Inappropriate With A Dash Of Bad Timing
I don’t always have the best timing. I tend to fall in love with new restaurants just before they go out of business, arrive at boutiques during the 30-minute window the owner has gone for lunch and discover listings for events two days after they happened.
Usually, my poor timing is just inconvenient. On other occasions, it’s downright awkward.
Last summer, I took in a cat that I found in the woods behind the SO’s house. You might remember her.* She was declawed, skinny and nearly hairless, so I gave her a name that I thought was befitting of the time we would be spending together trying to get her well.
At the time, the SO and I already had two dogs and a cat, and he made it clear we would not be adding to the menageries. (The SO has to draw the hard line on pets with me. Otherwise, we would have a zoo.) A couple of potential new homes for her fell through, and the days she was supposed to stay with me turned into weeks.
In the middle of July, after months of having my house on the market, I decided to rent it out. I placed the Craig’s List ad and expected for it to take some time. Instead, I had three couples ready to sign a lease within 48 hours. Not wanting to waste time, I decided to move out as fast as I could. This amped up moving schedule also meant that I needed to find a new foster home for my rescued kitty ASAP.
A very kind friend helped me find a foster family. All I had to do was run the cat to a particular vet for her second round of shots. (I mention this only so that my vet doesn’t think I was cheating on him. The other vet had a relationship with the animal rescue service.)
I didn’t realize the vet I was seeing required appointments, so I got there only to find out that they couldn’t see me for a few hours. I probably could have called first, but considering my aversion to the phone, I obviously didn’t. Not wanting to stress the cat out with too much travel, I left her with the vet’s office until I could come back for the appointment. Also, I had been keeping one of those plastic collars on the cat to help her hair grow back, but I decided to take it off for our vet visit.
When I came back and they handed me the cat, I saw that she had rubbed off the hair where she would have had eyebrows if cats had eyebrows. (That plastic collar wasn’t cruel after all for anyone who might have judged me.)
“What happened here?” I said.
“That’s pretty bad,” the veterinary assistant said. “Your cat might be a self-mutilator.”
“The cat might be a what?”
“A self-mutilator. It’s a type of anxiety disorder. It’s very rare, but it does happen.”
Thinking of the Xanax in my purse at the time, I knew you couldn’t give a cat an anxiety disorder, but I still felt kind of guilty. “An anxiety disorder?” I said.
“Have you noticed anything strange about her?”
I suppose I had been too distracted by her near-hairless state and love of rubbing up against my face to notice anything else.
“How much does the cat sleep?” she said.
At that moment, I realized that I never saw the cat sleep. I had been taking care of an anxiety-ridden, insomniac cat for four weeks and never noticed? Now my guilt was more akin to shame.
“Not much,” I said.
“Yep, it’s probably the anxiety,” she said. “We’ll just put her on some meds, and it should help out.”
After an examination by the vet, who confirmed the anxiety diagnosis, I took the cat’s prescription and was on my way. My next stop was to meet the cat’s new foster family in the parking lot of a local movie theater.
So, there I was, standing in the parking lot of a strip mall (most likely wearing yoga pants covered in dog hair and a torn t-shirt) with a self-mutilating cat and a bottle of kitty Prozac when the cat’s new foster parents got out of the car. I handed the cat over and told them all about our adventure at the vet.
“Thank you so much for helping me out. I really appreciate it,” I said. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”
“I think we’ve got it,” the woman said, “but what’s her name?”
“This is going to seem really inappropriate,” I said. It had been a big week in pop culture news. “But I’ve been calling her Amy Winehouse.”
"Ah."
(She was in rehab at my house. I thought it was fitting. Then Amy Winehouse died tragically, and even though the foster family was very kind about it, I still felt like an incredibly insensitive person. )
That day, I sent off a self-mutilating, anti-depressant-taking, nearly-hairless cat named Amy Winehouse to a new foster family three days after Amy Winehouse died.
It is a day that will forever be marked by shame.
*Amy Winehouse really is the name that stuck. I just never took to Buscemi. The above exchange actually happened.
Laurel's Unplanned Cat Rescue Service
A few weeks ago, I found a cat behind the SO’s house. This is not really an unusual occurrence. In general, the area behind the SO’s house is kind of like feral cat central (lots of woods), and none of the cats let me get near them. This is why I occasionally feel like I’m feeding a marauding band of homeless cats Meow Mix if Kitty Cat Jones dines al fresco.
(In my mind, they’re a gang kind of like The Outsiders, and they talk to each other in lots of, “What were you thinking man?” and “Ain’t nobody going to care about a bunch of greasers.” Yes, I know I’m nuts.)
This cat was different though. Scraggly, covered in fleas and crying, she didn’t seem like she was built for life on the outside. When she let me pick her up, I knew she was different. (And as soon as I realized she was de-clawed, I knew she was most certainly not running with the other gang.)
I treated the cat for fleas, and because of the intense crying, took her pretty quickly to my vet.
(As a not-really cat person, I still have no idea how I end up with so many cats.)
“Now what is your goal here?” the vet asked. (The vet my friends call SuperVet based solely on the way I talk about him. Really, I love this man.)
Knowing that two dogs and one cat was more than enough, and a second cat was probably a deal-breaker in my relationship, I explained that I wanted to get her better so that I could either find her owner or find her a new home.
“The let’s get started,” he said, and we agreed on a plan of action that involved a feline leukemia/HIV screening, steroids and cortisone.
Since the rescue kitty tested negative for all major diseases, she came back to my house later that day, and we started the work of putting some fat and some hair on her. So far, it’s going pretty well. Or, at least, I thought it was going pretty well.
The SO says, “I think this is one of those cats that will just never be pretty.”
(For awhile, in the early days, holding her was kind of like being in the Family Guy episode where Peter is surrounded by sickly cats and holds one at arm’s length saying, “No, no, you’re cute,” while wincing.)
My friend’s husband says, “She’s going to be one of those she’s so ugly she’s cute cats.”
Either way, she’s got a great little personality.
Of course though, in keeping with the tradition of ever changing cat names at our house, she’s already on name number three.
I started with Katniss because I was reading The Hunger Games and wanted to give her some appeal in the teen market/demographic.
A few days later, I went to Amy Whinehouse because she looks a little like Amy Whinehouse during the rough days, and she is kind of in rehab at my house.
Now, as of Saturday, she’s Buscemi (in honor of Steve Buscemi) because the SO says her looks would destine her for life as a character actor no matter how much talent she had.
So, Katniss Amy Buscemi continues to fatten up at my house. I don’t know if she’ll ever respond to a name, but at least no one is holding her at arm’s length anymore.
Cat Update
For anyone still keeping track of the cat's name changes, here are the latest developments in Kitty Cat Jones' life.
1. We started calling Kitty Cat Jones by his initials, so we've been calling him KKJ for a few months now. Then, one day, while yelling "KKJ" across the yard, we realized some of the neighbors might think we're racists if they misheard us or didn't listen too carefully.
2. I was asking a friend of mine whether or not she thought our neighbors might think we were extremely prejudiced when she paused.
"You know that Kitty Cat Jones' initials would actually be KCJ, right?"
So, not only might we be considered the white supremacists in the neighborhood, but we can't spell either.
3. I went home and told the SO about our mistake, and he responded, "No, that cat is KKJ. End of story. I don't care what his actual initials are."
4. Despite Coco, Cocoa, Toonces, Kitty Cat Jones, KKJ and KCJ, we've actually just been referring to the fluffy little dude as "the stationary cat" because he does not move from the spot in the picture for days. And I mean days. Other than raising his head occasionally, I don't think he leaves the dog's bed for hours (in the multiples of 24 variety) on end.
5. Meet the stationary cat! (Sure to be TSC or some other bizarre incarnation by Spring.)
Storm Damage And Sequin Shoes
We had quite the storm here in Birmingham on Sunday night. I, of course, was catching up on Friday's Medium while the SO was away, when I heard pounding against the side of the house that sounded like an invading army wanted in. In actuality, it was hail.
Hail rained down on the house like I haven't seen in years. (It looked like someone had taken garbage cans full of that rabbit pellet ice and dumped it all over the yard and driveway.) It was one of the loudest storms I can remember.
The dogs stuck pretty close to me, but other than that, they seemed to be handling the stress OK. However, when I went to the back room of the house to look for Kitty Cat Jones (he knows how to use the dog door), I realized he had not taken refuge from the storm, and I was going to have to go out there.
In my storm gear of fitflops and a hoodie, I stepped on to the front porch -- which is the same exact moment that Kitty Cat Jones shot past me. (I went out there to rescue him, and he responded by running to and past me because that's just the kind of cat that I have.) And, when he ran away from he, did he go to hide under the car or some other safe spot? Of course not. He went straight for the wooded area next to the house, and I spent some quality time in the bushes looking for him.
While I was outside, I was also able to observe the river of trash and leaves that the street had become. Water rushed down the street, carrying anything even remotely close to the curb with it.
Once I retrieved Kitty Cat Jones, I went back inside to dry him off and let him rest. Then, I waited for the rest of the storm to pass and went to bed. (I am paranoid about tornadoes and needed to make sure that I was not going to have to put all of the animals and myself in the bath tub with a mattress over us before tempting fate by going to sleep.)
On Monday, I learned why this storm was probably the loudest one I can remember. While hail was assaulting the house and I went in search of a cat, the house next door was collapsing. Collapsing.
The house next door was abandoned and pretty much stripped down to its frame. There were remnants of interior walls, but not too much else. However, it's still hard to believe that the storm itself was strong enough to blow the thing down.
References to The Three Little Pigs aside, when the SO and I went over to check out the damage on Monday night, I couldn't help but check for red sequin shoes or some other sign that the Wicked Witch of the East had been there.
What You Should Know Should I Become Lost At Sea
When I teach, I tend to give my students lots of writing exercises. This mainly comes from the fact that I think writing must be taught by actually writing rather than just talking about writing. However, I often get the feeling that most of my students think I just like quiet time (which I do) and that I'm trying to torture them -- especially when it comes to free writing.
So, most of the time, I do the exercises along with my students. It's helpful for me to get some new ideas down on paper, and I hope it demonstrates that I don't ask my classes to do anything I wouldn't, and don't commonly, engage in.
Last night, I was leading a short workshop on "Personal Essay as Message in a Bottle." (It's for a local non-profit group/writing center -- hence, the theme.) The general idea was, "What would you want someone to know about you if this message in a bottle was your last communication with the outside world?" However, being that that's a little dark, we started with what you'd want someone to know about you that might help them find you/recognize the urgency of the situation.
My list:
1. I'm a small (5'3") brunette with blue eyes. I do not look very good after a few days without bathing, but the salt water will have done wonders for my naturally curly hair.
2. My parents are Diane and Billy Mills. One is an engineer, and the other is a lawyer, so hopefully one will figure out a way to extract me from this Godforsaken place while the other will figure out who to sue the pants off/make me rich for life off of whatever trapped me here. (Hint: A large reward for my safe return -- emphasis on "safe" -- should be involved.)
3. I have two sisters and a brother-in-law. My brother-in-law being an avid paddler, I fully expect him to search the waters, by kayak, tirelessly, until I am found.
4. I'm 30 and have spent most of my life in the suburbs. I don't camp. I'm a fighter. (You do not want to sit next to me while playing Catch Phrase), but I'm not sure how a fair-skinned Scottish girl will fare under these conditions.
5. I cannot fish or throw a spear. I can knit. I should be able to create my own clothes from palm fronds. I think these same skills will translate to the making of my hut's roof. This is one of the few things I bring to the table in desert island survival.
6. I've watched enough Lost to know to avoid large clouds of dark smoke.
7. I am stronger than I look and can carry pieces of furniture that are far larger than myself. In addition to the aforementioned reward, I will help you with one, and only one, move if you resuce me.
8. I'm a writer. I also help businesses with blogging and new media. These skills are completely useless on this island.
9. I might go insane with no books, TV, laptop or companions. Just FYI.
10. Should I not make it off this island, please remember me from photos that are at least five years old and for the blog entries that don't show me trying to lure my cat out of various trees.
Best wishes,
Laurel Fame Mills
The Crazy Cat Lady
In the list of stereotypes that I try to avoid, "crazy cat lady" is near the top of the list. (Not that there's anything wrong with that for my cat-loving friends; I'm definitely a crazy dog lady.) However, when you're Southern, 30, single and a often a bridesmaid, you'd be amazed how many people suggest your home life is full of stuffed animals, multiple cats and repeated references to Sex and the City.
For the record, I don't have stuffed animals. I didn't like Sex and the City. (Why do people judge you if Miranda's your favorite character? Wouldn't you be that dark if you spent all of your time with those three other crazies? Brunch chatter alone would be enough to push me over the homicidal edge.) And until recently, I didn't have a cat.
I am so paranoid about people thinking I might be slinking towards "crazy cat lady" territory that I won't buy cat food without buying dog food, too. Should I find myself in need of cat items alone, I will announce to the cashier and anyone within earshot that "I also have a dog." You know, just in case.
But, a few days ago, I found myself at a place called Cat Haven, and there really was no sense in pretending anymore.
Over Labor Day weekend, I decided to board Kitty Cat Jones since we all know how well he behaves when I go out of town, and hence the entry of Cat Haven into my life.
Now, having both a dog and a cat, I'm used to a vet's office that's pretty evenly divided between dog and cat paraphernalia. So, I wasn't quite prepared for the experience that was Cat Haven -- cat tunnels, cat calendars and about seven lounging cats to greet me as I arrived. (Also, though, complete with friendly staff and very reasonable prices.)
"Are you a first-time patient?"
"Yes," I said, putting Kitty Cat Jones on the counter in his carrier once I had adequately shut the door to prevent escaping cats -- as warned by the sign on the front door.
"We just have a few forms for you to fill out."
I provided all of the info about the cat's vaccination, etc. and handed the forms back to the lovely receptionist a few moments later.
"So, the cat's name is?" she said, eyeing the rather odd slash on my form.
"Well," I said, "he was Toonces, but them my boyfriend started calling him Kitty Cat Jones, so he kind of goes by that now. But, a lot of his medical records are under Toonces, so I thought I'd just put them both on there."
"I see."
"Yeah," I said. "He really will answer to either." It was kind of awkward.
"Well, I'm sure he'll be just fine here," the receptionist said. "Have a great Labor Day weekend."
"You, too," I said. "Thanks so much, and I'll see y'all on Tuesday."
I shook off my minor feelings of crazy, made sure no cats had tried to escape with me on my way out and went about the rest of my day.
About an hour later (bank deposit and Chik-fil-A run included), I noticed a missed call and voice mail on my phone. It was Cat Haven.
My first fear was that Kitty Cat Jones might have already made some enemies at Cat Haven, and I seriously considered ignoring the message and pretending I didn't receive it until after our vacation was over. I didn't have a back-up plan for Cat Haven expulsion two hours from departure time, and it's always better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?
Whether it was curiosity or self-sabotage, I listened to the message anyway and followed the directions to call Cat Haven back.
"Ms. Mills," the receptionist said, "we tried to confirm Toonces' vaccines and spaying with the Alabama Spay & Neuter clinic, but they seemed to have trouble locating his records."
Knowing I was about to sound even crazier, I attempted to apologize in advance, but the bottom line came down to this: "Oh, that's because his name was Cocoa back then. You'd have to look under Cocoa Mills for those records."
"I see."
The real lesson I learned this past weekend? My sanity/behavior has little to do with circumstance or pet choice. Cat or no, I'm just crazy, and I do appreciate the staff at Cat Haven for drawing as little attention to my off-beat behavior as possible.
But, should I decide a shopping cart is the best way to transport my belongings around the neighborhood or to the office, I want an intervention ASAP. Even I have limits.
Cat Watch 2010: Part Deux
I had the nerve to go out of town for the weekend. At least, I think the cat considered it nerve.
Maybe he was displeased. Maybe he doesn’t like other cats. Maybe he just really likes trees. Because sure enough, within four days of ending the first Cat Watch, the world’s oddest cat climbed yet another tree.
The cat food was disappearing each night, so I figured Toonces/Kitty Cat Jones (depending on who you talk to), was just out on one his adventures. Then, I saw a white and orange cat that was definitely not Kitty Cat Jones running away from the bowl one night and knew that Kitty Cat Jones might have wandered too far away from home. I grabbed the SO and insisted we patrol the neighborhood.
“Mew,” I called.
“Mew,” the SO reluctantly added his calls to my own.
Two houses down, a cat answered, but it was a black cat that was also not Kitty Cat Jones, so we kept going. Four houses down, I heard the distinctive – and loud – cries of one Kitty Cat Jones, and sure enough, rather than being on the ground like most four-legged creatures of God’s green earth, he was in a tree. And at least 25 feet in the air in said tree to boot.
“Sweetheart,” I called, for some reason thinking that this time he would just run right down to me rather than staging a three-day sit-in like the time before. (Sometimes my own logic baffles me.)
As per what-was-quickly-becoming usual, the cat stayed right where he was in the tree. He just started screaming louder. Since it was almost 10:00 at night, the SO took my arm and suggested we “walk quickly away” before the whole neighborhood woke up and realized we were to blame for the disturbing nighttime noises.
In the morning, I went back to the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was perched with another tin of Friskies. (Again, why I thought everything that didn’t work last time would work this time is beyond me. It must have been plain and simple desperation.)
No luck, so I went back around lunchtime, and that’s when I met the woman who owned the house with the yard and the tree where Kitty Cat Jones was. “Is that your cat?” she said.
“Yep,” I said. “That’s my cat.”
“Oh, he’s been up there for a couple of days. I called the humane society, but they weren’t much help.”
“Thank you for that,” I said. “But I know they aren’t much help with cats up trees.” I didn’t add that I’d done this before. Last week.
While I was standing there talking to the homeowner, the neighbor from across the street came over.
“That’s your cat?” he said. “He is scared to death up there.”
While I was talking to the across-the-street neighbor, another neighbor, who I happen to know from one of my writing classes came out. “Is that your cat?” she said. “I’ve been reading about ways to get him out of the tree on the Internet.”
When my former student arrived, I told her all about Kitty Cat Jones’ adventure from the week before while the across-the-street-neighbor lay on the lawn and smoked, and we all stared at the cat.
As if I couldn’t create more of a spectacle while we were all gathered on the sidewalk (me still holding a tin of Friskies), two more neighbors came over from across the street.
The husband said something that I couldn’t understand, and my former student said, “I’m sure he is thirsty in this heat.”
“That your cat?” the wife said.
“That’s my cat,” I said. I had had to own up to this a little more than I was hoping to – especially because we all know how I feel about the judging.
“You do something to make him mad?” she said.
“Well, I did go out of town for the weekend,” I said. “I guess that did it.”
“Yep,” she said, and then she offered her own diagnosis of the cant’s seemingly-growing neuroses. “He throwing a temper tantrum. That’s what it is. It’s a temper tantrum.”
“You think so?” I said.
“Oh yeah. He’ll back down out of there when he’s ready.
“Really?” I said. “It does seem like we’ve gotten into a battle of wills."
“Un-huh,” she said, “and you’re losing. The cat’s in a tree, and what are you doing? Standing out in the heat holding its food. Uh-huh. That cat got you. That cat throwing a temper tantrum, and it got you.”
Life lessons and I got to meet the neighbors -- not exactly what I had planned for the afternoon. I may not have gotten the cat down, but at least it was something.
Epilogue: The net morning, my former student flagged down a bucket truck and made it retrieve the cat. (Thank you!) I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to show Kitty Cat Jones the joys of life on the ground – like easy access to food and not making me run through my Xanax like their Tic-Tacs. I don’t think he’s too impressed by the latter.