Shit on plywood
The cat--an outdoor cat--has taken to screeching with the sunrise at 5am, itching to get outside. There's no school bus to get up for, so I like to sleep in until 7:30 or so. Big difference in personal priority between me and Sid, the beast. So last night I put him in the bathroom and closed the door. Hey, it's no sofa, but there's a soft rug--and c'mon, he's a cat.
This morning I open the door to let him out. He's sitting there blinking with sleepy eyes, and for a minute I think, "Hey, this worked." Then I see that he's clawed up the linoleum tiles so I can see the plywood beneath--easily 1/3rd of the floor gone now--and there's a heap of shit the size of a loaf of bread in the corner. He saunters out and lies down...on the sofa. I never get the last word.
And so life, as it often will, once again offers up a moment that represents the state of affairs better than any words ever could: this place is a dump, and so is my head. Work--I do contract work for a publisher in the UK--is going to go away in the coming months; they've already slashed my fee in half, starting with this month's invoice. (And indeed, this in itself is an insult to that whole, internal sense of Where I Ought To Be By Now that we all walk around with, for good or bad; I used to be on the track, five years ago, before the AOL/Time Warner merger that, among other things, resulted in my having to let go a staff of wonderful, talented people, turn the lights off, and let go of myself, too. But I digress.) My heart isn't in publishing anymore; I've done it for 15 years, and it bores me, nor is my current gig--PR--remotely suited to my temperament and personality. But it's paid the bills, so far. I keep thinking that this period is my time to transition to the thing I REALLY want to be doing: my time to still be paid by the old life while I engineer the new one. But I, like nearly everyone I know, can't name the new life. So the time passes, and each check gets me closer to the last one, and my head is clogged to a standstill: no motion whatsoever.
I haven't even cleaned up Sid's shit yet. Uch, I'll go and do that. At least that.
posted by I n g e r @ Wednesday, June 29, 2005
3 Comments:
The Cat Always Wins, Just Ask The Dog.
I can appreciate your dilemma. I'd recommend going to massage school, but don't know if that's up your alley. I'm thinking about expanding into Physical Therapy myself....but not this week.
Good luck, and spend some time imagining Your Next Perfect Gig!
I almost made it to a new life once.. just once.. I had my foot out the door, but i tripped.. literally and it was over..
Lesson learned.. never belive that someone cares .. they probably don't
Sorry about the cat... I had six at one time.. down to three.. one moved in with my daughter ( bless her) and one had a stroke.. and passed after a few months of sincere trying on my part to help him to heal . One had peed on everything he could for seven years and finally one day I could take no more.. my entire life was cleaning up after him.. and he went to t he rainbow bridge, too. I loved him.. but I just couldn't do it anymore
A good rule of thumb though, is never piss off the cat..( much like the mailman..) he will always have the last word.
Hi Inger,
I was staring down my last check last year in Febuary ( I knew it was coming but didnt know when). For me it was almost a relief when it happened.
The months looking for a job, well not so much fun. But in the end it worked out somehow.
Maybe you cat wants to be a rooster. I agree with Taza the cat always wins.
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