Tag Archives: cats

acceptance, Mindfulness, personal

Professor Tiger Lilly

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This is Tiger Lilly.

She came into my life when she appeared on a coworker’s carport; she was so tiny that  she fit, not just in my hands, but within the length of just the finger part of my hands. Not even as big as my palm.

I always feel the push-pull when I see a tiny animal: I really, really want to take it in; I really, really can’t take any more animals. At this point, I had three geriatric cats and my super-duper dog.

This was well before Jitterbug flew the coop.

I had three cats; I didn’t want to take another one in.

But she had a bobbed tail.

A couple of years before this, one of the supervisors at work had a pair of white bob-tails.  I’m pretty sure I “squeed” (which I try, at all costs, to avoid) when I learned this. “I want one,” I told her.  “I’m keeping them,” she told me.

So that was that.

But then I learned that she gave them to a kid with cancer.

I couldn’t be mad at her for giving them to a kid with cancer!  But I was. Just a little bit. I’m not proud of it.

I made a rule: I would not get another cat unless it was a bob-tail.

There’s something about them.  I like things that defy expectations and stereotypes. Things a little bit different.

So when a coworker came to me and said, “I heard you’ll take in cats,” I said, “No, no, no.”  I was firm. I was steadfast. I was absolute.

But then I saw it: this tiny, skinny thing covered in shit. I didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. It was tiny and helpless and dirty, and I’d like to think I was well on my way to remaining a bastion of resolve. There was another lady who loved cats; I could find it a home with her.

But then I put it on my chest, shit and all, and it started purring immediately. I ran my fingers from its tiny head down its bony spine to discover it had a tiny stump of a tail.

And whatever backbone I had, whatever decisions I had made logically were out so far out the window, they had already flown to South America for the winter. My decisions were probably drinking fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.

Whatever resolve I had mustered disintegrated like teeth on methotrexate.

And so it came home with me, and it so teen-niney, I had to check out a YouTube to see how to determine the sex.

There’s a joke here about the NSA or the cops checking my computer history, but I’m not quite capable of reaching it.

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Uncategorized

Cartman’s Mom and Hairy Butts

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I was absolutely horrified when, in a moment of brilliant clarity, I realized just how much I sound like Eric Cartman’s mother when I talk to my recent-arrival cats.

Were I to try to coax them with Cheesy Poofs or offer them a pot pie, I’d have it nailed.

The bad news is that I sound like Eric Cartman’s mother. That’s pretty damn bad news.

The good news is that I’ve noticed that my throat is healing. I’ll never have the voice of a three year old getting her pig tails pulled (thankfully, I’ll admit), but I have noticed some subtle changing with my voice, and I can only guess that it is the vocal chords healing from the lack of smoking.

I noticed it first when I was singing (yes, singing, me, scary thought), and I found myself thinking, “Wow, I sound pretty damned good!”

Now if I could only match key to words. I’d be super-rocking then.

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Journey

Random Friday Five

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…because I just don’t have time to get into how truly, truly cool things are right now.

1) I learned how to use the MP3 player. I freaking rock. Hearing Tool in stereo is one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced. Ever.

2) Day 15 without any chocolate, period. Not one whit of Valentine’s candy (which is still waiting for me), or a single mocha. I even have cocoa, pudding, and various other stuff in the house and have (temporarily, I hope?) lost all craving for it. I am incredibly amazed by the experience. I’ll be celebrating March 1st, though, by a mocha at sunset, hopefully at the Beau Rivage.

3) Although probably more related to #2 than I want to admit, my jeans are getting frighteningly loose. Actually, I noticed it in my underwear first. Like falling down loose. That could become a problem if I somehow trip on them. Considering I’m now walking with an MP3 player, that might happen sooner rather than later.

4) The more I read about Kate Chopin, the more I am totally, totally digging her. She was one awesome, awesome woman. I’m currently reading “Unveiling Kate Chopin” by Emily Toth, which, is a horribly, horribly written book. It’s good in its factual information, but the author is so biased by her own agenda which clearly shows through in the first half of the book that it makes it absolutely painful to read. It makes rather strong claims in such places, provides very little support (and shaky support at that) and then makes it a theme of the book. (Alleged sexual abuse of Chopin by Union Soldiers based on the word “outrage” when they came to the 13 year old Kate’s household household to force them to raise a Union Army flag). Toth’s writing is unprofessional, catty, and she can’t seem to keep from making “men are shit” comments throughout the bulk of the book. Toth is an English professor at LSU, apparently, and because I cannot imagine sitting through a class by such a woman, I’ve stricken LSU off my list of possible grad schools.

Seriously. I’m that horrified.

And, finally…

5) As of tomorrow, when a certain letter and a certain check go into the mail to a certain Ex, I will be utterly, utterly, free. I’ve forgiven him, I’ve forgiven myself, and now it’s just time to move onward and upward, bringing my girls with me.
—————-
Now playing: Live – Good Pain
via FoxyTunes

Journey

True Love

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I swore I wouldn’t, but I did. I read the blog, curious as to see what he would write after our little tete-a-tete.

It was pretty much as I expected, but I was surprised at how much it stung, anyway, all things considered. And I had this big “thing” built up in my head about how I was right, and he was wrong, and I could prove it…blah, blah, blah…

…and as I was walking this morning, I realized that it didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter. Nothing I could say would ever change his opinion of me, or change the condition of the cats, or do anything productive whatsoever, and then the most wonderful thing happened. I let go because I realized that it just didn’t matter.

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Journey

Cat Bathing

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My mom and I have certainly had some difficulties in the past, but I can’t seem to remember any of them since we bathed the cats.

She offered to help, and I was going to turn her down in a bit of “My cats, my problem,” but I realized I was exhausted, and simply couldn’t do it myself.

It was her idea to get the buckets, the warm water, etc., since we’re having a day that’s the warmest one we’ve had in a while. Dunk, dunk, swoosh, changing buckets and grabbing for the flea shampoo and trying to avoid the claws.

And I saw them in all of their horror: skin and bones, sores from scratching, everything. Despite their incredible skinnyness, their hairlessness and their fleas, the most horrifying thing about them was their eyes.

I don’t think I will ever, ever forget their eyes.

They got their ear mite medicine, their worm medicine, and their flea medicine. I held them in a towel and tried to dry them off before they went into hiding again.

It’ll probably be a while before they trust me…they seem almost feral now, fighting over food and against each other.

I swear, I’ve learned more about human nature in the past 15 hours from watching abused cats than anything else, I think.

But, having seen them at damn near their worst, they can only get better.

And I have a whole lot more Chopin to read to my girls.

Journey

The Space Between

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As an English major there are two major types of writing: critical and fictional. There’s a bit of irony involved between the two. The target audience for literary criticism is educated folks–basically nerds like me who like to read what other people say about so-and-so’s story so that they can prove them wrong. Fiction, on the other hand, isn’t for hoity-toity folks. It’s for people who just like to read made-up stuff.

The irony is that, for literary criticism, you have to spell everything out. Set up your argument and show every little detail. For fiction, you are required (in order for it to be “good” fiction) to trust your readers to “get” what you mean.

I realized tonight I was talking to the wrong audience.

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Journey

40 Virgins and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

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So I’m working on a list of demands. He has the kitty refugee hostages, and I’m making the demands.

Damn skippy.

It’s nothing fun, just the usual: shot record, copy of medical record, receipts, and oh, what-do-you-call-that-never-call-me-again-under-penalty-of-death thing? I want one of those, too. Actually, I want a couple of those.

Just in case the first one fails. Because it will, I’m sure. Eventually.

I’m dreading this confrontation. I’m dreading it so much that I may have made myself sick over it. Probably not, but I do have a headache that even now, is doing something inside my skull that is very,very,very reminiscent of a demolition crew.

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personal

Well, Isn’t that Special

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I thought I had the need-to, need-to, need-to smoke thing completely beat. I don’t crave it with coffee, after dinner, while driving, etc., etc., etc.

But apparently I still do when I’m very, very, very angry.

And I am. Very, very, very angry.

It’s bad enough when I realize that my buttons are being purposely pushed. It’s even worse when it involves my cats.

For the record, I don’t have children. I know that parents will say (rightly, perhaps) that “it’s not the same.” But, given that I’m missing the human equivalent, these are my kids. My kids that I had to give up custody of them after Katrina because of housing issues. My kids that were staying with someone who supposedly cared enough about cats and who supposedly cared enough about me to take care of them.

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