Lucy Talks

Well, read at your own risk. Or don't. You might not want to today. I am still dealing with my pet's death, and today just bites emotionally. Many rhetorical questions and mixed tenses ahead.

So, some days there must be a rule that says "I am the daughter and it is my right to make your life as sucky as mine appears to be, so there." Like we don't have more important things to fight about, I was fighting with her because she was helping, for crying out loud. WTF? I need a nice three week rest in a spa with medication, I swear. She's bored, so therefore she's hungry and cranky and just generally a pain to be around. Gameboys and books aren't enough. Whatever.

You know that Zach Malloy song, Early Morning Phone Call? Yeah, that's the one. He's from here in the metroplex, btw. Until recently, whenever I'd hear that song, I immediately thought of my cousin, coincidentally named Zack, who was a fabulous person all the way around. Police officer, volunteer firefighter, big brother extraordinaire, one of those people who make you want to be a better person. Always polite and courteous. I still miss him. Anyway, back to the point, if there is one. I had a cat, two cats, actually. One, named George, was MY cat. Didn't really like anyone but me, though he tolerated others or hid away while they were around. Quite the opposite of my other cat, Merlin, who is a lapslut for anyone human. George was a gift from my aunt, the Manx breeder. Merlin was a gift from the friends who star in the remainder of the story.

So, awhile back, my mother died. Not really emotionally impacting. And lest that sound harsh, I knew she was dying. Knew, in fact, that she was killing herself as slowly as it is possibly to do with alcohol, and in denial until the day she died. Of more impact was that I spent five grueling weeks cleaning out her house. Trash, crap, unbelievable amounts of just junk, a three bedroom house sorted down to a storage unit after all is said and done. So, I only worked with my Mon/Thur client, and made next to no money. Unfortunately, two days before my mother died, I had given notice, gladly, at my apartment. Only I forgot to look for a place to live in all the working day and night at my mom's house.

I have wonderful friends, two of whom offered to put me/kid/cats up until I could dig myself out of the Fort Worth style pothole I got into financially. Things went fairly well. I pitched in on groceries, paid the cable bill, picked up and dropped off kids, bought cat food, just generally helped around the house when I thought about it. I'm not the perfect long-term houseguest, but I tried.

About a month ago on a Saturday morning, the two parents were out of the house. Kid and I were vegging. I was thinking about a shower sometime soon. I hear this sound, like an animal in pain. Kid beats me to the back door and starts yelling that the dogs are hurting a little dog. I'm running out the back door, still behind Kid and she starts screaming, "George, George!" I get out there and start issuing orders while a corner is falling out of the bottom of my elevator. Who knew a cat would have such impact on my life? He's meowing like he knows that momma's there and she'll fix everything. I tried. I got on the phone with the vet, tried cat CPR, drove (defensively, of course) like a madwoman to another vet who was closer, only to have them tell me that he was already dead, and charge me $45 for the privilege of cremating his body. You know it would have been more to have his ashes returned to me than it cost to cremate my mother? Somebody's got a freakin' racket. I go home, take a very long shower, can't stop crying all day. My friends return, one at a time, because their boy called them (he was a rock throughout the trip to the vet's). The first one's there when I get out of the shower and she combed my hair for a few minutes - something that used to soothe her as a child, and told me that there were a number of adoptable cats on the Moonlady list. The other one just said she's really sorry that this happened, and I'm left feeling a bit empty by the apology. I've known this girl since I was 15, well over half my life, and her apology is just so mechanical. I wonder if I really know her at all. Apparently, I have expectations of how people will act when their animals are responsible for killing my cat, and boy did they fall short. I'm still wondering why no one's reimbursed my vet bill, or why I had to go on Sunday to buy more cat food (we buy it from a feed store in Garland), and why no one, still, has hugged me or sat down on the couch and held my hand, or really anything. I'm still wondering why the person who belongs to one of the three dogs still didn't know three days later what her dog had done because no one had called her. She was heartfelt in her apology, using words like horrified, embarrassed, stunned and the like, and asked during the course of the conversation what I wanted/needed to make me feel better about the whole thing. I didn't know then, and don't know now. She came and got her dog because I asked her to do it and had just gotten a place where she has room for the dog.

And now, to just make my day, Kid wants to watch the final episode of Touched by an Angel. Guess I need to find the tissues.

The next day, I spent as much time out of the house as I could, because I just didn't want to be in the same place as those damn dogs, and continued to try to avoid being home as often as possible. It took nearly two weeks before I stopped being so angry at them I wanted to rip them apart. I moved out two weeks ago, to a residence hotel down the freeway. Though it's small, the privacy is very welcome. Now I feel as though the friendship might possibly recover someday without the constant reminders that my cat's murderers are running around scot-free. I know, calling dogs murderers, right? I don't know what else to say. I left Merlin there, since he's related to all but one cat in the house, and adopted the oldest boy almost as soon as we started staying there. Things have started seeming more normal, and we've made it to school and work on time or early (something to which Kid seems deathly allergic - she inherited that from my mother, without a doubt ).

I had a tough day, the first day back at work after George died. My client was very understanding and shared some memories of her own pet, and since a big part of my job involves being left alone to just do my work, I coped by being very busy. I've been busy a lot the last few weeks.

My aunt has told me that there'll be another cat for me whenever I'm ready. Someday.