Nothing Dead in Your Ear

Angela Townsend

If you grind your teeth, you might bleed from your ears. Just a little. It’s fine. The urgent care doctor delivers this as good news. It means there isn’t a dead winged thing in my labyrinth.

     “It’s not an unreasonable hypothesis,” I insist. My legs dangle off the rubber table, feet well above the floor. I resemble a child, feel the need to defend myself.

     “Not at all.” Dr. Julow skims the next patient’s chart. He’s not planning to touch me again. Our conversation spanned 45 seconds. Will he charge my insurance? I decide to keep talking. “The party was outside, and there were all sorts of gnats and flies.”

     “Uh-huh.” In his white gloves, he’s a bored Mickey Mouse.

     “Numerous things were flying in my ears.” I will get my money’s worth. “But it was a good party.”

     “Good for you.” Has anyone ever told him that his hair resembles crinkle fries?

     “It was the annual party at the cat sanctuary.”

     His head snaps up. Every kid has an ace up her sleeve, or at least a joker. “The what?”

     “The cat sanctuary.” My legs start swinging. “I’ve been there 20 years. I have personally known four thousand cats.” I’ve never seen a man’s entire mouth attempt to escape into his face.

     Dr. Julow purses his lips so hard, his chin pebbles into a peach pit. “Four thousand.”

     “I know. Depending on who I’m talking to, that can sound like a horror movie or a fairy tale.”

     His crinkle fries begin uncrinkling. “And what do you do there?”

     “I’m the fundraiser.”

     “For four thousand cats.”

     “Only a hundred at a time.” No need to exaggerate. “So, I was thinking the thing in my ear came from the party. I thought it might be some kind of exoskeleton—”

     “Were the cats at the party?” Dr. Julow sits, scratches his arms.

     “What? No, they were inside, except one—”

     “One of the cats was at the party?”

     “Actually two.” Honesty is important, especially with one’s physician. Even if you’ve only known him 45 seconds. “The paraplegic cat loves to roll in the grass, and—”

     “There’s a paraplegic cat at the cat shelter?”

     “Sanctuary.”

     “Sanctuary.” His upper lip exhibits seismic activity beyond his control. “A paraplegic cat. How does that work?”

     “Not very hard. Mostly he lolls like a sultan and waits for us to bring him giblets. We also walk him in a stroller. That’s how he got to the party.” I only relay the facts.

     Dr. Julow thrums his fingers on the counter. Is he fumbling for an emergency button? “Who was the other cat at the party?”

     “Oh, one of the newborns.” Everyone likes newborns. “The neonates need to be bottle-fed around the clock, and—”

     “Is that sanitary?” He’s scratching again.

     “Is what sanitary?”

     “Feeding kittens around party food?” I sense no one’s ever told Dr. Julow his eyes are the color of algae, in a good way. I would’ve liked to be the first, but he’s overwhelmed, picturing four thousand cats belching on his Cool Ranch Doritos.

     “We keep the kittens out of the coleslaw,” I promise, “but I really thought something flew into my ear, which is why I wanted to get it checked right away. There was blood on the Q-tip. Flies can be nasty little bastards, and—”

     “Do flies bother the cats?” Dr. Julow removes his gloves, but he’s still Mickey Mouse.

     “Well, it’s funny you should ask. Not like funny ha ha, but—”

     “Do I want to know?”

     “No,” but I tell him. “Once, we had a cat found in a hurricane, and a botfly larva had burrowed into his brain. He needed emergency surgery, and a week of intensive care.”

     His algae eyes jostle with bullfrogs. I swear I see them. “Was he okay?”

     “Yes!” I blurt. “He survived. He chirped at every living creature. I think he was some kind of saint, or a bodhisattva.”

     “Was he . . . normal?”

     “Not at all.” It’s the only answer to that question, regardless of context. I shift my weight and the rubber table makes flatulent sounds. “He circled everyone, like he was casting a spell, or conducting a Druid ritual, or—”

     “Did he have a name?” He rolls and twists his gloves between his palms. They snap back, his self-soothing putty.

     “Plentylots.”

     “Plentylots?”

     “Plentylots.” I make a mental note to email the urgent care center a photo of Plentylots in his new home, filling the lap of a little boy who calls him simply “Lots.”

     Dr. Julow stands, then sits down again. “And you’ve been there 20 years.”

     “It’s the only place I want to be in the whole wide world.” I swing my legs.

     “And you fundraise for Plentylots.”

     “And his associates.” I nod.

     “And you grind your teeth.” He puts his gloves back on and places his hands on both sides of my face. “Your whole jaw’s swollen at the joints, you know. You must grind your teeth all night.” His eyes bubble. “Must be stressful, fundraising for four thousand cats?”

     “One hundred at a time.”

     “Right.”

     I hop off the table. “It’s the joy of my life.”

     “In other words, yes.”

     “Yes.” Is his hair this curly because he’s stressed, too? “I want to do right by them.”

     “The cats.”

     “The cats.”

     Dr. Julow nods. “It makes a good deal of sense.” He is going to charge my insurance. “Well, there’s nothing dead in your ear.”

     I leave him with one final observation. “That’d be an excellent name for a band.”

     His entire chin twitches. “Dead in Your Ear?”

     “No!” This is important. “Nothing Dead in Your Ear.” He holds the door open. My time is up. “You play the accordion and I’ll play harmonica.”

     Dr. Julow nods. I never knew a man’s eyebrows could go slaphappy without prior authorization from the rest of his face. “We can be the entertainment at next year’s cat party.”

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