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Apr. 11th, 2010 04:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thejunipertreeEff you, Petfinder. Seriously.
I had thought I found a good match for me. All black, fairly adult, male. The blurb under his photo said he's sweet and loves to be picked up. Named Hercules. I got quite excited and after some run around about whether he was at the actual shelter, or at the PetSmart hosting the shelter's cats, I was finally able to meet him yesterday.
He seemed cool, very friendly. Started purring as soon as I started petting him, but he seemed a small bit standoffish, almost as if he really couldn't care that there was a potentially devoted skinjob giving him skritches. He flopped over onto his side several times and swatted at my hand, pulling it down to mouth at, but it seemed as if it was done in a playful manner, so I didn't think much about it. I told the shelter I wanted him and we set up a Sunday afternoon pick-up date.
During the same visit, my attention was drawn to another cat there named Linus. He was black and white, mostly white, and was so pointy that he looked as if there was a bit of Siamese or another similar breed in his blood. He was quite gregarious and affectionate, giving me headbutts and pawing at my scarf through the bars of his cage inbetween bouts of raising hell with his newspaper and water dish. I thought about maybe adopting him as well, despite his majority white fur. I pushed away thoughts of investing stock in whoever invented the lint tape roller.
I went back to the shelter on Friday with the Engineer, so that he could meet Hercules and Linus for the first time. Hercules came right over to me and I petted him for a bit. He swatted at my hand again, but I figured it was his way of telling me he doesn't like pettings to do all the way down his tail. My hand bled a bit, but I'm used to wearing cat battle scars. It happens.
Linus was an absolute doll, and I took him out of his cage for the first time. He melted in my arms and made mrrrrrp sounds at me. But, when I took him over to see Hercules through the cage bars, he immediately made airplace ears and growled quietly as I walked him back away. The Engineer noted how quickly Linus got defense, but I chalked it up to shelter jitters. Linus hadn't been in the shelter for all that long and was probably still a bit nervous of other cats.
Later, I was holding Hercules for the second or third time since I gotten there, when he suddenly laid his ears back and smacked the shit out of my face. The Engineer cried out in shock and surprise and I very calmly got back Hercules back into his cage, closed and latched the door, and then just began to shake. I could feel my face was bleeding, not much- it was just a small scratch, but I was bleeding nonetheless. I kind of fluttered in place for a moment, stuttering at the Engineer. And then, I started to cry helplessly.
I haven't written at all since Tinker died, so not many of you know anything about the emotional hellride my broken brain has pirouetted into lately. I had been searching through Petfinder ads all week, in turns being excited at the prospect of adopting new cats and incredibly guilt-ridden for doing this so soon after I had put Tinker down. On some levels, I was just so desperate to fill this hole that's been gouged in my life, so frantic to make this fucking pain go away from my heart, that I flung my arms out into the world and reeled in the first thing that stuck.
At that moment when the cat struck me in the face and I knew that it wasn't going to work out and that it really wasn't the best idea to be adopting this cat, I had constructed an ages-old protection around myself of everything is going to be ok because it has to be ok. I thought I had gotten rid of that mind set a while ago (around the same time as when I discovered that even though two people love each other beyond all reckoning, it does not certainly not mean shit is going to work out). I had convinced myself that since the cat had fit certain criteria I was looking for, that it had meant he was The Cat For Me.
As long as I had got a cat who fit what was perfect cat-shaped in my head, then everything was cool. Magical thinking at its finest. I can't stand that shit. But in my grief, I had fallen prey to it.
So, I told the shelter I was going to have to cancel my Sunday pick-up. Explained why and was summarily annoyed by the shelter worker's response of "Well, every cat is different and some cats have different personalities and just really aren't cuddle-cats."
No goddamn shit, lady. Too bad your ad harped so much on how he was all about the holding. Thanks a fucking lot.
On the way home, the Engineer kept trying to talk me out of my tree. I was so heartbroken at the entire situation, guiltysick and utterly disappointed. He eventually convinced me to inquire at a different shelter about another cat I had bookmarked out of interest.
This cat was possibly being held at another local Petsmart by a different organization. Stewart. Found abandoned in a tollbooth on the Jersey Turnpike. All black and too many toes. I grudgingly agreed to drive up there just to look at him and if a volunteer was working, to meet him.
When we got there, Stewart was not to be found (he'd been sent back to his foster home for a bit) and I was ok with it. I figured I could just go home, fill out the online application and wait. After realizing why I had been so frantic before, now I was just accepting of the situation. Patience would win me what cat I should adopt, what was The Cat For Me. If it took time, it took time. This bitch was practically zen-faced over this shit, right? Right.
I look around at the other cats there; I've always enjoyed reading the different names of the cats up for adoption at Petsmart, trying to match them up with their appearances. Sargent was a wide load of a stately creature, all imperiousness and swagger. Chloe had enormous paws, but a dainty face. Clawde (Clawdius Maximus it read in parentheses next to his name) was nine pounds of pure goof. Down at the end of the row was Drew (who actually was a cat I had bookmarked and forgotten about) and Timothy, housed together.
Drew was sleek and black, much younger (6 months) than I had thought he was from his photo. Timothy was striped, semi long-haired with the tuftiest ears I've ever seen and an adolescently plumey tail, like a teen boy's first attempt at a beard. Kind of silly to look at right this moment, but you could see a shadow of its potential fabulousness. Timothy was tiny, (also 6 months old) polydactyl and had a wonky left eye. The Engineer seemed to take an immediate liking to Timothy and when I made noises about leaving, he asked me if I didn't want to maybe meet the pair of them.
Long story short (yeah, right), we're picking them up on Wednesday night.
hee.
I had to fill out an application that rivaled top level security clearence and went through a surprise phone call from the rescue owner this afternoon where I apparently impressed the shit out of her (they haven't adopted out anyone in a month because they don't operate on a first come first served basis and are strict about who they adopt out to). First, with using the word "polydactyl" in a sentence, secondly talking about injection site sarcomas, and thirdly- when I told her I feed Innova Evo. So impressed that she's not even going to bother calling my vet or my landlord. Wow! I take this as high praise, particularly from someone who appears to be running such a tight rescue that's running right. Seriously, their set-up in Petsmart was the best one I've ever seen. Through creative space planning, they had constructed a fantastic set up that wasn't only efficient, but also attractive. The cats all seemed happy and active and friendly. Mind-boggling compared to some of the other set ups I've seen over time and recently.
Someone who seems to be One Who Knows What They're Doing telling me that I'm One Who Also Knows What They're Doing feels like I just got let into the cool kids club or something. I strive for it with my pets, particularly the snakes because their husbandry is so twiddly and easily unsettled. High praise indeed.
So, Drew and Timothy will be coming home to us on Wednesday and we're possibly contemplating inquiring about Stewart as well. The Engineer is psyched, which makes me happy because I so wanted him to be comfortable with and like whatever cats I picked out. Given that we've co-habitated for almost a year now and have been together for almost nine, I reckon he's not going anywhere any time soon really.
All is not roses and daisies completely though and this bit of happiness is slightly tinged. Baby, outliving all of the cats much to everyone's surprise like some bizarre orange Highlander, has been doing quite poorly all week. He's not in pain, other than creaky joints, and he still acts like himself, but he's eating scarily little (he's mostly just licking the top of the wet food) and doesn't come out from under the ottoman hardly ever. He couldn't jump up on the couch Thursday and Friday nights, despite trying several times. He's got that bony feel to him and his eyes are looking sunken. I think he's just about had it and it's probably best to bring him to the vet to be put to sleep. My poor old man, I don't want it to get to the point where he's going into shock and organ failure and I think that would come on its own by mid-week. That's not fair to him; after such an amazingly long life, he deserves to rest. His quality of life is receding so quickly, and I don't want him to endure any further discomfort.
I'll miss him, as I miss all my now-gone pets. The lack of his quietly comforting, yet very leaky, presence in my life will be strange. He's been in it for twenty-two, almost twenty-three years, after all. And when he dies, I'm losing one of the last big connections to my mother, but I'm trying to look at all of this as the next stage in my life beginning. It's been a rough ride so far, so I'm hoping I hit this next one cruising. I don't expect it all to be smooth as glass and ticker tape parades, but not so many fucking potholes would be nice for a change.
I had thought I found a good match for me. All black, fairly adult, male. The blurb under his photo said he's sweet and loves to be picked up. Named Hercules. I got quite excited and after some run around about whether he was at the actual shelter, or at the PetSmart hosting the shelter's cats, I was finally able to meet him yesterday.
He seemed cool, very friendly. Started purring as soon as I started petting him, but he seemed a small bit standoffish, almost as if he really couldn't care that there was a potentially devoted skinjob giving him skritches. He flopped over onto his side several times and swatted at my hand, pulling it down to mouth at, but it seemed as if it was done in a playful manner, so I didn't think much about it. I told the shelter I wanted him and we set up a Sunday afternoon pick-up date.
During the same visit, my attention was drawn to another cat there named Linus. He was black and white, mostly white, and was so pointy that he looked as if there was a bit of Siamese or another similar breed in his blood. He was quite gregarious and affectionate, giving me headbutts and pawing at my scarf through the bars of his cage inbetween bouts of raising hell with his newspaper and water dish. I thought about maybe adopting him as well, despite his majority white fur. I pushed away thoughts of investing stock in whoever invented the lint tape roller.
I went back to the shelter on Friday with the Engineer, so that he could meet Hercules and Linus for the first time. Hercules came right over to me and I petted him for a bit. He swatted at my hand again, but I figured it was his way of telling me he doesn't like pettings to do all the way down his tail. My hand bled a bit, but I'm used to wearing cat battle scars. It happens.
Linus was an absolute doll, and I took him out of his cage for the first time. He melted in my arms and made mrrrrrp sounds at me. But, when I took him over to see Hercules through the cage bars, he immediately made airplace ears and growled quietly as I walked him back away. The Engineer noted how quickly Linus got defense, but I chalked it up to shelter jitters. Linus hadn't been in the shelter for all that long and was probably still a bit nervous of other cats.
Later, I was holding Hercules for the second or third time since I gotten there, when he suddenly laid his ears back and smacked the shit out of my face. The Engineer cried out in shock and surprise and I very calmly got back Hercules back into his cage, closed and latched the door, and then just began to shake. I could feel my face was bleeding, not much- it was just a small scratch, but I was bleeding nonetheless. I kind of fluttered in place for a moment, stuttering at the Engineer. And then, I started to cry helplessly.
I haven't written at all since Tinker died, so not many of you know anything about the emotional hellride my broken brain has pirouetted into lately. I had been searching through Petfinder ads all week, in turns being excited at the prospect of adopting new cats and incredibly guilt-ridden for doing this so soon after I had put Tinker down. On some levels, I was just so desperate to fill this hole that's been gouged in my life, so frantic to make this fucking pain go away from my heart, that I flung my arms out into the world and reeled in the first thing that stuck.
At that moment when the cat struck me in the face and I knew that it wasn't going to work out and that it really wasn't the best idea to be adopting this cat, I had constructed an ages-old protection around myself of everything is going to be ok because it has to be ok. I thought I had gotten rid of that mind set a while ago (around the same time as when I discovered that even though two people love each other beyond all reckoning, it does not certainly not mean shit is going to work out). I had convinced myself that since the cat had fit certain criteria I was looking for, that it had meant he was The Cat For Me.
As long as I had got a cat who fit what was perfect cat-shaped in my head, then everything was cool. Magical thinking at its finest. I can't stand that shit. But in my grief, I had fallen prey to it.
So, I told the shelter I was going to have to cancel my Sunday pick-up. Explained why and was summarily annoyed by the shelter worker's response of "Well, every cat is different and some cats have different personalities and just really aren't cuddle-cats."
No goddamn shit, lady. Too bad your ad harped so much on how he was all about the holding. Thanks a fucking lot.
On the way home, the Engineer kept trying to talk me out of my tree. I was so heartbroken at the entire situation, guiltysick and utterly disappointed. He eventually convinced me to inquire at a different shelter about another cat I had bookmarked out of interest.
This cat was possibly being held at another local Petsmart by a different organization. Stewart. Found abandoned in a tollbooth on the Jersey Turnpike. All black and too many toes. I grudgingly agreed to drive up there just to look at him and if a volunteer was working, to meet him.
When we got there, Stewart was not to be found (he'd been sent back to his foster home for a bit) and I was ok with it. I figured I could just go home, fill out the online application and wait. After realizing why I had been so frantic before, now I was just accepting of the situation. Patience would win me what cat I should adopt, what was The Cat For Me. If it took time, it took time. This bitch was practically zen-faced over this shit, right? Right.
I look around at the other cats there; I've always enjoyed reading the different names of the cats up for adoption at Petsmart, trying to match them up with their appearances. Sargent was a wide load of a stately creature, all imperiousness and swagger. Chloe had enormous paws, but a dainty face. Clawde (Clawdius Maximus it read in parentheses next to his name) was nine pounds of pure goof. Down at the end of the row was Drew (who actually was a cat I had bookmarked and forgotten about) and Timothy, housed together.
Drew was sleek and black, much younger (6 months) than I had thought he was from his photo. Timothy was striped, semi long-haired with the tuftiest ears I've ever seen and an adolescently plumey tail, like a teen boy's first attempt at a beard. Kind of silly to look at right this moment, but you could see a shadow of its potential fabulousness. Timothy was tiny, (also 6 months old) polydactyl and had a wonky left eye. The Engineer seemed to take an immediate liking to Timothy and when I made noises about leaving, he asked me if I didn't want to maybe meet the pair of them.
Long story short (yeah, right), we're picking them up on Wednesday night.
hee.
I had to fill out an application that rivaled top level security clearence and went through a surprise phone call from the rescue owner this afternoon where I apparently impressed the shit out of her (they haven't adopted out anyone in a month because they don't operate on a first come first served basis and are strict about who they adopt out to). First, with using the word "polydactyl" in a sentence, secondly talking about injection site sarcomas, and thirdly- when I told her I feed Innova Evo. So impressed that she's not even going to bother calling my vet or my landlord. Wow! I take this as high praise, particularly from someone who appears to be running such a tight rescue that's running right. Seriously, their set-up in Petsmart was the best one I've ever seen. Through creative space planning, they had constructed a fantastic set up that wasn't only efficient, but also attractive. The cats all seemed happy and active and friendly. Mind-boggling compared to some of the other set ups I've seen over time and recently.
Someone who seems to be One Who Knows What They're Doing telling me that I'm One Who Also Knows What They're Doing feels like I just got let into the cool kids club or something. I strive for it with my pets, particularly the snakes because their husbandry is so twiddly and easily unsettled. High praise indeed.
So, Drew and Timothy will be coming home to us on Wednesday and we're possibly contemplating inquiring about Stewart as well. The Engineer is psyched, which makes me happy because I so wanted him to be comfortable with and like whatever cats I picked out. Given that we've co-habitated for almost a year now and have been together for almost nine, I reckon he's not going anywhere any time soon really.
All is not roses and daisies completely though and this bit of happiness is slightly tinged. Baby, outliving all of the cats much to everyone's surprise like some bizarre orange Highlander, has been doing quite poorly all week. He's not in pain, other than creaky joints, and he still acts like himself, but he's eating scarily little (he's mostly just licking the top of the wet food) and doesn't come out from under the ottoman hardly ever. He couldn't jump up on the couch Thursday and Friday nights, despite trying several times. He's got that bony feel to him and his eyes are looking sunken. I think he's just about had it and it's probably best to bring him to the vet to be put to sleep. My poor old man, I don't want it to get to the point where he's going into shock and organ failure and I think that would come on its own by mid-week. That's not fair to him; after such an amazingly long life, he deserves to rest. His quality of life is receding so quickly, and I don't want him to endure any further discomfort.
I'll miss him, as I miss all my now-gone pets. The lack of his quietly comforting, yet very leaky, presence in my life will be strange. He's been in it for twenty-two, almost twenty-three years, after all. And when he dies, I'm losing one of the last big connections to my mother, but I'm trying to look at all of this as the next stage in my life beginning. It's been a rough ride so far, so I'm hoping I hit this next one cruising. I don't expect it all to be smooth as glass and ticker tape parades, but not so many fucking potholes would be nice for a change.
