Mangled

I almost hate to write this.  It will be post 3334.  That's a lot of posting.  Some AI could come along and mine my personality. 

I would exist in a formless void, online. No thanks. 

Life is hard enough as it is. 

I didn't sleep well last night, I got perhaps 4 hours of sleep.  I also had cats sleeping on my legs so I couldn't roll over. 

After the events I don't plan to evict them, so I just have to live with it.  I couldn't bear to recall the last thing I did to my healthy cat was shove it out of bed, then something developed and I had to put it down. 

I am choosing, for my last healthy memory of Gravy, the following: He liked to lay on the top shelf of the kitty condo.  He would stick his paws out at odd angles (which I could see as a horrible omen of the injury to come), with little pink pads facing out. 

I liked to walk by, adjust myself, and kiss the pads on his feet.  He would always raise his head and look at me, I would pet him and coo, and then I would move on to whatever it was I was doing.  I can still feel those warm pink pads on my lips. 

That's going to be my memory. 

For Bubba (the last one to go before Gravy), it's Bubba, come in from the pet door, meowing proudly, a rat in his mouth.  The tail went all the way to the ground as the rat screeched, the noise blending with Bubba's very loud, proud, meows "I got a rat". 

He was so, damned, proud. 

Or I could say it was the one time he got in my lap.  Ron had had a blackout the night before and things looked very hopeless.  I wondered if I would even be living with Ron in a few months.  I had signed him up for Intervention, which failed (Ron said later it's a good thing it did as he would have left rather than stop drinking).   The sleep deprivation and verbal abuse were taking a terrible toll on me, and I was massively depressed. 

I couldn't see a way out of it, and I collapsed into a backyard chair, totally depressed.  Bubba was patrolling the yard, and he came over.  I petted him and he got in my lap.  It was freezing out, and I wasn't dressed for it, but I sat out there, in the chair, with nice warm Bubba in my lap giving me hope that things would get better.   He sat there for at least 20 minutes, and he never did it again. 

I guess that's what you do: you take the good memory and you hang onto it.  I recall my grandmother (the good one), calling me after Ron's accident, very concerned.  I also recall her taking me grocery shopping and getting what I wanted.  That's a big deal for a child from a large family.  She also admired my needlework and encouraged me in my "old timey" hobbies.  She was very kind and supportive. 

My other grandmother was psychotic and paranoid, and wanted nothing to do with me.  I made overtures, repeatedly, but she was not interested.  At any rate, I tried, she wasn't interested, and I have taken away an important object lesson in taking one's pills as directed. 

I was not close to my mother.  I cried when she died because I didn't have a mother, but I never had a mother.  I believe she tried her best but I needed far more than she could give. 

I don't mean to say I was unusually demanding, but I, as an infant, needed a certain level of care, which I didn't get.  It was a blessing when I went into daycare, the only thing my poor baffled father could do.  They didn't have nannies for the middle class back then and my mother was insanely jealous. 

I do, however, have one good memory.  She visited me once when I was about 10.  We were both manic, I realize now.  She had a convertible (my dad's always driven convertibles, too), and we drove off into the sun, singing.  She also encouraged me in rock collecting, something I didn't pursue in the long run.  She encouraged me to think, something I needed. 

Everyone was busy wringing their hands and trying to figure out special PE classes, she just said, enjoy reading, use your brain, crafts are fun. 

But that's about all.  So I hang onto my ONE good memory and move on. 

My adoptive mother, the one who bought my first box of tampons, taught me about sex, told me my horrible acne would improve, and helped encourage my love of cats, is still alive.  She is in pretty good shape, too. 

My Dad is in much better shape than Ron.  Since Dad was my primary caregiver when I was little I am a Daddy's Girl. 

If I worry about losing one of my humans I worry about Ron.  He takes Tylenol with alcohol.  He doesn't eat his vegetables.  He is sedentary.  He has a clot filter. 

If I allow myself to worry, which I don't. 

I mean, look at Torbie.  She is old, she is obese.  I figured for certain she would be the next to die.  But she wasn't.  She's curled up with Ron and Gravy is in cold storage or smoking cinders. 

You just don't know.  For that matter, I could be the next to die.  I do what I can to take care of myself but anything could be going on. 

But, like I said, I don't allow myself to worry about that kind of stuff. 

It isn't as easy as it sounds.  It is more like hardcore, heavy, grappling than a simple flick of the wrist.  But I would be consumed by a million worries. 

And you know what?  I never once worried about how to stop Gravy from getting - mauled.  I never once worried about the cats' safety outside.  I had mild worries about them hit by a car but Bubba lived the streets for over 10 years.  He was fine, right? 

So I didn't worry, never even thought to worry, about keeping Gravy safe.  I'm not flogging myself, just pointing it out. 

And even if I had worried there's not much I could have done, short of building a catio, which we are doing. 

NOW.

Worrying about the bad thing does not prevent it from happening, and the bad thing that happens was probably never on your worry list to begin with. 

So, back to my day.  I got up, took my shower, did my God Time before I got on the computer later. 

We went to work.  We stocked, I used up everything I had.  We got our soda delivery.  The guy was having low blood sugar so I gave him a honey bun.  That fixed him up right quick. 

We got the coffee machine set up.  Barely.  We still need some inventory but we will get it all eventually. 

He suggested I get a very dark roast ground, so I will look tomorrow.  I will need some more instruction on care & feeding of this VERY complicated beast. 

I don't want to think about that. 

We went to the bank and deposited a check.  We went to the mall to try to find Ron a new fanny pack, but they don't have the one he likes.  He may have to use the army surplus one I got him off Amazon. 

We came home and I took a short nap, again with cats in the bed.  Biscuit was so tightly cuddled against me I had butt cramps.  But I didn't evict him.  He realized, I think, and left on his own. 

I slept for about 2 hours.  I woke up just in time for the handyman. 

He came out and did the consult for the catio.  It will be about 15 feet long, and 7 feet wide. 

[The people behind us put their dog in the backyard, and it is baying a lot.  I hope they take it in again before I go to bed.  They normally do.  That dog is my #1 suspect on what hurt Gravy.]

We will see how it looks when it's finished.  I have a persistent fear it will not confine the cats.  I pray it does.  I really do. 

I don't want anyone else getting mangled.