Honest. To. Pete.
I am going to strangle my "pets" before too long. When Henrico Behavioral Health etc. comes to evaluate me, I will be mumbling incomprehensibly about lemon-scented pee, "poopsicles," and "food so good you have to eat it twice."
Hello? Are you still there?
Yes, it's thoroughly gross, icky, disgusting subject matter. It's also incredibly gross clean-up matter. But, unfortunately, for me right now it is a fact of life. My cat, Itty Fitty (YES, that's her NAME, leave it aLONE!), also known as The Evil Cat-Beast, is somewhere between 14 and 17 years old. I don't know whether her age is the cause, or whether the FIV that she has been infected with for the past 12 or 13 years is the cause, but she has this ISSUE. It ISSUES from her bladder. At some point, she decided that life was "litter-box optional." This creates conflict, because in MY book, litter-box attendance is mandatory for all kitties. Especially kitties who live in homes I pay large portions of my salary to purchase and maintain.
I have a problem with guilt where Itty Fitty is concerned. When she started peeing on the floor, I confined her to the only room I could (at the time), which was my bedroom. When she started peeing IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BED, oh dear GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, CAT? THE DOWN COMFORTER ANDDDDD THE FEATHER BED?????? I went to Lowe's, purchased the wood and wire, and commissioned my father the engineer to help me build a large, comfy kitty-condo. It is 2' wide by 3' long by 4' high, and has three levels. It has a window view. It has an automatic-dispensing feeder that feeds as much high-quality kibble as she can gobble. It has THREE water bowls (because she likes to play patty-feet with water bowls, and knock them over). The litter box is convenient, but not where she has to sit or sleep in it. I hand-made kitty beds for her, which can be easily laundered in case of yak. When I am there to supervise her, I close the bedroom door (fool me twice...well, you're not going to fool me twice...)and let her out to play, visit, etc. She is an affectionate cat in her old age. She seems generally happy and contented.
Not long ago, I discovered that she has been PEEING on the WALL-TO-WALL-CARPET in the spare room, where her kitty-condo is. Right in FRONT of the litter box. I have steam-cleaned, and carpet-shampooed, but it is Cat Pee. So, you know. There are some fragrances that are just permanent. So, Itty Fitty returned to live in her "condo" on a more regular basis. At least until I could let her out without murdering her in cold blood.
The people who have been in on this situation from the very beginning say that they understand. In fact, several of them have commented that there are many folks who would not keep a Pissy-Cat, and would either have her put down ("She's certainly OLD enough!") or would leave her at the mercy of the local animal shelter ("Maybe somebody who doesn't care what their house smells like will adopt her.") So I shouldn't feel guilty, right? I am doing the best I can to give her a comfortable life, in a responsible fashion. Without having to sleep in cat urine.
Each night when I get home from work, and every Saturday and Sunday morning, she greets me with a happy and hopeful, "Prrrr?" When it becomes clear that I am not going to do more than say hello, she turns to a full-throated, demanding, "Murrrrrowwwww! Rrrrrowwwww!" And it goes on and on. And on. But I can deal with that! Really! (With only a slight twitch in my left eye.) The part that bothers me is when someone who doesn't know the full situation comes over. It usually only takes about 3 minutes before they will utter the words, "Poor kitty!" If I let her out of her condo to come visit, she makes a beeline for the dog's water-bowl, and drinks as if she hasn't seen water in WEEKS. A sun-baked traveler who just crossed the Sahara has nothing on her. The bowls in her condo? Full, or nearly so. She tries to convince any new person that that is NOT Fit To Drink, it is old bathwater, or cleaning fluid. And with her wide, innocent gaze and desperate lapping pink tongue, she seems to have pretty good success. And I feel guilty. I know that I am doing the best I can; I know that she is as healthy as a cat her age can be. I know that she has all the necessities of life, and some of the luxuries. So I protest; I explain the Piddle Problem, and all the remedies that were tried (including antidepressants!), and point out that she's old, how much exercise does she need? And of course protesting, as it always does in the movies, makes me look LESS guilty. (That was sarcasm.)
Maybe it is just my perception, but it seems that these folks don't look at me quite the same way after her performance. My explanations of the Piddle Problem, and demonstration of the fresh, cool water in her own water bowl, seem to fall on deaf ears. Confine a kitty? Why not just drown her? How can I explain that the truth is closer to the other way 'round?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Driving in a Storm
I'm hoping to get home before the huge thunderstorm that all the weather services are predicting arrives. But, as I'm driving down the winding, two-lane, 55-mph-zone (a "twisty," I would call it, if I were riding my Kawasaki ZX-6. Man, that bike was fun...), it hits. First, a few random splatters on the windshield; huge, messy raindrops like bird splats. Then, with no further prelude, downpour. Not white-out or black-out; water-out. I grope for the wiper controls, reflecting on my one complaint about my otherwise perfect car: the fastest speed on the wipers is too slow. This car is made for sunny days.
The drive home stretches and flexes into a long, surreal quest. The first threatening rumbles of thunder are too late to warn of the rain. On the Interstate, at 40 mph, hazard flashers clicking, I have no attention for the swirling, dancing trees, as they must be in this wind, on the median and the verge. My focus has narrowed; there is a pair of taillights ahead of me, with attendant yellow flashers, rippling and swaying through the water on my windshield. A quick check of the left lane--is anything coming?--then I am back to the lights of the vehicle in front of me. Have they brightened? Are those brakelights, or just taillights? Have they gotten any bigger, slowing without braking? Am I too close? Is there an accident ahead? The radio is on, but I couldn't tell you what's playing; it's as if my entire cerebral cortex has been re-allocated to interpreting visual information. I turn the radio off; the wipers are keeping a steady whump-whump, the hazard flashers are clicking, the rain is pounding on the windshield and the roof. No sense in overwhelming my poor ears, since I'm not listening to them anyway. I think.
Lightning, which until now has been a theatrical flickering among distant clouds, becomes immediate and personal in a blinding instant. I do not think I will be struck; there are trees, and cell towers, and light posts, and overpasses, and the metal car around me would likely conduct any errant electrons safely to the ground. Despite all these comforting rationalizations, the small muscles in my pharynx reflexively clench for a moment, and my shoulders tense. Stop that and relax, silly, I tell myself. It wouldn't help if you DID get struck by lightning, anyway.
There is no To Do List at work. There is no dog at home, waiting to be freed from daily confinement. There is no dinner at 7, or favorite TV show at 8. None of these things exist in my mind. I am Driver, in The Thunderstorm. That is all. It occurs to me quite unexpectedly that I spend a lot of time every day considering and dissecting the past, and planning, hoping, and fearing for the future, with very little time spent in the moment, this moment, the one that defines my life right now. That past no longer exists except in my head, in my brain, and a strong enough whack in the noggin could erase its entire existence forever. The future is fog; it doesn't yet exist, isn't happening, and all the things that I plan, hope for, and fear could not possibly all come to pass. Most of those things I spend so much time on will never be. And the ones that will be, will actually happen, will be shrouded in a fog of ignorance, for I will be ignoring them as I spend my attention on the past and the next future. A whole life used up, on things that are not? What a waste. How useless. The only one of these moments that actually is, really, is the one I am in right now. Would I be happier if I were here now, too? How could that be possible, when calendars demand that I schedule appointments, plan vacations, make reservations for hotels, get the laundry done by Saturday at 5 so I can do the other things I have planned for the weekend? When does Now happen? When can it?
Now, all of these philosophical thoughts are in the background, vague and random, as I follow the taillights in the rain. Now demands that I pay attention, unless I wish to forfeit all tomorrows and become road pizza. Death is not the fear; pain is. We have been here forever, those taillights and I; there has never been anything else. The drive home is not this long; we are in some alternative place, some other way of being. Like a dentist's chair; it is not exactly pleasant, but we are at least fully present. The storm is riskier--what if some other car were to plow into mine from behind?--but at least there are others with me in this Now. The taillights ahead of me have a driver, and the hazard flashers I can see ahead of them do, too. We are each isolated in our metal boxes on wheels, but our metal boxes protect us from the Storm, and we are all experiencing the same one.
The rain is slowing now. Lightning and thunder still flash and crack, but I can see that the taillights ahead of me belong to a grey Hyundai SUV. Usually I dislike SUVs; they are tall, and my car is short, and I can't see past them, and it makes me nervous. But this SUV has been a beacon; watching its taillights has been an assurance to me that there is not a vehicle stopped ahead, its lights out, in the impenetrable grey of the rain fifty feet ahead. And the car ahead of it, a burgundy-red Toyota sedan; a beacon of safety for the SUV. We depend on each other. Perhaps there is a car or SUV behind mine; I can't see its headlights, but sometimes you can't. Perhaps I am a beacon to someone else.
We are picking up speed as the storm subsides. Maybe we have driven out from under it; maybe it has moved on. It doesn't matter; I feel safer. And my exit is coming up. Godspeed, grey SUV! Safe travels, red Toyota! It is odd to me that I feel kinship for these other vehicles, knowing nothing of their drivers, their pasts or futures. We were driving in a storm together. That is all.
The drive home stretches and flexes into a long, surreal quest. The first threatening rumbles of thunder are too late to warn of the rain. On the Interstate, at 40 mph, hazard flashers clicking, I have no attention for the swirling, dancing trees, as they must be in this wind, on the median and the verge. My focus has narrowed; there is a pair of taillights ahead of me, with attendant yellow flashers, rippling and swaying through the water on my windshield. A quick check of the left lane--is anything coming?--then I am back to the lights of the vehicle in front of me. Have they brightened? Are those brakelights, or just taillights? Have they gotten any bigger, slowing without braking? Am I too close? Is there an accident ahead? The radio is on, but I couldn't tell you what's playing; it's as if my entire cerebral cortex has been re-allocated to interpreting visual information. I turn the radio off; the wipers are keeping a steady whump-whump, the hazard flashers are clicking, the rain is pounding on the windshield and the roof. No sense in overwhelming my poor ears, since I'm not listening to them anyway. I think.
Lightning, which until now has been a theatrical flickering among distant clouds, becomes immediate and personal in a blinding instant. I do not think I will be struck; there are trees, and cell towers, and light posts, and overpasses, and the metal car around me would likely conduct any errant electrons safely to the ground. Despite all these comforting rationalizations, the small muscles in my pharynx reflexively clench for a moment, and my shoulders tense. Stop that and relax, silly, I tell myself. It wouldn't help if you DID get struck by lightning, anyway.
There is no To Do List at work. There is no dog at home, waiting to be freed from daily confinement. There is no dinner at 7, or favorite TV show at 8. None of these things exist in my mind. I am Driver, in The Thunderstorm. That is all. It occurs to me quite unexpectedly that I spend a lot of time every day considering and dissecting the past, and planning, hoping, and fearing for the future, with very little time spent in the moment, this moment, the one that defines my life right now. That past no longer exists except in my head, in my brain, and a strong enough whack in the noggin could erase its entire existence forever. The future is fog; it doesn't yet exist, isn't happening, and all the things that I plan, hope for, and fear could not possibly all come to pass. Most of those things I spend so much time on will never be. And the ones that will be, will actually happen, will be shrouded in a fog of ignorance, for I will be ignoring them as I spend my attention on the past and the next future. A whole life used up, on things that are not? What a waste. How useless. The only one of these moments that actually is, really, is the one I am in right now. Would I be happier if I were here now, too? How could that be possible, when calendars demand that I schedule appointments, plan vacations, make reservations for hotels, get the laundry done by Saturday at 5 so I can do the other things I have planned for the weekend? When does Now happen? When can it?
Now, all of these philosophical thoughts are in the background, vague and random, as I follow the taillights in the rain. Now demands that I pay attention, unless I wish to forfeit all tomorrows and become road pizza. Death is not the fear; pain is. We have been here forever, those taillights and I; there has never been anything else. The drive home is not this long; we are in some alternative place, some other way of being. Like a dentist's chair; it is not exactly pleasant, but we are at least fully present. The storm is riskier--what if some other car were to plow into mine from behind?--but at least there are others with me in this Now. The taillights ahead of me have a driver, and the hazard flashers I can see ahead of them do, too. We are each isolated in our metal boxes on wheels, but our metal boxes protect us from the Storm, and we are all experiencing the same one.
The rain is slowing now. Lightning and thunder still flash and crack, but I can see that the taillights ahead of me belong to a grey Hyundai SUV. Usually I dislike SUVs; they are tall, and my car is short, and I can't see past them, and it makes me nervous. But this SUV has been a beacon; watching its taillights has been an assurance to me that there is not a vehicle stopped ahead, its lights out, in the impenetrable grey of the rain fifty feet ahead. And the car ahead of it, a burgundy-red Toyota sedan; a beacon of safety for the SUV. We depend on each other. Perhaps there is a car or SUV behind mine; I can't see its headlights, but sometimes you can't. Perhaps I am a beacon to someone else.
We are picking up speed as the storm subsides. Maybe we have driven out from under it; maybe it has moved on. It doesn't matter; I feel safer. And my exit is coming up. Godspeed, grey SUV! Safe travels, red Toyota! It is odd to me that I feel kinship for these other vehicles, knowing nothing of their drivers, their pasts or futures. We were driving in a storm together. That is all.
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