Hydrophobiaphobia

Daily writing prompt

What’s a fear you’ve overcome — and how did you do it?

When I was a child, I had a fear of getting rabies. This probably came from my mother cautioning me not to pet every stray dog and cat that wandered in my direction. Instead of ceasing to pet them, I petted them and then obsessed over it — “what if he slobbered on a scratch on my arm and he had rabies?”

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Rabies is a legitimate thing to be worried about. It’s virtually 100% fatal once symptoms show up. And the incubation time is somewhere between 2 weeks and 2 years. So it can come out of nowhere. The biggest thing, though, is that it results from something I shouldn’t do, and it’s” the ultimate getting caught doing something wrong.” Like pregnancy but fatal.

I had nightmares about getting attacked by rabid animals, usually cats, although bats and raccoons also showed up in my dreams. It was through dreams that I overcame the fear. I can lucid dream — that is, I can dream aware that I am dreaming and change the outcomes of dreams. I started taking control of my rabies dreams — by killing off the rabid animals and sending them in to get tested. By getting the rabies prophylaxis shots in time. I did the right things and survived.

This helped me when the bats were getting into my house and my cats were taking them down. I got so I could put on the leather gloves and scoop the bats up to be tested for rabies. It turned out the colony in my attic wasn’t carrying rabies, and we eventually stopped the bats from living in our attic. I think I would have been a total mess if I hadn’t gotten over my hydrophobiaphobia.

Cats, Of Course

Daily writing prompt

Dogs or cats?

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I am a cat lover. Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs too. I will pet every dog I get a chance to pet, and yell “Look at the goggie” to my husband across a parking lot. But, as one of my cats (Chloe) is sitting in my lap while I type, it’s obvious that I prefer cats to dogs.

Cats have peculiar personalities. One might even say they’re little weirdos in fur suits. Me-Me tries to ingratiate herself to people in the bathroom. Chloe tries to lick faces. Pumpkin hisses at all the other cats, and Chucky is just breathtakingly brainless (he’s an orange cat; orange cat owners will know what I mean.)

Cats do not have a fanatical devotion to their owners. I do not deserve fanatical devotion, nor do I want it. It’s only smart for a cat to look upon me with a bit of skepticism. It shows discernment. [ppppppppppppppppppppppppp;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; (This is Chloe’s response to reading the above paragraph. Note the lack of fanatical devotion.)

My personality is mercurial, quirky, and at times a bit inscrutable. I’m a lot like a cat that way, so I think I will always get along best with cats.

Musing about the Rainbow Bridge

Right now, I’m sitting in bed coming down with something. A cold, the flu, my imagination — I’m not sure. I barely notice the clutter — the clothes racks that substitute for a closet, the pile of stuffed toys on the cedar chest, bins of summer clothes — but I do notice the round black-and-white cat who cleans herself at the foot of the bed. Stinkerbelle, after a long period of antisocial behavior, has settled into her second kittenhood at age 11, where she clings to me and occasionally cleans my face.

What does Stinkerbelle dream of? She’s a simple creature — she likely dreams of food. Lots of food. And enough petting that she actually gets tired of it. Maybe she dreams of playing, because her arthritic hips no longer will let her do so. They give her trouble merely walking, and jumping on the bed requires three tries now.

Maybe she contemplates the Rainbow Bridge. All pets go to the Rainbow Bridge when they die. When they cross the Bridge into the endless meadow, all their infirmities of life are somehow made irrelevant. They can run, they can play, they can see. The rain that bathes the plants somehow doesn’t drench their fur, so they can run in the raindrops.

At the Rainbow Bridge, they thrive until their owners come, and when we arrive, they remember us and escort us to the endless meadow. I wonder about the dogs and cats who were never adopted, and I’d like to think that some of us pet lovers would adopt them there.

Somehow, we owners think we’re going to Heaven or Hell and our pets think we’re going to the Rainbow Bridge to meet them. Maybe the Rainbow Bridge leads to Heaven. But remember — all pets go to heaven. Have we created in our imagination a better afterlife for pets than we have for ourselves?