Eighteen pounds of trouble

12 Sep 2024 Leave a comment

by jes in Cats I have loved, Positive Energy Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It is time for a new tattoo. I’ve lost count of how many I have at this time, but this one will be special. It will be a portrait of my beloved Moo.

Let me tell you a story.

Way back in 1998, I was working for a magazine publisher. The name isn’t important. What is important is that I had a coworker whose husband worked at the NASSCO shipyard. It’s a huge facility down by the ocean where they apparently build or repair ships. I’m not exactly sure. This husband was at work one day, when he heard a faint mewing coming from inside one of the industrial dumpsters. He passed by, and then thought, “What if it’s a hurt animal?” So he went back and climbed inside.

He found four tiny kittens. There were two calico girls, a black-and-white boy, and an orange-and-white boy. He popped them into a box and, at the end of his work day, brought them to his wife at the magazine publisher. They decided they were going to keep the two girls, but were looking for homes for the two boys.

I was between cats at the moment, so I said I’d take them, with the thought that I’d keep the black-and-white boy, and find the orange-and-white boy a home. To absolutely no one’s surprise, the orange-and-white also ended up staying with me for many years, until he found a new home in North Carolina with a sweet boy who loved him dearly. The orange-and-white boy was henceforth known as Rusty, but this isn’t his story. It’s his brother’s.

When I was about eight or nine, I read a book called The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster. The main character’s name in the book was Milo. For some unknown reason, I fell in love with the name and decided that if I ever had a black and white cat, I would name him Milo. And that is how Moo got his name. His real name. He affectionately became Moo because of his “Holstein patterned” fur.

Moo was my first emotional support animal. I didn’t know how empathetic a cat could be until I met him. I had cats previously, and loved them dearly, but never so much as I did Moo. He was my buddy. We’d sit on the couch together and watch football, and he’d happily put up with my yelling. He (and Rusty, along with my then-two-year-old daughter) were my companions on a rushed three day drive from San Diego to Gastonia, North Carolina. He was my sole companion on a less-rushed drive back from Lake Wylie, South Carolina back to San Diego four years later.

His fur soaked up my tears many times throughout the years. He was there for multiple breakups over those years. He lovingly watched over my daughter when she was born to make sure she slept through the nights. He snuggled with me when I fought bouts of depression and thoughts of ending it all and made sure I knew that someone indeed loved me.

He wasn’t a perfect cat. He loved to pull my dirty clothes out of the hamper and drag them around the house, and then nest on them. That’s fine when you’re a single gal living alone, but it can be awkward when you bring someone over and there is a giant cat sleeping on your underwear in the living room. And he was a giant cat. He was never fat, but he was a hulking linebacker of a cat, weighing 18 pounds at his heaviest.

He loved to sleep on top of me. I usually sleep on my side, and nearly every morning I woke up with him balanced precariously on my hip. I came to love the feeling of him sleeping on top of me. I’ve never had a cat who wanted to be on me all the time, the way that Moo did. He was my best friend, who got me through my worst days.

I came home from a trip to Austin and noticed that he had gotten very thin. He wasn’t acting any different, but he had noticeably lost weight. I took him to the vet right away, and the blood work revealed that he had renal failure. She told me that if I did everything right – prescription food, subcutaneous fluids, and daily monitoring of his fluid intake to ensure he was hydrated enough – that I would have about six weeks with him. Six. Weeks. He was only thirteen at the time. That’s still a pretty young cat, on the average.

I did everything I could. He ate the expensive prescription food while I ate ramen or whatever other cheap food I could afford for myself after making sure he had everything he needed. I gave him the subcutaneous fluids three times a week, even though it hurt my soul to have to pierce his skin with a needle repeatedly. I made sure he had fresh water every day. There were a few panicked visits to the emergency vet when he wasn’t acting like himself, but there was nothing more to be done.

He held on for eight months.

On December 1, 2012 he came to me and said, “I’m done.” The look in his eyes told me that he couldn’t fight anymore. I let him go peacefully so he wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I was in pain, though. My heart was broken. One of my biggest regrets in life was that I was so fucking broke at the time that I couldn’t afford the private cremation so I could get his ashes back. I got to hold him while he took his last breath, and stoke his soft fur, and tell him, “Thank you. Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for being my strength when I had none. Thank you for staring into my soul and telling me that I am loved, and that I am deserving of love.” He was “just a cat” but he was so much more.

I will never know the hows or whys of how he and his siblings ended up in that dumpster that day, but I am eternally grateful to the asshole who threw away the best thing to ever happen to me. Without that evil act, I would not have experienced those fourteen years of absolute love.

It’s been nearly twelve years since we said goodbye. I’ll never forget him. He deserves a special place of permanence on my body, so he can keep watching over me.

Cars, music, and broken abandoned things

17 Oct 2015 Leave a comment

by jes in Depression, Life, My health, Panic Disorder, Relationships, Tiggy, Travel Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I was in a discussion recently with a great friend (whom I’ve yet to meet in person) who lives in Detroit. She’s an amazing artist and photographer, and through her, I’ve come to appreciate the forgotten city. When people think of Detroit, it’s often in relation to the breakdown of the automotive industry and the horrible recession/depression that destroyed so many livelihoods so quickly. I jokingly commented that I relate to Detroit, because the three things the city is known best for is cars, music, and broken abandoned things. I have a deep and abiding love of cars, music runs through my soul, and anyone who has read any of my past posts knows that I am a broken abandoned thing.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote “The world breaks everyone, and afterwards, some are strong at the broken places.” I’ve not had the easiest life, but I know others who have had it much worse than me. I grew up with the knowledge that I would only ever be second best, behind my sister. It didn’t matter how well I did, how smart I was, how much I tried. I would never be the golden child. That was the first crack. I started dating and discovered that I am drawn to abusive men, either physically or mentally. More cracks. I’ve never been good enough, and because of this, I get cast to the wayside. I am a broken abandoned thing. I’m still waiting to find out if I’m stronger at the broken parts.

Here’s the irony: broken abandoned things can be beautiful. Looking at photographs of abandoned factories in Detroit, I see all the years of history and feel the pulsating energy that once filled those buildings. I don’t see rubble, I see memories. I try to look objectively at my life and see the beauty, and that’s a lot harder. Some breaks can’t be fixed. How do you get over hearing “you’re worthless” and “you’ll never be good enough” continuously without it slowly eating away at your soul?

My answer is a little 10 pound charcoal tabby and white cat affectionately known as Tiggy. He’s also a broken and abandoned thing. He was handed to me through a car window, and the woman (girl, really) who handed him to me promptly drove off, leaving a very scared cat in my arms. I took him home because I was still devastated by the loss of my previous cat Moo. Three days after bringing him home, he started peeing outside the litter box. That’s a common sign of a urinary tract infection, so I rushed him to the vet and it was confirmed. She also told me that during her scans, she discovered that he had a history of untreated urinary tract infections and that his bladder, kidneys, and urethra were terribly scarred and that he would be an expensive cat to keep because of these medical problems. She also told me that he had fractured ribs (and I recently discovered that he also had broken vertebrae in his back which have since fused and cause him to hunch over when he sits). At that point, he was literally a broken and abandoned thing.

I had a gaping wound in my heart from the loss of my Moo, so I told the vet that he was my cat, he needs me, and I would do whatever it takes to make things right for him. Thankfully, a proper diet has solved his UTI problems, his ribs healed on their own, and he loves me unconditionally. He’s no longer broken, and he’s definitely not abandoned, but that’s because the universe set out to put him in my path at the time I needed him most, and he needed me most.

I don’t think I’ll ever get past the feeling of being broken and abandoned. Too many harsh words, too many physical wounds, too many people walking out on me when I needed them most. Until then, I listen to a playlist of musicians who make me happy and I seek out cars that lift my soul. I try to remember that breaks can be repaired, but those repairs will always be imperfect. I try to accept that I am me, and to shut out those people who don’t like me or want to change me.

I look forward to finding happiness again someday. Lately, that’s been difficult. I disappeared from writing for a long while because my life had become so painful that metaphorically slashing my wrists to let the poison run out was too much to bear. The past month has been a roller coaster of emotions. The ascent so high I felt like I was flying, only to be followed by the let down that reminded me that I am a broken and abandoned thing who doesn’t deserve happiness. My depression is lying to me again. I do deserve happiness, I just need to remember that it comes from myself, not from anyone else. I’m sorting through a lot of emotions and dilemmas right now, and flowing words are how I function best. There will probably be many posts over the coming days, weeks, months, even possibly years. Many of those posts will conflict with each other as I argue with myself, and many will probably be repetitive. I apologize in advance if you’ve gotten this far.

Thing(s) that I am grateful for today: Driving around in a light drizzle with the top down and Matt Nathanson blasting on the radio. The soft, extra fluffy white belly that my cat loves to have rubbed. Dark chocolate M&Ms.