It’s funny how I would never thought I would wear that look1. You know, the dishevelled, uncombed, middle-aged woman wearing a dirty green sweatshirt and converse, with ageing jeans that are a little too loose because they have been worn a little too much. “At least I brushed my teeth.” I think while I run through the streets pushing my children’s Thule feeling my ponytail becoming looser and looser. “Last thing I need is to have to stop to look for my hair band.” I muse while I push on. Morris is quiet, sitting in the pram. It was a goddam fight to put him there. Thank God I had that plan B because after 15’ of struggle, it was clear that he was not going to go into the carrier. I hate it when he does that; he spreads his legs around the door of the carrier so that I cannot push him in. It’s like my children when they were little, didn’t want to take medicine for whatever ailed them, and did the inverted banana pose… he does the spider manoeuvre… and he will not go into the cage… yeah, let’s call things by their name, it is not a carrier, it is a fucking cage and that is why he doesn’t want to go in it, no matter how many litres of pet-remedy2 I might have previously sprayed it with.
Morris woke up today vomiting. He had been a few days eating less, we thought he might have eaten some left-over chocolate and we were waiting for him to just get over it… but today he woke up vomiting. He vomited all the breakfast he had eaten with an unusual appetite (we thought that he had finally recovered from his last indiscretion with chocolate) but then he proceeded to vomit all of it next to his sandbox. As I wiped off the vomit, I murmured- “Shit, Morris, you know that it is allowed to chew the kibble, right?” since I see whole chunks of those unsightly pellets on the floor.
Then he drank a lot, and I thought that was that, but he also vomited the water and then some more. “Crap,” I murmured, “now I have to figure out what is wrong with him.” I called the vet; they gave me their last spot at the clinic today. I cannot be late because the clinic closes at 5 pm, and if the tests are not in by then, they would have to send me to the hospital… The hospital? surely there is no need to call in the big guns… he is a cat for crying out loud.
I called C, he complained “Let him just sweat it out.” He said.
“Sweat it out?” I retorted. “Dude, this is neither a fever nor 1879.”
What will he suggest next? That I bleed him?
The funny thing is that if I do not take him to the vet and the cat pegs it, C will cry and look at me through his sobs and tears and snot, and he will sniffle, “Why didn’t you take him to the vet?” And if I say - “You told me not to!” He will reply - “Since when have you started listening to me?” Fair point, C, fair point.
I play out this dialogue in my head while wresting with the beast to put him in his cage. Fifteen minutes later I am drenched in sweat and late. I pick him up and rush downstairs, place him in the children’s Thule and close the mosquito net so he won’t get out. I barely have time to lock the door, and I see I have forgotten a jacket. “Never mind.” I think because I am sweaty and breathless, and my pumping heart is keeping me warm. But I know I will regret it when I come back later, in the dark of the evening, when the freezing breeze picks up. If it starts raining I will just know that the Gods woke up today hating me.
Shit, I am late. I start running thinking that at least the Thule has the running front wheel on. Always a silver lining. I am so happy I run regularly because if I keep this pace I might just make it on time. Another silver lining. And as I cross the streets I see myself as if outside of myself. A weird, non-existent bird’s eye view where I see it: the chocolate-stained sweatshirt ridden with cat hair, the baggy pants, the scrunchy, the old Converse, and the cat in a pram.
I AM A CRAZY CAT LADY!
It’s weird, how bad things seem to accumulate in short periods of time. Or maybe we tend to remember bad things better if they happen back to back, like you would remember that one time you nearly drowned. All this pops into my brain while I run. The floods in Valencia, the US elections, and now me, as a rider of the Apocalypse (Pestilence, where is your horse?), looking like a crazy cat lady. A witch. Witches, sick cats… If I see a locust I will take it as a sign of the impending doom. The end is near (?)
I make it two minutes before the appointment. Can I get a Hell yeah! (or a Hallelujah)? Then the questions begin, the blood tests, the X-ray and the wait. Morris vomits all over the exam room (Penitenciagite!) and then sits quietly in a corner, also waiting.
If you had asked me what I would have done with a sick cat a year ago, I would have said- “Why, put it down, of course.” Because I do not have time nor money for this. Nor love. I would have said exactly the same thing yesterday, to be honest. Morris was adopted only because my children would not shut up about having a pet, and my feelings for the beast have evolved from fear to a mild disdain, to a final form of mutual neglect. I fulfil my part of the contract (food, shelter), he fulfils his (use the sandbox). And yet… and yet… here we are.
On a scale from 0 to 10, how much pain do I think he is in? “Buh, a 1?” I determine seeing him asleep on the corner. On a scale from 0 to 10, how worried am I? “Buh, a 1?” But that is just it; I used to be a worrier until I grew out of it in my many years as an oncologist. You see, I have become a fixer, a doer, or a waiter, not a worrier. I have come to realize that if there is a solution, why worry? If there is no solution, why worry? Sure, I get angry, and frustrated, and sad, and my heart breaks just as much as the next person’s, but there is never worry in the mix. As I meditate, waiting in the exam room, the neon white lights, the grey linoleum floor, the surgical-looking furniture, I realize that I am one with the fucking Universe.
The results are in. It seems he has swallowed something (lego? plastic beads?). It looks like it is making its way through the intestines. He might poop it, he might not, we have to give him special food and wait. “And if his state worsens?” I ask. The vet gives me instructions.
As I walk back home through the dark streets, a light rain starts to fall. The cold breeze is cutting my hands pushing the Thule. Witches are also clairvoyant, right? Morris is sitting pretty and doesn’t look worried either. Morris is also one with the fucking Universe.
So, Ana, what was the point of this boring story about your cat swallowing some random toy and being sick? Honestly, I am not quite sure. But as I walk over the last pedestrian crossing to take a right onto my street, I just can’t help but reflect on the existence of a particular feeling towards those you don't love but who need you anyway. It might seem blank, but it is full of intention, action, and protection.
Responsibility looks a lot like love.
In public. At home I am the personification of crazy cat lady all.the.time.
For those of you who might not know, pet-remedy is this spray that contains some kind of relaxant and they tell you at the pet shop- “Oh! if you spray this before you put him in the carrier he will go in much more willingly.” Suuuuuure.
What a delightful story. Thank you for your wisdom, Ana!
Me thinks you doth protest too much. It may be just enough love to do the responsible things.