“Cat is fractious” no more

 

On our first visit to his vets, just about a week after we rescued each other, the intake tech wrote a note for Sammy’s vet: cat is fractious.

How little did I know then how true that was. The online thesaurus site lists tons of synonyms for fractious and I can easily say that Sammy exhibited most of them at some point: irritable; unmanageable; testy; scrappy; wild. I could go on, but you get the picture:

But no more, for my beautiful boy died in our sleep on March 15. Beware the Ides of March indeed.

I knew he was dying. He’d stopped eating and had lost a lot of weight. On the morning of his death, I found him settled on my collection of throw pillows in my bedroom (finding a quiet, safe space is a well-known behavior amongst cats when they know they are dying). And I knew that but stupidly, I picked him up and settled him on the couch in the living room. Comfortable, but not nearly as comfortable as those pillows. I am wracked with guilt about moving him. However, if it caused him to stay alive a little longer, then I am OK with it. Because it meant he was still alive when I got home.

I ate dinner quickly, changed into my jammies, picked him up, settled him in my lap and fell asleep on the couch. I can’t be sure of this, but I think, in the middle of the night, he awoke me with a loud meow just before he died. But that might be wishful thinking on my part.

When I awoke, I knew he was dead. But I let myself pretend it was just his normal habit of jumping up on me when I was asleep and settling in for a nap. So I talked to him like I would normally do when he wouldn’t move from me: “Sammy, get up, mummy needs to use the loo.” I went on in that vein for about five minutes, delaying the inevitable.

And, like after the workplace shooting, most of my posse of beautiful strong women reached out to me and helped me through it.

So you know that old chestnut of a question, “If you could have lunch with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?” Well, before Sammy, my answer was always William Shakespeare. After Sammy, it would be whoever could tell me of Sammy’s life before me: who got him declawed? How many siblings did he have? Did his mummy and daddy love each other or was it just a one-night stand? Did he ever do the deed before he got fixed? Did someone abandon him or did he run away, to be found by someone named Guido who took him to the shelter? (When he got to the shelter, he was initially named Roseannadanna, in keeping with the Saturday Night Live theme. That was changed to Rodin (one of my favorite artists). I named him Sammy after Sammy Davis Jr because he had only one eye (something else that I am sure added to his fractiousness!).)  

I’d also ask my lunch partner who abused that beautiful boy so much that he turned into a psychotic biting machine? Notice how I wrote I’d like to meet someone who could answer these questions, and not the person who did the abusing because I would kill that motherfucker in a slow and very painful way.

But, like my moving him from the pillows, perhaps on some level him getting abused was a good thing because it meant we ended up with each other. Because he was as fucked up in his head as I am in mine. Yeah, he might have gotten adopted on his good looks alone, but any normal, sane person would have returned him after one of his biting sessions. We were meant for each other.

But now he is gone and I am alone once more. It does hurt, but, because I am a sociopath, I am handling it so much better than I thought I would. I expected to try to fill the cat-shaped hole with a parrot. Or a tortoise. I pictured my grief causing me to shave off all my hair. Or dye it black. (One of those is for sure going to happen soon.)

But I am going on with my life with reminders of him everywhere. His picture is my profile pic for my work emails. Most of my passwords have some form of his name in them (there are lots of other deets in them so that is not giving away anything). He is my screensaver on all my devices. I say good morning to him. I tell him at night when it is time for bed. And about a week after his passing I had a dream that was so intense that I think it might have actually happened: He jumped up on my lap and we rubbed noses and said goodbye. In other dreams I feel him nibbling my toes or jumping up on my lap for a nap.

I could not give him the best life, but I think I gave him a good one.

RIP, love of my life.

I Second That Emotion

 

Today is the one-year anniversary of the shooting at my workplace.  I have attempted to write this post myriad times in the past year, but I could never find the words to express my emotions on that day and the year since.  Because, well, I don’t have any emotions about it.  

Why is that, I wonder? Because this one was close, the closest I have ever come to being involved in the gun violence that saturates America. The place where it happened is about 200 yards from my office. Some of our team, who were in lockdown in a different part of the building, heard the kill shot. The head of the department targeted by the psycho (white male, natch) shooter was at a meeting on the second floor of the building. We were in lockdown for about three hours, watching everything that was unfolding outside, mere feet away from us, on the TV in the office. And when we were finally released, it was by police armed with rifles. When we returned to the office, many doors bore signs of having been forced open by police. Later, reports came out and one student told of having to step over the bloodied body of his professor to get out of the building. All of that and I have not spilled one tear over it. What is wrong with me? 

I looked up some of the signs of narcissistic personality disorder, just in case that might be what ails me. I only had to read that two of the signs are a belief in specialness and superiority and I knew I don’t have it. The exact opposite, in fact. Like when I call my landline from the office to check if there are messages (there never are), I always hang up the phone with the phrase, ”Well, who would call you, you big fat ugly loser?” 

So maybe I am a sociopath? One of that disorder’s signs is a lack of empathy. That sure sounds like me.  But only as far as humans are concerned. Not with animals. During COVID, on our weekly video chats, our boss would report if anyone we knew had died of it. Not once did I feel anything. Then one week, he tells us that one of the police dogs that work on campus had died. I was a blubbering wreck for the rest of the day. I can’t watch movies if there is a chance the dog will die (to this day, despite it starring one of my future ex-husbands, I can’t bring myself to watch John Wick). And I was halfway through I Am Legend when I got a feeling something was going to happen to the dog, so I quit watching it.

And not only am I writing this on the one-year anniversary, I have just come from a memorial service held mere yards from the building it happened in. And not the reading of a poem, the blessing from a native American spiritual leader, the ringing of chimes, the cello and piano performance of a piece by Rachmaninoff (one of my favorite composers) or the singing of Lean on Me by a choir of students did anything for me. But it was when the person who survived the shooting stood up to speak and received a standing ovation that I realized if that did not move me, nothing will.

But one thing did move me: the outpouring of love and concern from my small but mighty group of friends. The first one to text me was JTV. A few others followed. L. sent a message on a group text and told everyone I was OK and not to worry about me. In one exchange someone called me "our girl". That really moved me. So maybe there is hope for me yet.

A Post about the Posts I owe you, my loyal reader(s)

I owe you posts. Some you are probably expecting (Nos.1, 2, and 8 in the list below); some, you are not (uh… the rest of them). I don’t really have a good pre-No.2 excuse as to why you have not gotten No.1 but it is because of No.2 that you have not gotten Nos.2 through 12 (No.13 hasn’t happened yet). I don’t know if it makes any sense but when those of you who do not know about No.2 read that post (whenever it gets published) you’ll realize why.

So, coming to this blog…  at some point:

1.   The December 6 shooting.

2.   Sammy died.

3.   The reasons behind a huge upswing in readers of this blog.

4.   My plan to quit drinking on Tuesday and Wednesday nights so I can watch TV and actually remember what I watched the next day.

5.   My plan to start incorporating the phrase “I fart in your general direction” more into my life, both verbally and in writing.

6.   My need for new excuses as to why I cannot travel to visit friends and family now that my main excuse (i.e., Sammy) is no longer viable.

7.   Why it was not Sammy keeping me from having a boyfriend (seriously – when I made the announcement on Facebook concerning No.2, someone remarked “Well, now at least you can get a boyfriend.” Oy vey.).

8.   American Idol.

9.   How I didn’t realize just how much No.2 had affected me until I started this blog post.

10.  How I really want to make a comment on Facebook about a former friend’s wife’s teeth but only because something he said to me one time would be on a post about the worst insults I have ever received but what is stopping me is my pledge to not post anything negative. Plus, it really isn’t nice to insult someone’s looks (which, as I am sure you can surmise, is a very big part of the Worst Insults I have Ever Received post, should I ever get around to writing it).

11.   A post about the worst insults I have ever received.

12.  How a meme about a bottle of champagne caused an existential crisis.

13.  The annual Feast of the Virgin post (technically, I could still get this one in on time because this year’s bacchanal is scheduled for June 8 but it is not looking good that I’ll get it in any time soon (see Ibid.)).

Year in Review - 2023 Edition

 

I am not sure why but 23 is my favorite number. I mean, why does anyone have a favorite number? I can understand having a favorite color (lime green, scarlet, black, black and white) or smell (fresh-cut grass on an English summer’s afternoon, Brute cologne, Obsession perfume) or song (I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues by Elton John, Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah, Yellow by Coldplay) because there is something there, some visceral element, but a number is just a number.  My love of 23 probably stems from my love of William Shakespeare - he was likely born on April 23 and he probably died on April 23. Anyway, so, going into 2023 I had high hopes but in fact it turned out to be a pretty crappy year.

 

Where to begin? How about my car, and the three things that happened concerning it in a span of one week: Well, the first is kind of positive: I paid it off, almost one year early. Yes, on one hand that is very positive but, on the other, I managed that only because I am the Most Boring (and Bored) Person in the World: the money that I would have spent on doing things and going places, like people with lives do, was put towards the car loan.

 

Then, a day later, the battery died. Not a big deal, I have AAA but still.

 

Then, three days later, I had an accident, my first official car accident (by official I mean the first one my insurance company heard about). I’m not going to go into deets, it is still too painful. I was not physically harmed but it was still a major bummer.

 

And I have to do another “I See Dead People” section this year.

Steve killed himself about a week before his 70^th birthday. If you ever attended any type of philanthropic event in Denver or did any type of charity or volunteer work, chances are you met him. He was so giving of his time. And he was the only man ever to utter the following to me: “I love your ass”. After his death his Facebook page was overflowing with tributes. And this one hurt a lot because I hoped that we might end up together - we had been involved Biblically at some point; oh, and non-Biblically too – see here. And the fact that it was suicide was so heartbreaking. He had over 1.4k friends on Facebook, why didn’t he reach out to one of us? I am absolutely sure that there is not one of those 1.4k friends, including me, who would not have dropped whatever we were doing right then and there and gone to him if only he’d reached out.

Franklin’s death was natural, but untimely; he was younger than me, and much like Kim’s death, I did not find out about it until a few years had passed. And, in fact, I only found out about it because of Steve’s death. Because I had not been in contact with Steve for a while and it ended on a sour note (I sent him a short and bitter text – “I hate Facebook” after he had posted a picture of him and his girlfriend celebrating their one-year anniversary. In Las Vegas. At a restaurant less than two miles away from me) I decided to re-connect with some people I’d not heard from in a while and that was when I found out about Franklin. We probably hung out only a few times but oh he was such a character, the life of the party. And another one with over 1k friends and a Facebook page overflowing with tributes.

But I think it might be time to face the fact that this “I See Dead People” section might become a regular part of this post, because of my advanced age. Speaking of which, there was a period shortly after Christmas when I had pain in my left arm and jaw. It scared me so much that on my next trip to the dollar store I picked up some aspirin!

And, in other health news, it finally happened: I got the ‘rona. Three years and 10 months (or 1,405 days) after it first appeared in America, I got covid. I guess because I’ve gotten the vaccinations, I had an extremely mild case. Just like a minor cold, really and, except for the vomiting up blood part, it really wasn’t that bad.

.

And stuff around the apartment has just started falling apart, like my bed and my couch. And there seems to be an excessive amount of other household chores that need doing that I am not physically capable of doing and it makes me miss having male friends who I could call on to help. And the fact that housework and errands never fucking end. You get two things scratched off your To Do list and another five are added. How do people with families and more pets and bigger homes and real lives cope? It is just me, Sammy, a one-bedroom apartment and a non-existent social life and it is overwhelming. For once I do feel for people with lives. You must be exhausted all the time.

And the Prettiest Boy in the World moved. I mean, he was not close anyway, but this move was pretty dramatic and now he might as well live in, oh, I don’t know, Venice, let’s say, for how far out of reach he is now.

But 2023 was not all doom and gloom for me.

I had two visits from Denver-based friends this year: D., who has here for a work thing, and JTV who was here to attend a concert. Weirdly enough both their schedules and mine were such that we did the exact same thing: they came straight from the airport and met me at the office and we had lunch and hung out a bit until they had to leave. Of course, after the shooting there on December 6, I am not sure I’d ever want to ask anyone to visit me at work again.  (About the shooting: I think I will do a separate post about that at some point. I am still processing it, and this one is so much harder than October One because of location: the shooting site is about 200 yards from my office.)

And a little flirtation took part this year on a couple occasions with members of the contradictory gender. The first was a painter at work who was doing a job in the office. We chatted a little and on his last day he brought me a peach and jasmine flavored iced tea. I did not have the heart to tell him I hate iced tea, so I thanked him and took a couple sips while he was still there and dumped the rest when he left. I have seen him a few times on campus since then and he is always very friendly and gives me a ride if he is on his work cart.

Then there was the cable guy who, whilst fixing my cable in the middle of November, asked me if I enjoyed being single. What is weird, though, is that I think that some other man has asked me this and I think it might have been another cable guy. And I also think it was around the same time of year. So of course, my overactive but negative imagination immediately thinks that maybe all the single cable guys have entered some sort of hogging competition for the annual Christmas party. But even though we exchanged a few flirtatious texts (“You’re always welcome to text me outside of work as well” he replied to a question I had about internet speeds), he must have found someone hoggier to take to the Cox Christmas party.

So, yes, there were some high notes in 2023, but for the most part, this tea towel sums up my 2023 quite accurately and eloquently: