I just got back from taking my cat, Cleo, to the vet. It’s always a joyful experience as she poops and pees in the crate. Every time. I mean. EVERY TIME. So it’s an all night ordeal. First, the shame and embarrassment of sitting in the vet waiting room as people move away from you because the smell emanating from your crate is obnoxious. People come by to admiring neighboring kitties, but everyone leaves you alone because of the STINK. I’ve got the shameful, embarrassing retarded kid in the doctor’s waiting room–the one everyone gives you a pitying eye as they watch. Gacks. I feel like I’m dying of shame. I know this is why I could never have kids. My real life kid would probably be the reject who doesn’t learn to potty train at 13 years old either. My luck.
Second comes the ordeal of giving my cat a bath when I return home. Now, granted, she’s usually pretty good about baths. Yeah, she whines like a drama queen in the bathtub as I cup water over her body. But she submits to her fate; she does not move even if I’m not touching her. And the sad thing is, I don’t feel an ounce of sorrow for her. I take out my aggression of having to deal with her excretions and the shame associated with it on the cleaning. “Hey,” I think off-handedly, “you’re the one who put yourself in this predicament. If you didn’t poop and pee in the carrier, I wouldn’t have to give you a bath.”
Of course, really, I feel horrible by the time I’m brushing her off with a towel because I know she’s just scared and she doesn’t understand. I let open the bathroom door and she’s off to go lick her wet hair–lick her wounds–on her own. She’ll forgive me eventually, she always does. I wish she could understand that I don’t take her to the vet to bring her pain.
Her eye has been irritated all week. I’m told she has allergies (I hope not to me). The doctor gave me a triple antibiotic and I know the routine because she’s had to have this done before. More torture to inflict on my child–twice a day–as I squirt goopey crap into her eyes. Thankfully, she always forgives me. She probably just thinks Momma goes insane twice a day and tries to hurt her. Gack. I’m not cut out for this mothering stuff. I hate cleaning poop and pee.
The doctor–a nice looking young man, by the way–also put Cleo on a little diet. She’s 18 lbs. So now I have to feed her some prescription cat food twice a day–just two-thirds of a cup each time. This will be a chore because Nicki will want to go at it. I’m going to have to watch both of them eat. More fun, more fun. I hope Cleo loses weight, though. She’s far too fat. I’m also a bad mom for letting her balloon like this. Further proof that I can’t have kids–I just am not responsible enough to even take care of a cat! I suck in the realm of parenting. I hate that I have to give her diet food. I probably should play with her more. I’m always so busy, away from the house. Ugh. I shouldn’t own animals.
But I love the little varmits. Dammit. They own my heart.
In the spirit of love for my cats, I wrote these two haiku poems for them today. These little varmits and all I put up with in raising them, I guess I can spare 17 syllables of my time. So here they are:
Nicki: waving cat
Always under foot, begging
Lil’ attention whore.
(And I mean that in a loving way!!)
Cleo: the wise cat
Waddles on four stubby legs
Raspy voice squeaks, “Ew!”
(And it’s a wise “ew!”)