I’m a wee bit soused right now, so if this is occasionally incomprehensible, forgive me. I shall correct it tomorrow.
About a month ago (or so - as I said, soused, and cannot remember details) I made the decision to get rid of my cats. Yes, cats. I had two. First was Earnest, who I had from his kittency (that is, kitten infancy) and second was Chester, who I took in for the sole purpose of preserving the shreds of sanity which Earnest daily shed. My sanity, not his. All over the apartment. Earnest was wild, vicious, and much beloved. But it was his time to go. No, I did not bury him in the backyard, although I occasionally wished I could. My apartment does not have a backyard and that was therefore not an option. Earnest was given to a dear Boisean friend and his roommate who love the wild little creature, and who are in posession of a lovely backyard (though not for burial purposes, I hope). Chester, the cat obtained recently, the Leah to Earnest’s Rachel, did not fulfill my utilitarian desires. Earnest and Chester fought, and peed and shed all over, quickly obliterating my lovely dreams of peace and quiet and feline amicitial relationships, and also my dreams of a lovely, clean, apartment. So, the cats had to go. Earnest, as mentioned above, journeyed to Boise. Chester was a bit trickier. I know very few people in this area, and my desire to be rid of him was quickly trumped by my inability to find a good home. I first tried Craigslist, which yielded several strange encounters of people who wanted him! Now! He is perfect! Let’s talk! I’m very serious! Which rapidly devolved into, Oh, I’m not sure! I know I haven’t seen him yet, but I’m not interested! For these people I have only a few words: double-ewe tee eff.
Chester (GK Chestercat, for those theology - or Christian mystery fiction - buffs) deserved better, but in the mean time, I had grown increasingly frustrated with his neediness. Which is to say, I did not like that he wanted to cuddle. I have limited amounts of love, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste it on a cat. Yet here he was, after my long, hard day at work, rubbing up against my legs, purring and kneading, and (worst of all) NEEDING me, like a desperate puppy. If I wanted a dog, I’d get a mother fucking dog. So, here’s the truth: I got rid of Earnest because he was unhappy, but I got rid of Chester because I’m damn near soulless, and I don’t like being reminded of that by a cat.
So, I called the Seattle Humane Society, and (after ascertaining that they were a no-kill shelter, my one stipulation) I made an appointment to relinquish the Chestercat. I said I was allergic, but I didn’t specify that I was allergic to love. After a few increasingly tense weeks, the day (yesterday) finally arrived and I drove up to Bellevue with Chester. He waited in the car while I filled out paperwork, and, as I completed the personality profile, I found myself thankful that his one major flaw was that he was TOO friendly and cuddly, and silently hoped that he would find a home with someone with more affection than I, my singular consolation being that that would be a relatively easy task. After I signed the final documents, the girl at the front desk cooed at the cat, and said abruptly to me, when she saw me hesitating, that we were finished. I walked out to my car and, to my surprise, started bawling. I didn’t cry at all when I said goodbye to Earnest, and he was my baby, but for some reason THIS goodbye really hit me. Or perhaps, it was the latent guilt that I had housed and fed this creature, but never given him a home. Never loved him.
I am sometimes frightened by my lack of even a semblance of maternal instincts, not because I think that it makes me an evil person, but moreso because I feel deficient. I watch my female peers cooing over babies and wonder what the draw is. Sure, babies are cute, and I occasionally enjoy being around them, but I certainly don’t want one. The best part of holding someone else’s kid is giving it back. This disturbs me, because in the not-too-distant future I will most likely find myself a mommy (or something very like a mommy) and I’m told the Humane Society does not accept children. Meaning, I will have to put up with the peeing, and the crying and the wanting to be loved. Oh god.
At least babies don’t shed.
