But Enough About Me, Let’s Talk About Me

Happy Monday!!!

This Monday is already so much better than the last. This was my Facebook status: Put 22 year old cat down, snot cried on vet, hugged Mom, ate cake.
One of those days that starts with a negative catalyst, like holding a family pet as she takes her last breath and feeling serious guilt, and the day simply can't recover. Especially when you only took a few bites of the cake and didn't take the whole pan because you didn't want to add “selfish and gluttonous” on top of guilty. Anyway, I had to put my favorite animal in the world to sleep. Celie (name that book/movie!) lived 22 long years, and the last few were not kind to her. Or my mom, who the cat lived with. And I literally prayed, “Um, God, can the cat just take a nap and not wake up?” But…after praying this for a couple of years, I had to accept it was not gonna happen.

I've mentioned this a million times, but I was not born with an adequate amount of people mercy. But when it comes to animals, even the sight of a dead skunk on the side of the road can bum me out for hours. It's out of control. And don't even get me started on those ASCPA ads on TV and the Internet with Sarah M. singing. HATE THAT!!! UGH. Go away. Forever.

So yeah, I got Celie before I was old enough to drive, when computers took up entire rooms, before email existed, and prior to Michael Jackson becoming Caucasian. Someone left a message on Facebook and commented it was hard to lose a pet that had been with you as a kid, teen, and adult. It's so true. And sometimes childhood can be a little crazy, and a girl just needs a pet–for loyalty and security. And Celie would sit on my desk by the hour as I read my Seventeen magazines did my homework.  She had some dog tendencies and did some cool things. But mostly, she was just mine. And stuck by for 22 years. I bought my house 8 years ago, and the cat freaked out. Would not have it. She literally went psycho. Disappeared for a week, while I put up “Have You Seen My Schizo Cat?” posters and drove down streets every night, trolling for her. She showed up finally. She was on my back porch, ragged and torn up, looking at me like, “Are you ready to give up yet?” And so I did. And my mom graciously and kindly took her. Where she was fine. Content. The diva.

When I got her as a kid, she disappeared once then a well. I bawled for a week straight. As in threw myself on the floor and threw a fit. More signs. More trolling the neighborhood. I think family even got involved in that. We don't mess around with lost pets. Then at the end of the week, we got a call. We had sold our camper trailer, and the new owners wanted to know if we had a cat. She had traveled about 25 minutes down the road in our trailer. In the septic pipes. And hidden out for a week before making an appearance.

So last week kinda sucked. But my vet was kind and sent me a card letting me know I did the right thing. Don't you hate it when the right thing feels icky? But I will say if you're ever in the same position and deciding whether to stay in with the animal or not, I highly recommend staying with them. It literally takes two seconds. Very quiet and peaceful. (Um, for them. Me? I brought a box of Kleenex, some gum, and a large tea from McDonalds. I like to be prepared.)  It has been a few years of weird animal situations for me, as this is the FOURTH cat I've put down in 8 years. My students last year would randomly joke that a pet living with me was a death sentence. (And then I'd fail the student…) But once you pass off the animal, there's really only seconds left, so if you ever have to do this, just stay in there. It's not the horrible, drawn-out situation you think it's going to be. And then I came home to Miller, the yakking cat who now howls at the door every minute he's awake. And I prayed, “Um, God, can the cat just take a nap and not wake up?”

We always had pets growing up.

I think this cat was called Frisky. I had nothing to do with the naming, thus the lack of originality. But behind us is the old swing set I would “paint” with mud. Those who know me well…well, this must be where the paint obsession hobby was born. This is the cat that ran away and was found somewhere. Um, dead. So my mom and grandfather got the poor thing and buried him. Only to have Frisky show up back home a few days later. Very much alive.

Here's Itty Bitty Kitty, also not named by me.

I guess I'd push him around in my Holly Hobby stroller, complete with a nice harvest gold bathroom mat and a pillow that went to my brother's chair. Sure wasn't gonna use mine. Might get it dirty. Look how much that cat is enjoying his ride. Can't even look at me. “If I squeeze my eyes shut real hard, she'll go away.” I think this is the pet that also got the “honor” of riding in the basket on the front of my banana-seated bicycle. I was not a good driver. And that's relevant to his general well being.

Here's Itty Bitty Kitty again. Sitting on the dutch door of my playhouse.

This looks really cozy–he looks comfy. Until I'd forget about him, go inside to do something else, and IBK would have to spend the night (or two) in the playhouse. My bedroom window faced the playhouse window, and I'd usually glance out the next day or so and see this cat in the playhouse window–pleading for his life with his wide, panicked eyes. I'm happy to report the playhouse saw no fatalities.

This is my friend Breanne and me with some kitties en route to my dad's.

Kids, if you split your time between two homes/parents, I highly recommend guilting both parents into pets. My dad let me keep these guys at his house for a while. What happened to them eventually is a little sketchy. As in resembling fiction. Seems I'm not the only story teller in the family…They “decided” to live with another family? They're “happy” in a barn somewhere? Whatever! But they were entertaining in a place that seriously bored me. In the country. With nothing to do. It was at my dad's that, for lack of anything else to do, I did typing lessons on the computer. For hours and hours. Even now, my students will hear me type and look up. “You type so fast.” And I always smile and think, “Oh, if you only knew how I got these skills. Dude, I had no cable.” And before you get impressed, my speed is great, but my accuracy is not. I have the same problem with knife throwing.

Here we have Whooper and Buffy.

I named Buffy. This is a great example of why I hadn't been allowed to name our animals before. Not too much later, I would get a baby calf–Buttercup. Yeah. I know.
In this picture, I would like to point out my keen fashion savvy. Heels with socks. Lovely! What a visionary. Because that trend has yet to surface, but when it does, I will have proof I boldly wore it first. These two cats ran away, and I'm pretty sure it was the heels/Smurfette sweats combo that they just couldn't live with.

Okay, enough about cats. But if anyone wants one who is slightly mentally retarded and never shuts up, please let me know. He says he wants to live with you.

Stay tuned later in the week for a book giveaway and where I ditch all the drab thoughts.

JEN