Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Cat's Tale

February 11, 2013. I watched as Jessy, my beloved Bengal of 16 years, take her last troubled breath as I held her in my arms. The vet had surmised that the cancer spread to her lungs, thus making it very difficult for her to breathe on her own.

March 10, 2013. I watched as Lord Genocyde held our Maggie, a calico of 18 years, for the last time as the vet inserted the needle. Renal failure. It was time. But seriously? I assert that Maggie died of a broken heart. She missed Jessy.

With my two beloved companions whom I had had with me since kittenhood gone, the next few days that ensued were grueling. The little clay plaques with their names and pawprints provided little comfort. The picture of the two of them snuggled up when Jessy was still a kitten, that I had framed, was only a mere echo of their presence in my small apartment.

I spoke to my brother-in-law, a very religious sort, for some much needed spiritual support. He reminded me that PetSmart near me had an adoption center with cats. I had originally resigned myself to waiting a month before adopting a new cat. But I found myself calling PetSmart to inquire about the adoption process.

March 13, 2013. We adopted Heath, a 2 year old black and brown tabby with wide yellow eyes and a rambunctious temperament. We took advantage of the free offers by PetSmart for litter and food. Genocyde picked out a nice cat carrier and new litter box. He did all of this while I was filling out the application.

As I watch my Heath curled up in "my" spot on the couch right now, I'm reminded of the way he made himself at home his very first night with us. We took pictures of them and Genocyde posted them to Facebook and I put them on Twitter. We were proud of our little boy.

That night, I was awakened by loud purring and pawprints on my side. He was exploring the bed. Then, he was exploring the nightstand, so much so that my husband's stuff fell off it and went crashing to the floor, stirring him from his sleep. Then Heath was on my dresser, the desk, his dresser, you name it. I repeatedly got out of bed to remove this little cat from each surface. Needless to say, I got little sleep that night.

Each night after that he has done the same blasted thing, but only less now since we wisened up and started using a spray bottle with water. But that isn't the only habit of Heath's that needs to be broken; no. The little guy loves to bite when we go to pet him. He'll latch onto our arms and dig his teeth into our knuckles. In the mornings, before he'll settle down to sleep with me, he'll start meowing, latch onto the back of my hand with his incisors, and proceed to position himself to hump my arm.

Initially, I had resolved to keep my deceased cats' toys in their little bed, tucked away in the corner. Heath discovered them and has started to take new ones out every night. He plays with the balls and they go under the couch. Last night he got out a catnip burlap bag. I go to change the bed and he's all over it, even if he's been looking out the window in the other room. He hears the sheets and comes charging. I'd forgotten what it was like having a young cat.

Since coming to live with us he's broken three of Genocyde's dragons and the top of my precious candy dish. He's knocked over just about everything in the apartment, he bites us, humps our arms, claws the furniture, and does things most young cats do. But in those rare moments that one can pick him up and snuggle with him, or that he decides to climb up and snuggle with us, his engine purring like a Porsche, it's then that we forgive and forget, for no matter what, come hell or high water, he chose us that night, and he's our baby boy.

I Dream But I Don't Have Nightmares

September 29th, 2009.
February 24th, 2010.

Those are the respective dates of my mother's and father's deaths. Apart from feeling nothing and then feeling too much, there has been little joy within the mundanity that is life. Life without them... feels so strange and yet strangely familiar; I suppose I prepared long enough for these days. It's the subtleties you notice mostly - like the fact that a bottle of water can't satisfy me like a soda does, suddenly I like wrestling, and I see the cherry blossoms but they have no smell to speak of. They fall aimlessly and billow upon the wind until they meet their destination... very much like my life. Only problem is, I have no destination. I'm orphaned and alone. While at times the pain is overwhelming I can usually manage to block it out, especially when I dream.

Inside dreams they are still alive and in situations I cannot now recall. Inside dreams I have my own world wherein my escape from reality lay. It happens in the morning to early afternoon. It's known as productive sleep. During the night hours I sleep but fail to dream. Sad because my dreams are a crucial part of my recovery. Whether it's a fantasy about the wrestling entertainment world or a simple dream about being back in my parents' house and all of this an unwanted parallel world, I count on those dreams to pull me through my day... lift me from the abyss I often find myself in.

Music doesn't sound the same anymore. I go to church and yet I remain angry with God. I've not had a recent dialog with Him except to remind Him that I'm there and I understand, but don't agree. I worry about stupid things and ignore the important ones. My body can no longer fight off the small things that require an immune system. Matters are upsidedown and sideways, and yet I manage to get through these mundane homemaker tasks and maintain a routine. It's just that there's no joy in it... not even in the accomplishment of it. I stay awake to get through the day so I can dream. I dream so that I can handle being awake. The task of making the bed in the morning is symbolic of the end of dreams and the start of reality yet again, which is why I dread it. The whole ritual of preparing for the night - arranging my evening medication and setting up my toiletries for the shower - is relaxing. It's become blatantly clear to me that I equate sleep with death and while I dare not take my own life, I wish I weren't here.

How sad is it when you go to the emergency room for food poisoning and hope they find cancer - find something that presents the ultimate finality? How awful it is that I deliberately die a slow death every day when I fail to manage my diabetes. How frustrating it is that I can't seem to convince those around me of this reality.

I dream but I don't have nightmares, because my life itself is the nightmare that I seek to awaken from every single day.