could be something as simple and comparatively harmless as a bug bite -- Charlotte is my big game hunter, and it's possible that one of her captives resisted being eaten alive. Or it could be something serious, like oral cancer. The vet gave her a shot of antibiotics, and hopefully when we all get together again a week from Saturday, it will be improved. Otherwise we have to do more icky diagnostic things to get to the cause of the problem.

She's so inquisitive and social! Her eating and evacuation both seem normal. So I have such a hard time thinking that her problem could be serious. On the other hand, cats work very hard to mask their symptoms.

Then I went to the hospital and had my annual mammogram. Hopefully the radiologist won't find anything suspicious on my films.

After all, I've had quite enough of doctors and tests!