Alecto's Ophelia

Waiting

I'm sitting on the couch in my living room with a cat carrier to my right, door right up against my right thigh because it's the only thing keeping my cat from completely losing her shit. Yep, here we go about a cat again.

This cat turned four in October and belonged to my husband's brother Frank who died horribly and alone in his bathroom at home just two years and ten months ago. The last time anybody talked to Frank was Valentine's Day, 2006 and if you want to read about it go here because it's a pretty powerful post and everybody's names are used so please tread with care (I won't edit this post for any reason). Anyway, Nomans found Frank on March 4 and it was as awful as you might expect. It took some time to sort everything out but the net result was a disaster of an apartment full of hazmat that needed to be emptied, the kind of hazmat that happens with a particular flavor of mental illness, and two cats needing homes. Two cats that spent at least two weeks locked up with a body. I'll leave you to work that out on your own.

Shortly after the funeral (and as Jews we should have done this immediately but for what should be obvious reasons, could not) my husband had to go to Switzerland for a week and I, suddenly jobless at that point, chose to stay home. Staying home was the wrong thing to do but half way through the week I put my girls in the car and drove nearly three hours South to bring home what amounted to two feral cats, not much past kitten hood.

One cat made it and one cat did not. By 'did not' I mean he failed to assimilate into the household in any way and had to be removed. His litter mate, named Wicious (because she's 'wicious and fawocious') eventually settled in and did just fine.

A few weeks ago, just as we were becoming painfully aware that we really were in the end game with Chuck, Homer the Dog started behaving badly. He pooped in our bathroom, peed on the couch, peed on our bed and it just went on and on. We assumed Homer (we were right about the bathroom) because it was nearly odorless and Simon can't get up on the furniture by himself to save his life (he just eats it instead). We forgave Homer because he's had a lot to deal with (like a sixty pound baby) and crated him to avoid further issue for the time being. And then there was another odorless puddle on the bed and another after that. You see, she tried the foot of the bed and that didn't work. Then she tried my side and I still didn't pay attention. And then she tried Noman's side when she was accidentally locked in our room and then we knew our last kitty was pretty sick.

And then we noticed that she was always hungry but stopped eating after a mouthful or two and walked away crying. And then we could pick her up and hold her like a baby and she didn't purr and she didn't struggle, she just laid there all snugged up and motionless.

I didn't waste time. I called the vet today, gave symptoms and was told to come in. So the appointment is at 3 and I didn't want to risk not being able to locate or catch her (not like she's moving very fast but she is wicious and fawocious and wiley too. And I'm sitting on this couch with the carrier right against my leg and she's gone to sleep. If I get up and moves she cries like the world might end.

I don't know how this is going to turn out but it can't be good. I only know we love this cat and I will gladly pay the price of fear and pain and possible loneliness to have the right to love and be loved back by this cat. (and the dogs are in the kitchen eating the table legs and I'll probably get over it).

Harvey

My Pet Bug Harvey. We'll discuss later but for now, I just had to share.

OK, now it is later. I actually posted Harvey from work before I left because I had passed into the land of 'beyond useless' and had to burn up twenty minutes before I left... which is also when I changed my banner which makes me wonder about my creativity and maybe I ought to let it out of its box more often and my goodness I just digressed.

I walk very fast. I have tiny bruises on my arms from the straps of my backpack rubbing and pressing from the swing of my arms.  On Wednesday I was very, very angry and I walked three miles with the pack to the train station in this New England summer swimming pool and I hardly noticed. And I don't think it was because I was angry either, I think it's just I'm so used to walking with a pack now I don't even think about it. I just go. I think the walking helped me not think about the fact that I was so angry; just me and my body, moving. The other thing I noticed is my pace. I move and suddenly I've chewed up whole city blocks and have no idea how I got from there to here or how I managed to time the lights just right so that nine times out of ten I beat the shuttle.

Sometimes I think about slowing down. Yesterday I was traversing the second side of the first city block, squinting up into the sun wondering if maybe it was worth stopping to pull the sunglasses out of my backpack and deciding that if I wasn't likely to stop for an untied sneaker I wasn't likely to stop for the sunglasses either and it was just a thought... and I stepped over this huge green thing in the sidewalk and made it exactly three strides until the brain kicked into overdrive and I pivoted neatly, swinging right back around, two strides and I'm squatting in front of Harvey.

And I've never seen anything quite like it. I don't know what this thing is (Lisa writes Lacewing below) and I want to find a stick and poke at it but I'm already attracting enough attention so I squat there like some five year old in the sun and I'm just looking at it. The shuttle honks and its passengers wave as it passes me. I wave back from my position on the sidewalk; I'm not worried, I'll catch up at the next light.

I pull out my cell phone. I had to get a new cell phone the other day because the one I purchased JUST LAST YEAR won't hold a charge and don't even get me started about how Verizon addresses that nasty little situation (I already KNOW better) and this time I went away from the Motorolas (please oh please for the days of the Startak....) and back to the LGs and did you know that you can no longer purchase a cell phone without a camera? OK, maybe that's not true but I gave up looking. In any case, I pulled out my cell phone.

And took that portrait of Harvey and in the process named him and made him my pet and was all set to scoop him up in something and take him home when it occurred to me that he was lying there prone on that sidewalk in the heat because he'd, um, expired. So.

My dead pet bug Harvey. I left him in the late afternoon sun to be pecked at by birds or eaten by one of Lisa's wayward pet spiders (although I'd like to know why she's letting her spiders travel this far into Connecticut and do they have Metro North rail passes or just stow away in some baggage and has she given them any sort of a curfew?). Right. End of sentence and all that.

My point being, I did not take the bug home. Now I'm sorry because in the morning he was gone and I didn't do what CG thought to do last year and take a picture of the bug next to a quarter so you might begin to appreciate his girth but I must tell you, that green velvet smoking jacket he's wearing? About the size of a quarter.

My inner life. Rich and fabulous. I should spend more time squatting on sidewalks.

(p.s. I beat the shuttle ONLY because the shuttle driver let me run through the last red light holding up all the traffic behind him while the occupants of said shuttle (of which I've only met two) jumped up and down in their seats waving and hollering as I ran past)

Schroedinger's Goodwill. Maybe.

Here I go uncovering my underbelly again. By that I mean I'm about to expose more of the warped, twisted mind of Alecto on the go. Where to start? Sometime in high school my mother gave me a book called Schroedinger's Cat. I can't even remember what the book was about, probably some piece of science fiction knowing my mother and the topic. In any event, because of the book I learned the rudimentary concepts surrounding the theory of Schroedinger's cat and later on learned a little bit more. Lets just say I know enough to be dangerous in some circles and sound extremely retarded in others.

The basic premise is this: The cat is in the box. You can't see in the box. Some poison gas may or may not have been leaked into the box. The cat may or may not be dead. As a matter of fact, there is a 50% chance going either way. Therefore... (drum roll or heady silence, take your pick) the cat is both dead  AND alive. In theory. See what I mean about being either dangerous or extremely retarded?

Now lets compare this with a particular accounting term called Goodwill. Actually, Goodwill is a real account on the Balance Sheet which is where I get in trouble in the first place. I'm OK with the P&L (Profit and Loss Statement) because it's pretty straight forward and follows a set of rules I subscribe to heartily whether you're measuring beans, money or how much cabbage the deer did NOT eat this season. It goes thusly: Revenue - Expense = Profit. Or: Revenue good, Expenses bad (which always reminds me of Four legs good, Two legs baaaaaaad and I just can't help myself). In other words, it's a very simple equation and as a programmer/analyst I absolutely get it.

And then there is the Balance Sheet. (noooooooooooooooooooo, not that, anything but that) Assets = Liabilities + Equity. I'm OK there. Right there. That's as far as I'm OK, after that it just becomes one big hairy string of plug accounts. What is a plug account, you ask? Oh, do let me tell you. Nothing we'd say to an auditor, that's for sure. A plug account is an account we use to put some numbers that we can't figure where else to put. them. 'scuse the grammar. Nothing to worry about, everybody does it. Right. And then we have Goodwill.

Goodwill bothered me a bit in college but since I figured I'd never have to look at another accounting text again nor come in contact with any such accounting type people (MARRIED ONE), I'd just be nice and let it go. After all, how, exactly, does one measure goodwill.  If I sell a shop is it the amount of business I expect to see given the nature of said established business? That would almost make sense, except it'd be fluffy as all get out and I don't much care for fluffy. I'd rather measure your receivables and a bunch of other things first. But I digress, that is not what Goodwill is for.

Goodwill is an offset. Goodwill is the difference, on the Balance Sheet (because all things must Balance, so sayeth NoMans the bean counter), between the price paid for a company (or thing) and the actual book value of the company (or thing). So, if my company purchases (which they do on a fairly frequent basis) a smaller company for ten dollars but the company is valued at 8 dollars then the offset is 2 dollars and that is PLUGGED to Goodwill.

Sigh. See what I mean? I know that we need to put that 2 dollars somewhere and I can even extrapolate, from the original definition of Goodwill, how we get there, but I just can't buy it in this day and age. It is no longer a truth and the fact that we still call it Goodwill often sends me into cataclysmic seizures (I TOLD you I was exposing my underbelly again).

I'm much, much, much happier with Schroedinger's cat being, at the very same time, in both states of dead and of alive. That part just tickles my tummy. The other part? Not so much.

So Sayeth the Kat

What does the cat say?

The Cat says:

What for you bury me in the cold, cold ground? (it's a line from a Bugs Bunny cartoon, however, metaphorically speaking, the cat has never recovered from being alone for two weeks after never having been alone for eighteen months. And I mean Never.)

How did this happen to me?  First I peed on everything I saw.  I am better now because I have seen what happened to my brother when he could (would?) not stop.  My brother does not live here anymore. (This is not necessarily a problem for me. After all, the first two letters of the word karma are also the first two letters of the word Kat.)

Now I live, relatively pee free, in the house of my human's brother. I had a step-sister.  I have not seen Squeegie of late but I hear she's in the closet in a box.  Every time the closet door is opened I look for Squeegie.  I do not see her.  I do not know what these humans go on about. A Kat in a box?  Doesn't Squeegie need to eat?  Maybe not.

I have another step-sister.  Her name is Chuck.  You work that one out.  I give up. Chuck is old but she is mean.  I am bigger than Chuck but Chuck still kicks my ass when merited.  Lately, it has not been merited.  Although, one time I fell off the couch. Chuck saw me fall off the couch.  Chuck called me an Embarrassment to the Species and proceeded to kick my ass.  I had it coming.

Once I peed on Adopted Mom's foot.  Adopted Mom was sleeping at the time. In her bed.  I squatted and peed on Adopted Mom's foot. Adopted Mom made me stay outside for a really, really long time.  I was cold.  Not the brightest thing I've ever done.  Another time, Adopted Mom and Adopted Dad went running in the morning.  When they came back, Adopted Dad got in the shower.  Adopted Mom crawled back into bed.  It took Adopted Mom awhile to realize she was laying in a big cold wet spot.  And I do mean big.  And cold. And did I mention wet?  Woof.  I didn't actually do that but it doesn't matter.  I went outside anyway.

Have I mentioned I've been relatively pee free and that the loss of my brother has not been a huge disappointment to me since he was the bigger whizzer and bigger baby and bigger suck of attention anyway. Now I have almost all the attention because Chuck does not care.  Usually.  In the event that Chuck cares, I leave the room immediately, and gracefully until further notice.

Now I need to discuss the Dog. The Dog is a Travesty and an Embarrassment to the Species. That's all I have to say. It is not relevant that the Dog is not officially part of the Species. He is still a Travesty.  And now that's really all I have to say on the subject.

On the subject of children.  Ah Children. We have a new one in the house. One left. The room was cleaned out and relatively stink free and I had no further need to pee on the pillows. But then a new one came in. She talks too much. I will not go in there because I am afraid I would do something and then I would be outside and it is getting cold.

On the subject of my front claws.  I do not possess them anymore because when I moved into Adopted Mom and Dad's house I proceeded to tear every piece of furniture to shreds.  And then I went to the Vet.  When I was at the Vet I escaped and hung from the screen door by all four sets of claws.  The Vet said I was funny. I do not think I am funny. And I still do not understand why all my tearing is now fruitless. I tear and tear and nothing happens. Adopted Mom tells me to go outside and hunt field mice.  I do not need my front claws to catch field mice.  Adopted Mom does not want me to bring my field mice in the house.  She says that the front porch will suffice.

Adopted Mom thinks the Travesty of a Dog ate the Hamster just because he is a Rat Terrier and he is apparently good at that kind of thing.  She is wrong. It was me. He is not smart enough to hide the evidence. He would have left it in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Hahahahaha. Shhhh. Don't tell. I don't want to go outside. It's getting cold.

I drool a lot. And I do mean a lot. Adopted Mom says this is disgusting. I think anyone would be blessed to have an enormous amount of my personal saliva deposited on their pants right before work.  After all, it's the gift that keeps on giving, all day long.  And besides, she should be grateful.  I don't pee anymore.

That's all.  OK.  Love, The Kat.

And  that's what the Cat says today. You can check back tomorrow as it might change.  We all know that the Cat is entirely unreliable.