Δαφνη Ευτυχια Αρθουρος

"Now that technology enables us to rebuild the library of Alexandria, the law gets in the way." -- Lawrence Lessig, Free Culture: How Big Media Uses Technology And The Law To Lock Down Culture And Control Creativity.

It makes sense for me to be pleased that my car passed its emissions inspection, and I won't have to deal with repairs/tuneup and a retest ... I'm trying to figure out why I feel extra-pleased that it passed by such a large margin (the operator cheerfully told me it was a "fast pass" -- apparently if the numbers look really good at 30 MPH they can skip the second half of the test; when I looked at the printout I saw that on two tests it passed by a factor of ten, and on the third by a factor of twenty). These results are probably completely unsurprising for a car in good condition (ISTR pretty clean results from one of my past cars that wasn't in such good shape), but there's a certain irrational smugness I'm feeling. It would be self-flattering to claim that this was because my concern for the environment is just That Intense, but I think it's more a combination of geek-pride in "my machine" and typically American "identification with my car".

I didn't tune the engine myself. I haven't taken the trouble to take it to a garage to get any work done (replacing the battery doesn't count), though this reminds me I need to get the oil changed when I can afford it. I didn't even choose this car -- Mom bought it from my uncle's estate for me. So I can claim absofuckinglutely no credit for these test results. So why do I feel smug when I look at numbers a tenth or a twentieth of the allowable limits?

Because it's My Car, I'm American, and whatever the rest of my gender makeup, I've got a Y chromosome. (Actually, I'm not certain whether that last detail is relevant -- comments?) It doesn't have to make sense: it's My Car.

Now I just have to hope I can afford to keep it insured so that I don't have to get rid of it. I like this one, even though it has an automatic transmission.

Fred and the Sheepie just came to pick up Perrine and take her to the vet (I woke up when I heard them downstairs). For the past few days I've been feeling unexpectedly squeamish about the thought of someone cutting into my cat. In the abstract, surgery is pretty interesting. Certain life-saving particulars are intensely cool, though one hopes never to have oneself or one's friends need those procedures. But right now, even though it's a routine operation, I keep thinking, They're cutting open my cat! Waaaaaah!!! I wouldn't feel this icked-out if they were operating on me (unless they were doing something to my eye or my knee.

It doesn't help that I knew a cat who "almost died" (that's how it was reported, but I don't know just how close a call it was, since I wasn't there) from complications while being spayed. Anaesthesia problems, I think. (She wound up being fine -- that "almost" is an important word.) What I know about general anaesthesia in general doesn't help either ... I don't know about cats, but in humans the condensed explanation is that to keep a person unconscious despite a) the passage of time and b) all those things that could wake them up, the anaesthesiologist basically "almost kills" them and keeps them balanced at that point. Why don't lots and lots of people die from the anaesthesia during surgery every year? Because we've figured out clever techniques of achieving that balance and anaesthesiologists are damned good at what they do, not because it's easy or safe to knock someone out (scores of movie fight scenes to the contrary). But that's the worrywart thinking ... a more reasonable assessment of the risk is that thousands of queens are spayed each year and most of them have no problems at all; that whatever the inherent trickiness of the problem and whatever degree of skill needed, the vet has had oodles of practice at this, enough so for it to be routine, and if any complications arise they will truly be a surprise.

Besides, the real issue I'm having is less about the danger and more just the thought that they're cutting into my cat. To remove healthy organs, no less.

Perrine is both beautiful and sweet. If I wanted to breed cats, she's one whose genes I would want propogated. But I'm not a cat breeder, and Baltimore has more than enough cats, and the genes that made her are floating around the Baltimore feline gene pool, so I'm not doing the world some tragic disservice by preventing her from having kittens. The decision that she should be spayed was made when I decided (with the help of friends) to keep her. That decision has not changed. But as much of a relief it will be to not have to see her squirming uncomfortably in frustration when she's in heat (or worrying whether she's annoying the neighbours when she picks the room with the best echo in which to call), at the same time I'm going to miss how she gets extra-snuggly when she's pre-estrual -- a couple of days before she goes into full-blown, uncomfortable-to-watch-because-I-feel-sorry-for-her heat. Fortunately she's not exactly un-snuggly the rest of the time, but that's when she lets me pet her tummy. Her amazingly soft tummy. The fur there is, well, amazing.

Anyhow, it'll be nice to see her go back to trying to convince me to play "chase" or throw toys for her instead of trying to convince me to magically transform myself into a tomcat. And even though I still don't plan to let her outside, it'll be good not to have to worry about kittens being the result if she does get out.

So today the house is empty of feline presence. I get to bring Perrine home sometime tomorrow. I love my cat.