Quick Post

This is a contractual obligation post so I don’t lose my posting streak. I have a final exam to give this morning at 7:30, so not much time to write. I might write again later today.

Here’s a picture of a kitten.

In Memory: Me-Me

Me-Me, my seventeen-year-old kitten, died yesterday afternoon. She had been aging for a while, going through what looked like a bout of feline senility, so it wasn’t unexpected.

We adopted her as a kitten from the neighbor’s. One afternoon, there was a knock on the door and my husband and I answered it to two little girls who wanted to know if we wanted a kitten because the local tom had killed all the male kittens in the litter and they wanted to save these kittens. I decided on the grey-and-white kitten, and we named her Me-Me, because she liked to be the center of my attention.

Meemerz was a one-person cat for much of the time, and that one person was me. She would hiss and bite Richard, until one day she warmed up to him and became our cat.

She was always a bit — flaky. Ditzy. Flighty. Spacy. Whatever word you choose to denote a cat who seems a little … vacant up there. She wasn’t cognitively impaired, just an airhead. Like she didn’t have a thought in the world. We imagined her saying things like “Why are clouds?” and “Food?”

This morning seems a little empty without my geriatric cat sitting on the couch.

Old Girlie-Girl

An old cat

I have an old cat sitting next to me my Girlie-Girl. I don’t know when she got old; I’m not even sure of her age. She could be anywhere from 9 to 13 years old, which I think is young for a cat getting old.

She feels lighter than she did when younger, as though her form has been filled with air. She’s not skinny; she’s not even smaller than she’s ever been. She just feels less substantial than she had. She’s in fine health despite it, and other than a touch of arthritis she has no health complaints.

She yowls in a cranky way when she’s not in the room with us. If we call out for her the yowling settles into a calmer meow, almost like she has found her way again. I wonder about dementia; as there’s nothing to be done about that, we just live with her peculiarities.

Cats’ lives

Cats live for a shorter lifespan than we do; it’s just reality. The average indoor cat lives on average 13 years of age, but keep in mind that some cats die younger and some much, much older. I’ve had cats live to 19 and 20 years of age. To be a cat owner is to watch your beloved cats die before you. (I have seen seven of my cats die in my 57 years of existence, including a newborn foster cat. Which averages out to 13.)

So Girlie won’t live forever; at this point it’s hard to say when she’ll die. If she’s like most tortoiseshell/calicos I have known, she’ll live to 19 or 20. But it’s hard to tell. For now I’m going to have to enjoy her and keep an eye on her.

A Little Bit About a Little Kitten

After yesterday’s intense post, I’ve decided I need to write something fluffy. And purry. And zoomy.

So I’ll take a brief moment to talk about my new kitten, Chloe.

We got Chloe a week ago, as in impulse cat adoption after Stinkerbelle died. She’s a two-month-old kitten, at the time when their eyes aren’t quite the color they’ll be and they have little bellies still.

Chloe is a combination of sweetness and orneriness, like raspberry-jalapeno salsa (which I highly recommend). She will spend nights alternating between curling up against me and tearing up the bedroom she’s held in quarantine in. Sometimes she thinks my hand is something to gently pat with her little paws and sometimes she thinks it’s prey.

I love this little kitten. Biologists suggest that we love cats because they remind us of babies. I would introduce them to Chloe because she’s more like a toddler right now, one who draws with crayons on the wall and then asks for a hug with big brown eyes.

Chloe makes my dread about going back into the classroom a bit easier to take. There is life, and there is love.

A Perfect Moment

I think I have experienced a perfect moment.

My husband and I have just had coffee and breakfast, and we are both sprawled on the bed (fully clothed). I am typing this entry on my computer while Chloe the kitten tries to climb up my lap desk, and Richard the husband surfs on his phone. Outside, the dark sky and occasional thunder sets a cozy mood.

I have had very few perfect moments these past months. It’s like the COVID virus has been a constant unwelcome guest. Even in our relatively sheltered county (until the students come back), cases have doubled in the past two weeks. In a month, I go back to teach with reduced class sizes; maybe that will save me from the virus. I fret about students who refuse to wear masks, because I feel pretty powerless to enforce the rule. I worry about the sheer numbers of partying students who won’t practice social distancing.

I have been sleeping more lately, and that’s the sign of depression looming. I monitor my thoughts and contradict thoughts that might send me spiraling.

So perfect moments are few and far between, but maybe that makes them all the sweeter.

Sorry for the absence — the kitten has been monopolizing my time.

I’m sorry I haven’t been here the past couple of days. I’ve been absolutely smitten with Chloe the kitten. It’s been about 9 years since we’ve had a kitten in the house, and the other three cats are middle-aged to senior citizens (ages 9-13).

Chloe is a bundle of fearless zoom-zoom energy, with baby claws and teeth and a tendency to play with all of them out. She’s a little purrbucket. She is an angelic con artist. In other words, she is a kitten.

As you can see, she is a kitten.

I’ve had to do a lot of babysitting with Chloe. She’s been living in my room, as have I, keeping herself busy and in trouble while I’ve been keeping her out of trouble. She’s met the other cats and they already hiss at each other, and I have to keep her out of fights where she’s sorely mismatched.

I’m also getting class stuff done, because my classes are going to be seriously flipped. Each class will be split into three parts, and only 1/3 will be going to class at any given time. So more work is online, and the in-class sessions will be hands on.

I need to start writing again! I think it’s been a week and a half since I’ve written. I’m rethinking my relationship to writing after writing my manifesto, and so far I have not been making time for it. I think it’s time to write a short story rather then rewriting the novel until further notice.

Have a nice relaxing Sunday!

Our New Kitten!

This is Chloe, the new member of our household, adopted from our local Humane Society. She’s an 8-week-old tortoiseshell who has revealed a quirky personality thus far. She makes a variety of noises including squeaks and purr-chirps. She’s in oral fixation mode, which means she chews on fingers and toes (and her teeth are SHARP!)

She is currently living in my room because I want to introduce her to the other cats slowly and keep the other cats from eating her kitten food. The other cats have been a little hissy at her, but they’re hissy at each other, so no surprise there.

Her belly is one big orange striped patch, unusual for a tortoiseshell. She doesn’t mind having her belly rubbed, but she hates being picked up.

I’m looking forward to watching her grow up. I’m also looking forward to her not biting my fingers.

melancholy

Things haven’t been going well lately.

I think I’m feeling the emotional toll of losing two cats (the long-time cat Snowy and baby kitten Belvedere) in a week. Strangely enough, Belvedere is the hardest to get over, even though he was only five days old; he had a purity about him with his little milk mustache and his snuffling my hand.

There’s not much good to balance that unless you count the fact that I’m still writing. I don’t want to go to work today; I just want to sleep.

Of course I’m going to go to work. That’s top priority; in Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs (a psychological construct), physiological needs (food, clothing, and shelter) are the foundation that needs to be satisfied before we fulfill any other needs:

And physiological needs cost money, which one gets by working.

In a deep depression (which I am not in), I have to remind myself of this basic fact because the inertia and hopelessness weigh me down into immobility. In a hypomanic state (which I am also not in), I have trouble concentrating on the need to go into work. In either case, the larger than life emotions of bipolar overwhelm the logic of everyday life. So constructs like Maslow’s Hierarchy keep me focused on the facts of life.

So right now I’m sleepy and sad. It’s an easy day at work today, as I get to watch other people run a poverty simulation. Then there’s the weekend, and time to recharge.

requiem for Belvedere, a five-day-old kitten

Belvedere (aka Belly Cat) died this morning after declining for the past day. We don’t know why he died; as he had been rejected by his mother, he might have had a defect incompatible with life. I don’t know.

In his five days on this earth, he traveled to work and back with me and resided by my bed at night so I could feed him every two hours (my husband took the evening shift so I could pre-nap). He squeaked and rumbled and squirmed, a delightful little creature.

As the days passed, though, he squirmed less. Last night he quit urinating, and I knew he wouldn’t make it to go to the vet the next day.

I was right. When I awoke this morning, he was limp and not moving. No heartbeat.

We did the best we could, buddy. I’m so sorry.