This is one from the vaults. It was something I wrote several years ago when I was in college. I had been to too many funerals in too short a time, too many of them for people my age and younger. I began to suffer from terrible, mind-consuming panic attacks.
Not all my memories are pleasant recollections of starry nights.
I'm happy to say the panic attacks are nowhere near as bad as they were, and come infrequently at best. My faith has become much stronger. That said, the scars remain.
If you have the stomach, I give you this memory.
--------------------------
What the hell?
No seriously. What. The. Hell.
Death didn't use to bother me.
Now it causes me mental anguish every time I even think about it.
I'm used to death. I really am. I mean, anybody who knows me at all knows how many frikkin' funerals I've had to attend. Uncle Cecil's when I was eight, that was my first one. At least, the first I can remember. I don't know whether or not dad brought me to Gramma's funeral. I was really too young then. I do remember him sitting in a chair and when I asked him what was wrong, he said, "Well, sweetheart... my mommy just died."
But I really recall Jonathan's. I remember mom coming down the hallway to tell me that the eleven o'clock news had revealed the second drowning victim's name. I remember crawling, shakingly, out of bed, and walking down the hallway to confirm it for myself. I remember how trance like it felt. I remember the way his face looked swollen, having drowned, at the funeral home. I remember all of it.
I was sixteen.
Kids shouldn't die that young.
In fact, kids shouldn't die. Michelle shouldn't have died. She was only four for fuck's sake. A four-year-old shouldn't have to be buried.
But they do.
I will, someday.
And even though I was "Fearless" when I was three, I am older now, and know better. I know I am mortal, and will die.
And that thought, the thought that someday, my life will end, scares the living piss out of me. Not because I'm afraid of the pain. Not because I'm afraid I'll have lived an incomplete life. But because of what happens after that.
Nobody really knows what happens after that, you know? A lot of people THINK they do, but nobody can agree on it. Ask any Catholic and God is sitting in the Heavens upon his great Throne. Ask a Hindu and he'll tell you that you'll wake up in a whole new body. A Jew will tell you that Abraham will hold you to his bosom, and a Muslim will tell you that Allah will grant you a great reward. Some of the zealots believe you'll have a harem of virgins. Everybody's got their own idea.
But we can't reconcile them all.
I mean, I used to believe that all religions stemmed from the same Source and thus we would all end up going to the same Place afterward. But we just can't. We can't. There are too many stipulations and secret handshakes and hoops to jump through to get to "the Right Place", which differs depending on who you ask. What if we've just made it all up? What if we, as a species, when we discovered our own mortality, had to adapt a means of understanding and justifying life so as not to instantly lose our minds?
What if there is no Heaven, no Hell, no Valhalla, no Happy Hunting Grounds, no rebirth? What if, when you die... that's just... it?
THAT'S what scares me, and keeps me awake at night. It's what gave me a mental breakdown when I was fourteen and has reared its ugly head again to tear at my psyche. It's what has made me look over my shoulder every hour for the past six months, and why I've gotten so short with people. I'm scared. Plain and simple.
I'm scared that I'm not even real at this very moment. I'm so very, very afraid that what I am right now is nothing more than someone else's dream, and that when they wake, I will be gone. As though, and for all intents correctly, I was never here. I can't distinguish reality and dream anymore. Sleep brings dreams that are so real I forget they were dreams WELL on into the day. I'll dream that I talked to someone on the phone, or perhaps bought cereal, and later that day I will be shocked to learn that no, in fact, we are out of cereal or that conversation never took place.
And reality itself has become a dream. I no longer really taste my food, nor my drink. Sensation is so fleeting I can barely call it real. A moment passes and I wonder: was that a moment in which I created a memory, or am I simply dreaming, and that memory that I think I have made is simply made up? What if there is no future to this exact second, and the only reason I'm sitting here RIGHT NOW is because somebody's dreaming that a girl my age, my height and my nature is sitting in front of a computer having a mental meltdown and all of her memories leading up to that point are just filler?
What if that's the case?
Why can't I feel real anymore?
I know I used to. I know I used to smell the grass and taste the popcicles and feel the sunlight and hear the leaves and see... gods, the things I used to see! I cannot see anymore, I have grown blind. And no matter how I strive, I still cannot see. I can't look people in the eye because, in my mind, somehow, they aren't there. They are no more real than I. I am related to dreams, friends with figments, and in love with a phantom. None of the people or things I know and love are real, nor am I.
This is what frightens me.
This is what has cast me on my downward spiral of late.
If you know the way out... throw me a rope.
May 17, 2012
May 08, 2012
Memories: Installment 3
Given that my last post centred around my animal-affinities, I might as well continue the trend. I'll take you back a bit further, so you can see why my dad sort of gave up on arguing with me about the "can we keep it!?" argument.
I was in 5th grade, and it was May. I know this because the school uniforms allowed us to switch to our "summer" outfits, which is to say the particular navy-blue shorts and usual collared shirt. Normally we girls had to wear these - well, very typical for Catholic school - plaid pleated skirts. Skirts suck for kids, unless you like feeling girly, or play a lot in the sandbox. (No seriously. We used our skirts as giant sand-carrying implements. My mother never said a word about the stains, either. I figure because she probably did the same thing, being a tombody herself and all.) Boys were stuck with corderoy pants. In the summer of the Central Valley? They melted. In the winter? We froze. Nobody won. Unless it was the shorts. They were ugly, but we loved them.
I had a bad habit of not changing out of my uniform, either right away or at all. I was just so happy to be home I'd immediately go play in the dirt without changing, which wasn't the easiest for the clothes. On this particular day, I was more focused on my new kitten than I was my clothes. Our cat Tigger had a litter earlier that year, and the kittens were all weaned and most of them adopted out... except the one I kept. Because... well, see previous "can I keep it?!" argument. (I had this discussion a LOT with my father.) Tigger had stayed long enough to wean her kittens, get spayed, and then took off. So all my attention was on my new pride and joy, my kitten, Callie. She was only like eight weeks at this point, but our cats were indoor-outdoor, and, well... she was outdoors at this time.
I came home, dropped my backpack on the floor, and immediately went in search of my fuzzy friend.
There was a creek across the street, and the cats LOVED to hang out there. The banks were steep and pretty deep. I'm terrible at estimating distance, but I'd say a good 30 feet to the water most summers, with slightly more than 45-degree incline in some places. In some, it was a sheer drop. And this was to a creek that was about 30-feet wide as well, and goodness knows how deep. It moved fast, too. But there were frogs and bugs and snakes and berry vines down there, so of course I went down there a fair bit myself. I had no fear of sliding down that steep embankment, and so my search took me to the water's swift-moving edge, calling for my kitten.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I heard an answering meow.
I kept calling, louder, and got the same echo-location response. I couldn't place it. It was far off, but definitely responding, so I wasn't going to give up. Just then, mom popped her head over the egd of the cliff above me. Ostensibly to make sure I hadn't drowned or done something stupid.
Which I was about to do.
See, as though on cue, in that precise moment, a tiny fuzzy object lept from the berry vines on the other side of the creek. It was a kitten, all right, but not mine. My kitten was a marble-fudge tabby-tortoiseshell. This one was a white ball of fluff with grey splotches. And she was making the heroic swim across this enormous, fast... moving... um...
Mom saw her too. She called down to me, "E, she's trying to swim to you! Can you get her?!"
Some people hear what they want to hear, you know that? I heard "can you" as "go". "Go get her." So I said, "OKAY!!" and lept into the water - still in my school uniform - to swim out and retrieve this tiny kitten, who was travelling dangerously fast downstream.
I say "dangerously" because this area of the creek was just upstream from a bridge. Fun Fact: cities will dump lots of rip-rap (broken cement chunks) under bridges to keep them from eroding too much near the pillars keeping the bridge up. Rip-rap is no fun to go over. At all. Ever. Even in an inflatable raft. And it was only maybe a minute's distance from us to being drawn forcibly over tumbling rapids and very sharp rocks. So I swam like hell to get to this kitten, which was actually pretty easy. We had a pool, you see, and in the searing summer heat, you had to drag me out of the water. I was practically part fish. Swimming out to get her was no problem.
I grabbed onto the soggy furball, clutched her to me, and swam back to... hey, where'd the bank go?
I knew enough to get to the side of the creek, regardless of what the side looked like. But the bank I'd been standing on was far away now. I'd drifted downstream enough to have reached past the point of no return. This was sheer cliff all the way. Mom called to me in a strained voice, telling me to stay put, and ran for help. I clutched some weeds, clinging to the side of the creek like driftwood. I looked around, finally assessing the situation I had bounded gleefully into, found myself in a fast-moving river with no escape route and really nasty rapids not far away.
But also, I found myself cradling a tiny, helpless, 5-week-old-at-best, totally calm kitten. She was only barely applying pressure with her claws, just enough to velcro to my shirt, but not enough to hurt me. She didn't meow, didn't fuss, didn't struggle. It was as though she trusted me to get us out of this mess, that this was the worst it could possibly get and nothing could make it any less appealing than it currently was. And it was looking pretty unappealing. But there, clinging to muddy weeds in muddy water, we were together at least. She looked at me with those violet-blue eyes that kittens have when they're not old enough to be on their own, and she trusted me.
So I sang to her.
What else could I do? I couldn't go anywhere, so I figured I might as well just sing. Nothing in particular, just a little nameless made-up melody. Just me, her, the sound of the river, and a wandering song.
My brother poked his head over the edge of the cliff and said he and mom would try and catch me just before the rapids. The bank scoops down at the bridge and for a couple yards before the sharp rocks; there was just enough room to pull me out. If they could catch me. So I waited until they positioned themselves downstream - one grabbing the bridge support, one holding their hand and reaching out. And slowly, slowly, I bobbed downstream to meet them, arresting my momentum with the cliff wall as I could.
I was successfully hauled out of the water without being dashed against the rocks, and mom wrapped me in a towel as my brother held the kitten. He held it by the scruff, a dripping, sorry, sodden creature, and said, "... you risked your life, for this?!"
I did. And I'd do it again, too. I regret nothing. And I don't say that because it's an awesome story or even because I feel awesome about being a hero or something silly like that.
I say it because a year later, I got a picture from the nurse who adopted that kitten, whose name became Cleopatra. There she was, a big, sleek, beautiful cat, with ice blue eyes and smooth coat. She lived for many, many years in a happy, loving home. I made a difference. And that is reason enough.
I was in 5th grade, and it was May. I know this because the school uniforms allowed us to switch to our "summer" outfits, which is to say the particular navy-blue shorts and usual collared shirt. Normally we girls had to wear these - well, very typical for Catholic school - plaid pleated skirts. Skirts suck for kids, unless you like feeling girly, or play a lot in the sandbox. (No seriously. We used our skirts as giant sand-carrying implements. My mother never said a word about the stains, either. I figure because she probably did the same thing, being a tombody herself and all.) Boys were stuck with corderoy pants. In the summer of the Central Valley? They melted. In the winter? We froze. Nobody won. Unless it was the shorts. They were ugly, but we loved them.
I had a bad habit of not changing out of my uniform, either right away or at all. I was just so happy to be home I'd immediately go play in the dirt without changing, which wasn't the easiest for the clothes. On this particular day, I was more focused on my new kitten than I was my clothes. Our cat Tigger had a litter earlier that year, and the kittens were all weaned and most of them adopted out... except the one I kept. Because... well, see previous "can I keep it?!" argument. (I had this discussion a LOT with my father.) Tigger had stayed long enough to wean her kittens, get spayed, and then took off. So all my attention was on my new pride and joy, my kitten, Callie. She was only like eight weeks at this point, but our cats were indoor-outdoor, and, well... she was outdoors at this time.
I came home, dropped my backpack on the floor, and immediately went in search of my fuzzy friend.
There was a creek across the street, and the cats LOVED to hang out there. The banks were steep and pretty deep. I'm terrible at estimating distance, but I'd say a good 30 feet to the water most summers, with slightly more than 45-degree incline in some places. In some, it was a sheer drop. And this was to a creek that was about 30-feet wide as well, and goodness knows how deep. It moved fast, too. But there were frogs and bugs and snakes and berry vines down there, so of course I went down there a fair bit myself. I had no fear of sliding down that steep embankment, and so my search took me to the water's swift-moving edge, calling for my kitten.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I heard an answering meow.
I kept calling, louder, and got the same echo-location response. I couldn't place it. It was far off, but definitely responding, so I wasn't going to give up. Just then, mom popped her head over the egd of the cliff above me. Ostensibly to make sure I hadn't drowned or done something stupid.
Which I was about to do.
See, as though on cue, in that precise moment, a tiny fuzzy object lept from the berry vines on the other side of the creek. It was a kitten, all right, but not mine. My kitten was a marble-fudge tabby-tortoiseshell. This one was a white ball of fluff with grey splotches. And she was making the heroic swim across this enormous, fast... moving... um...
Mom saw her too. She called down to me, "E, she's trying to swim to you! Can you get her?!"
Some people hear what they want to hear, you know that? I heard "can you" as "go". "Go get her." So I said, "OKAY!!" and lept into the water - still in my school uniform - to swim out and retrieve this tiny kitten, who was travelling dangerously fast downstream.
I say "dangerously" because this area of the creek was just upstream from a bridge. Fun Fact: cities will dump lots of rip-rap (broken cement chunks) under bridges to keep them from eroding too much near the pillars keeping the bridge up. Rip-rap is no fun to go over. At all. Ever. Even in an inflatable raft. And it was only maybe a minute's distance from us to being drawn forcibly over tumbling rapids and very sharp rocks. So I swam like hell to get to this kitten, which was actually pretty easy. We had a pool, you see, and in the searing summer heat, you had to drag me out of the water. I was practically part fish. Swimming out to get her was no problem.
I grabbed onto the soggy furball, clutched her to me, and swam back to... hey, where'd the bank go?
I knew enough to get to the side of the creek, regardless of what the side looked like. But the bank I'd been standing on was far away now. I'd drifted downstream enough to have reached past the point of no return. This was sheer cliff all the way. Mom called to me in a strained voice, telling me to stay put, and ran for help. I clutched some weeds, clinging to the side of the creek like driftwood. I looked around, finally assessing the situation I had bounded gleefully into, found myself in a fast-moving river with no escape route and really nasty rapids not far away.
But also, I found myself cradling a tiny, helpless, 5-week-old-at-best, totally calm kitten. She was only barely applying pressure with her claws, just enough to velcro to my shirt, but not enough to hurt me. She didn't meow, didn't fuss, didn't struggle. It was as though she trusted me to get us out of this mess, that this was the worst it could possibly get and nothing could make it any less appealing than it currently was. And it was looking pretty unappealing. But there, clinging to muddy weeds in muddy water, we were together at least. She looked at me with those violet-blue eyes that kittens have when they're not old enough to be on their own, and she trusted me.
So I sang to her.
What else could I do? I couldn't go anywhere, so I figured I might as well just sing. Nothing in particular, just a little nameless made-up melody. Just me, her, the sound of the river, and a wandering song.
My brother poked his head over the edge of the cliff and said he and mom would try and catch me just before the rapids. The bank scoops down at the bridge and for a couple yards before the sharp rocks; there was just enough room to pull me out. If they could catch me. So I waited until they positioned themselves downstream - one grabbing the bridge support, one holding their hand and reaching out. And slowly, slowly, I bobbed downstream to meet them, arresting my momentum with the cliff wall as I could.
I was successfully hauled out of the water without being dashed against the rocks, and mom wrapped me in a towel as my brother held the kitten. He held it by the scruff, a dripping, sorry, sodden creature, and said, "... you risked your life, for this?!"
I did. And I'd do it again, too. I regret nothing. And I don't say that because it's an awesome story or even because I feel awesome about being a hero or something silly like that.
I say it because a year later, I got a picture from the nurse who adopted that kitten, whose name became Cleopatra. There she was, a big, sleek, beautiful cat, with ice blue eyes and smooth coat. She lived for many, many years in a happy, loving home. I made a difference. And that is reason enough.
May 02, 2012
Memories: Installment 2
It was never any secret that I love animals. Always have. Probably always will. It's ingrained into my identity and personality to such an extent that it may very well be impossible for me to survive as anything else. I save little lives. I save big ones, too, if opportunity presents. I nurse wounds. I cuddle. I pounce. I wrestle and play tug-of-war. I discipline and teach. I call command, I reward good behavior, and I have relied on them with my life. I've even saved other human beings with their help. (That one's for another time, if ya'll want.)
It's not an exaggeration to say I've always been this way. One of my first words - according to my mother - was "bug". There was a fat praying mantis on the wall, just chilling out, right above my crib. I've never been anything shy of obsessed with horses from the time I knew what they were. And of course: cats. Cats forever. Always. There is a cat shrine in my heart. There always will be. Everyone who has ever met me for more than an hour knows it.
So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.
It was a typical day in high school. I was in Mr. T's history class. I loved that guy. He was this eccentric old guy with a great sense of humor, and he had a gift for making history interesting. If my memory serves, both my older brothers had him as a history teacher. I know my oldest brother did. I digress. I'm sitting there in class, watching "Stalin". We were studying the end of WW2. All of a sudden, over the entire school loudspeaker, my name gets called.
"Ms. W., would you please come to the front office? Ms. E. W., to the front office please."
... which of course made everyone turn and look at me wondering why the hell I'm being called in.
Some context: I was NEVER in trouble in high school. The only time I ever got sent to detention was for not having my PE clothes with me. Add to that the fact that this was a small-town - and my high school wasn't exactly huge either - and my reputation preceded me as 1.) being the youngest sister of the Smart Guy at the rival high school, 2.) the kinda scary girl in tie-dye clothes on top of the theatre hill at lunch who hung out with goths and underclassmen, and 3.) the weird chick who got along better with teachers than she did her own classmates. (All true, for what it's worth.) Me getting called into the front office was like someone investigating the Dalai Lama for saying cross words to a small child. The number of faces with the confused expression of, "... the HELL?" was oddly flattering.
I looked at Mr. T with my arched eyebrow and ducked head - if you know me, you've seen it: it's my silent request for permission. His face bore the same, "wtf?" look. I would have laughed if I wasn't so self-conscious. He gave me the nod, and I quietly ducked out of class.
Walking down the eerily empty hallways of the school to the front office, my mind raced with possibilities. I obviously wasn't in trouble... at least, it was obvious to me. Hell, the staff knew me well enough and liked me well enough where even if I HAD done something, I could have gotten away with it. So it was pretty well impossible that I was in trouble. But then why call me in? Questioning? Had I see something recently, or noticed anything out of place? There were fights at school sometimes, maybe they were going to ask me if I'd witnessed one and could place names to faces. But I surely wasn't in trouble. What on earth could it be?
I walked in, a bit apprehensive, and quietly approached Ms. I. She blinked at me kindly through her tiny wireframed glasses and smiled. "Oh good, you're here!" she said happily. This only confused me further.
"Uh, yeah," I said, "what's up?" (Give me a break. I was a teenager.)
"Oh, nothing major, but we have a request."
A request? I thought to myself. I really hope they aren't going to ask me to volunteer for something. Ugh. I hate saying no, I mean I'm not sure HOW to politely decline, but I really could care less about-
"See, Mr. S is getting married, as you may know."
I did know. Mr. S was the principal, and, well... like I said. Small town. Everybody knows this sort of thing.
"It turns out his soon-to-be stepdaughter is terribly allergic to cats. He has a cat. We were wondering if-"
... oh god are you serious?!
"-you'd adopt him, because nobody wants him to go to a shelter and we don't know where else to ask."
Turns out, word around town included that I was a big fat softie. Anyone who had pets knew about the County Shelter. I KNOW those people are doing the best they can with what they have, and as a state shelter they don't have the option of being no-kill. But having been in there... all it takes is one visit, and you'll cry even thinking about that place. The terror, the loss, the heavy sadness weighs down on you the moment you park in the lot. It lays like a blanket over the entire establishment. I don't know how those folks work there. It would break me. I would never allow an animal to go there if I could help it. Stray kittens were adopted out personally. Dogs were re-homed through friends and family. The shelter was never brought up... unless we were going out to adopt a new animal.
So, yeah. Of COURSE they went for an easy target. One who wouldn't let a poor, healthy, no-fault adult male cat with almost no chance of being adopted from a shelter, go to meet his untimely end in the cold confines of the state's cages.
I... probably never told my parents this, so I apologize if you're reading this mom and dad - I agreed before I even discussed it with them.
Did I mention I hated saying no? I must have. Read back a bit.
The relief on Ms. I's face was immediate and genuine. I don't remember the conversation after that, since I was then scrambling to find a way to present a case to my folks that we needed ANOTHER cat when we already had like three at the time. My teenaged brain was going over the scenarios in rapid-fire possible outcomes, first mom (I knew she'd be easier to win over, so I'd start there) and then dad (who thought cats were about as close to useless as you could get). I went back to class, still trying to figure out a way to argue for the cat's life when I'd already said yes.
Going for mom first was the correct choice. She stuck by me when I presented the case to dad and - being dad - relented in the face of two confirmed cat-lovers. I can still see the rolled-eyes, hands-in-the-air capitulation. I think at this point he was kind of used to me bringing home everything under the sun and might not even have been surprised if I'd tried to adopt a stray rhinoceros. And so, my principal came by some while later to drop off "Cougar" (named after our school mascot), whom we promptly renamed Tom Cougar Mellencat.
Oh shut up. It was awesome.
So the next day I was of course accosted by half a dozen people asking about what happened. Most of them actually didn't believe me at first, but then they remembered that this was me they were talking about and DUH they would call in Nature Girl to come adopt out the principal's cat. I mean, obviously. Who else would they call?
It's a fond memory, if silly. It makes me giggle still to think that the staff felt it necessary - appropriate, even - to call me in from class on the PA system, letting the WHOLE SCHOOL know. Tom lived with us for many years, turning from indoor-only to strictly-outdoor by his own volition. He never did learn proper hunting, and eventually developed a nasty habit of biting people. He also had a weird proclivity for running up to people, even total strangers, and throwing his entire weight into their legs in an... affectionate? rub. It was the most aggressive affection I'd ever seen from a cat. It was like he wanted you to love on him but also wanted to knock you onto the pavement to split your skull open.
Weird cat. But then, with a back-history like that... who can blame him?
It's not an exaggeration to say I've always been this way. One of my first words - according to my mother - was "bug". There was a fat praying mantis on the wall, just chilling out, right above my crib. I've never been anything shy of obsessed with horses from the time I knew what they were. And of course: cats. Cats forever. Always. There is a cat shrine in my heart. There always will be. Everyone who has ever met me for more than an hour knows it.
So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.
It was a typical day in high school. I was in Mr. T's history class. I loved that guy. He was this eccentric old guy with a great sense of humor, and he had a gift for making history interesting. If my memory serves, both my older brothers had him as a history teacher. I know my oldest brother did. I digress. I'm sitting there in class, watching "Stalin". We were studying the end of WW2. All of a sudden, over the entire school loudspeaker, my name gets called.
"Ms. W., would you please come to the front office? Ms. E. W., to the front office please."
... which of course made everyone turn and look at me wondering why the hell I'm being called in.
Some context: I was NEVER in trouble in high school. The only time I ever got sent to detention was for not having my PE clothes with me. Add to that the fact that this was a small-town - and my high school wasn't exactly huge either - and my reputation preceded me as 1.) being the youngest sister of the Smart Guy at the rival high school, 2.) the kinda scary girl in tie-dye clothes on top of the theatre hill at lunch who hung out with goths and underclassmen, and 3.) the weird chick who got along better with teachers than she did her own classmates. (All true, for what it's worth.) Me getting called into the front office was like someone investigating the Dalai Lama for saying cross words to a small child. The number of faces with the confused expression of, "... the HELL?" was oddly flattering.
I looked at Mr. T with my arched eyebrow and ducked head - if you know me, you've seen it: it's my silent request for permission. His face bore the same, "wtf?" look. I would have laughed if I wasn't so self-conscious. He gave me the nod, and I quietly ducked out of class.
Walking down the eerily empty hallways of the school to the front office, my mind raced with possibilities. I obviously wasn't in trouble... at least, it was obvious to me. Hell, the staff knew me well enough and liked me well enough where even if I HAD done something, I could have gotten away with it. So it was pretty well impossible that I was in trouble. But then why call me in? Questioning? Had I see something recently, or noticed anything out of place? There were fights at school sometimes, maybe they were going to ask me if I'd witnessed one and could place names to faces. But I surely wasn't in trouble. What on earth could it be?
I walked in, a bit apprehensive, and quietly approached Ms. I. She blinked at me kindly through her tiny wireframed glasses and smiled. "Oh good, you're here!" she said happily. This only confused me further.
"Uh, yeah," I said, "what's up?" (Give me a break. I was a teenager.)
"Oh, nothing major, but we have a request."
A request? I thought to myself. I really hope they aren't going to ask me to volunteer for something. Ugh. I hate saying no, I mean I'm not sure HOW to politely decline, but I really could care less about-
"See, Mr. S is getting married, as you may know."
I did know. Mr. S was the principal, and, well... like I said. Small town. Everybody knows this sort of thing.
"It turns out his soon-to-be stepdaughter is terribly allergic to cats. He has a cat. We were wondering if-"
... oh god are you serious?!
"-you'd adopt him, because nobody wants him to go to a shelter and we don't know where else to ask."
Turns out, word around town included that I was a big fat softie. Anyone who had pets knew about the County Shelter. I KNOW those people are doing the best they can with what they have, and as a state shelter they don't have the option of being no-kill. But having been in there... all it takes is one visit, and you'll cry even thinking about that place. The terror, the loss, the heavy sadness weighs down on you the moment you park in the lot. It lays like a blanket over the entire establishment. I don't know how those folks work there. It would break me. I would never allow an animal to go there if I could help it. Stray kittens were adopted out personally. Dogs were re-homed through friends and family. The shelter was never brought up... unless we were going out to adopt a new animal.
So, yeah. Of COURSE they went for an easy target. One who wouldn't let a poor, healthy, no-fault adult male cat with almost no chance of being adopted from a shelter, go to meet his untimely end in the cold confines of the state's cages.
I... probably never told my parents this, so I apologize if you're reading this mom and dad - I agreed before I even discussed it with them.
Did I mention I hated saying no? I must have. Read back a bit.
The relief on Ms. I's face was immediate and genuine. I don't remember the conversation after that, since I was then scrambling to find a way to present a case to my folks that we needed ANOTHER cat when we already had like three at the time. My teenaged brain was going over the scenarios in rapid-fire possible outcomes, first mom (I knew she'd be easier to win over, so I'd start there) and then dad (who thought cats were about as close to useless as you could get). I went back to class, still trying to figure out a way to argue for the cat's life when I'd already said yes.
Going for mom first was the correct choice. She stuck by me when I presented the case to dad and - being dad - relented in the face of two confirmed cat-lovers. I can still see the rolled-eyes, hands-in-the-air capitulation. I think at this point he was kind of used to me bringing home everything under the sun and might not even have been surprised if I'd tried to adopt a stray rhinoceros. And so, my principal came by some while later to drop off "Cougar" (named after our school mascot), whom we promptly renamed Tom Cougar Mellencat.
Oh shut up. It was awesome.
So the next day I was of course accosted by half a dozen people asking about what happened. Most of them actually didn't believe me at first, but then they remembered that this was me they were talking about and DUH they would call in Nature Girl to come adopt out the principal's cat. I mean, obviously. Who else would they call?
It's a fond memory, if silly. It makes me giggle still to think that the staff felt it necessary - appropriate, even - to call me in from class on the PA system, letting the WHOLE SCHOOL know. Tom lived with us for many years, turning from indoor-only to strictly-outdoor by his own volition. He never did learn proper hunting, and eventually developed a nasty habit of biting people. He also had a weird proclivity for running up to people, even total strangers, and throwing his entire weight into their legs in an... affectionate? rub. It was the most aggressive affection I'd ever seen from a cat. It was like he wanted you to love on him but also wanted to knock you onto the pavement to split your skull open.
Weird cat. But then, with a back-history like that... who can blame him?
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