As a general sort of rule, I try not to share too much in the way of bad news with anyone. Even on this blog, which some would consider a diary, I tend to focus only on the trivialities and humor of day to day life rather than the mundane and largely depressing realities of it. I’ve even mentioned it before, albeit a fair while ago and only in passing, that I try to make it a policy not to pass on news of the gloomy and disheartening lest I saddle someone with a few hours or days worth of melancholy and glum. Naturally, the reason behind my reluctance is very simple: I wouldn’t want to know either. I tend to work very hard at avoiding exposure to all the bad things in this world. Perhaps it’s just pessimism, though I fear it’s far more likely to simply be an unusually clear grasp of reality, but I feel that there is a tremendous amount of “badness” in the world and if I’m not careful to avoid direct knowledge of it, I won’t really be able to live a normal life. I’ll just spiral into a puddle of misery and despair and sob quietly in a corner until I die from dehydration. I can be a bit of a downer in that way.
It is in my never-ending quest to shun all the horrors of the real world that I refuse to even partake in the “feel good,” “happy-ending” type stories that most people seem more than happy to soak up and cheerfully wallow around in like a pig in slop. To me, any story of a heroic LONE survivor or rescued ABUSED animal is too deeply marred by tragedy to be salvageable as uplifting. Thus, it is with this in mind that I haven’t really focused too much in this blog on our various cat rescues and acquisitions. Not that they haven’t all ended happily, bat rather, rescued cats have to come from somewhere and that somewhere is still full of unrescued cats. And my knowledge of the existence of those other unrescued cats is exactly why this weekend’s acquisition of Fenchurch or Fenny or, as I like to call her, Number Ten, was so desperately depressing to me.
It was The Husband’s opportunistic trapping of the little orange kitten, now known as Fenny, this past Sunday evening as I painted my final stripes on the Pegboard that was the source of all the unpleasantness. Stray cats tend not to be down with the whole groove of the capturing process so the event tends to be a little stressful even under the best of circumstances, but when that cat happens to be a kitten, the event happens to take place on a Sunday night when there aren’t any vets open, I happen to be in the middle of a task with time constraints, and the necessity to board the cat for the night combines with the unknown nature of it’s health and the presence of our own indoor cats, the situation can perhaps reach stress levels not unlike those you would expect from looking down the barrel of a loaded gun. Add to that being suddenly very aware that despite the fact that this cat’s arrival has taken us to the very disturbing place of having TEN indoor only cats, that there are still easily half a dozen more in my neighborhood alone and you have a recipe for a complete freak out, mental breakdown, spiraling funslide into depression land where chocolate and tequila reign supreme.
Yesterday the vet determined that Fenny was, indeed a girl, and about sixteen weeks old. He fixed her, gave her flea and worm medicine and a clean bill of health, and today we brought her back home where she took up residence in Sora’s old room which had, as of late, been housing Yabbi during the day in an attempt to rid us of the horrors of his vile den of iniquity, also known as his cage. He likes to decorate with hairballs and pee. The Husband and I have decided to look into rehab programs for our rescuing addiction and I’m going to carefully consider wearing blinders every time I leave the house to limit my ability to spot the pathetic and needy. For now, I leave with your kitten of Zen.