The Perfect Man, the Perfect Beast

Percy may actually be the perfect man.

True, he is the smelliest, stinkiest, nastiest little cat ever to grace Wyoming with his presence, but then most men I've met tend to have some kind of an odor issue.  Let's face it, males are just smellier.  This is why male dogs scent mark, male cats eject their anal sacs on things, and most male humans are stinkier when they sweat (creative tip: apple cider vinegar and lemon juice are actually very good at fending off the stinkies under the arms), or do anything else which I will not mention here.

Percy is a good little man, though.  I compare him to Sergio, Agent Emily Prentiss' cat on Criminal Minds.  When she finally got tired of being alone with no male prospects, she adopted a little black cat that she described as "a love," and that's Percy.  He might stink sometimes, but he does bathe religiously, he keeps himself up with constant exercise, and he eats healthy.  He also doesn't come home torn to shreds after a long night of caterwauling and fighting other toms.  He stays in every night and cuddles with me on the bed.   Percy is extremely emotionally available.  Out of all the emotionally unavailable bozos I've dragged home over the years, I can honestly say that Percy wears his heart on his sleeve. He just gives it away for free.

Percy chose me at the animal shelter.  I had my criteria: black, female, youngish but not a kitten. Percy made the final choice, and when he did, I didn't even worry about the fact that he is a male. I don't have anything against male animals in general, but in the past I just never cared to own them. Male dogs can be super disgusting, raising their legs to pee on everything, eating their own poop, rolling in dead stuff.  I'm not saying female dogs never do this (Tess does raise her leg to mark things like she is some kind of alpha male), but the male dogs I've owned have been worse about it than the females.  They also roam.  My first shepherd rolled in dead stuff as well as deer poop and garbage. If he got loose, he didn't come home for hours.  Once he ate an entire dead animal and barfed it up all over the floor in our foyer.  My mother went to the bathroom and got sick herself, and I had to clean it up.  I think the mentality there was that I already worked at an animal shelter shoveling shit, so why not clean up dead animal too? It was so disgusting, it took an hour, two plastic bags, and a whole roll of paper towels.  Tess, in contrast, has never eaten anything dead, she doesn't roll in stuff, and the most disgusting thing she does is bring her poop up onto the porch when I've let a week go by without cleaning the yard.  That's just her way of letting me know that the yard is getting nasty and it's time to clean it.  So really, her one nasty habit is actually a way of keeping things clean.

Percy is all things gross and more, and had he not chosen me at the animal shelter I probably wouldn't have adopted him.  That was then and this is now.  I no longer have an aversion to owning male animals.  I've met several over the years I would have adopted - Woodrow comes to mind if he's ever available - had I not already burdened myself with the Needy Quartet from Hell.  Percy remains the one and only male in my house.  He has outlasted all boyfriends and has proven to be better company than most of them.  He is handsome and he knows it.  I abhor narcissism in men, but in a cat it's pretty cute. I have always gravitated towards black animals, especially black cats.  I have wanted one for years.  Percy is a particularly good looking black cat.  He resembles a small black panther and he has beautiful green eyes.  His coat always shines and one can see his muscles moving through the fur.  His little fangs are still my favorite feature on him.  They give him a sabertoothed tiger look.  He actually looks quite fearsome until one pets him, and then he's just one big lovebug.  Percy prefers a night of cuddling and watching TV over running around town.  He always eats what is put in front of him. He never criticizes, though he does talk back sometimes.  We've had a few morning arguments where he squalls loudly, I yell shut up, and then he goes "Mrmph, mraow, mrrfff..."

Almost like he's telling me to fuck off.

But then, what relationship would be complete without mini spats?  We are always cuddling again ten minutes later.  He has the loudest motor of any cat and his favorite thing to do when I have him in my arms is to stare around the room, then fling his head backwards and rub the top of it against my chin.  He's very dramatic about it too, like he's flaunting the fact that I am his human.  When I first got Percy, it was just him and Tess and he would often get up on the couch with me while I watched a movie and curl lengthwise against my body, almost like spooning.  He doesn't do this so much anymore since he's too busy bullying Willow, wrestling with Puckett, or annoying Tess, but he still likes to get on the bed and be my snuggle bunny.  He also sits next to me on the couch while I eat my lunch.  He doesn't get into my lunch because sharing food with Percy is a bad idea given his Irritable Bowel Syndrome, but he keeps me company while I eat.

As cute and cuddly as he is, Percy is still a man.  He still makes a mess in the bathroom.  He still has stinky moments.  He has some nasty gas, bad enough on occasion to roust the dog from the room, and he has a habit of leaving stuff lying around on the floor, either his toys, or some random object of mine that he's deemed his new toy.  The equivalent to leaving socks lying around, I suppose.  He doesn't help with the dishes or the vacuuming.  He prefers to create the mess that needs vacuuming.  He does, however, like to be vacuumed.  When I get the vacuum out, the other two cats flee, Tess barks and runs into the backyard, and Percy emerges from wherever he was sitting and sits by the vacuum cleaner ready to have his tail sucked up.

Percy is not a jealous kitty.  He has enough love to go around for everyone, though he is happiest as the center of attention.  He might not bring me breakfast in bed, but he does like to snuggle on weekend mornings while I have my coffee and read a book.  There have been many a snowy Sunday that Percy and I have spent all morning in bed watching Netflix.  I can't say this for any of my ex boyfriends.  They would leap out of bed first thing in the morning and rush off to work or whatever, anything more interesting than me. At least Percy likes to spend time with me.

The other night I left a pretty great party to walk home by myself after a night of dancing with some very eligible bachelors.  Most of the time I prefer just going out with my girlfriends, dancing with everyone, and not gathering any phone numbers or looking to pick up any more potential dates.  Sometimes Cinderella doesn't care about the Prince, she just wants to dance until the carriage turns into a pumpkin and she has to walk home.  I didn't mind any of this.  I wasn't looking for a new Prince Charming, I didn't need a ride home (as I do prefer to walk sometimes), and I definitely didn't need a one night stand to take home for temporary company in my bed.  I was, however, feeling a bit overemotional though.  That night two of my very good friends found each other again.  They'd been over for a year, I thought she was gone for good, and had had a few conversations with him confirming this.  My delight was evident upon seeing her again, and seeing her with him.  They belong together and I've always felt that about them, even when he insisted that they were completely over.  So why was I being so overemotional?  Because it's nice to see true love find its way back even when everything looks completely hopeless.  I don't have anyone like that yet.  The guy I thought was the love of my life is someone I would never welcome reappearing on my doorstep after a year or more of separation.  Most likely I'd call the police if he did try that.  I don't have any long lost love I would be thrilled to reconnect with.  It was just one of those nights, I think, where I realized how alone I am and I was feeling it keenly.  I think we all feel that way at times, triggered by something as simple as a word or a glance or anything else entirely innocent.

But I did get home to my little man who was anxious to see me and purring up a storm when I walked through the door with tears still on my cheeks.  True, he was hungry and that was the main reason for his attention, but as I picked him up and snuggled him, I was glad for at least one man in my life who is always there, who keeps the bed warm and gives amazing cuddles, and who, despite his few faults, is still the most perfect little male.  I love my boy, and just like Agent Prentiss, if some crazy hit man from my past ever comes gunning for me, I'm okay with leaving everything in my apartment behind, but I will be packing him (and the other animals) into the kitty carrier and taking him with me, no mater what.

People have offered to take Percy off my hands, but there is no way I'll ever part with him. Out of all my pets he's considered the "cool one" by others.  I never thought one of my crazy little beasts would be so coveted by other people, but it does put things in perspective. People may not envy much else about me, but they do envy me my cat.

At least he chose me.

Percy likes to play Hide and Seek

He also appreciates Victoria's Secret

Kissing Frogs to get to the Prince

I'm going to take a break from the pets this week and focus on a different kind of animal:

Men.

You heard me.

For one thing, the pets are not very interesting.  It's been too hot to hike so Tess hangs out on the front porch panting, or else she flops in her tub of water.  Puckett spends her days sacked out on the bed, snoozing.  When she's not doing that, she's yakking on the floor because she eats too fast.  Willow hangs out by the open back door in between stuffing her face and clawing me every time I try to brush the mats out of her.  Even Percy is subdued.  He lies around on the floor a lot, completely stretched out on his side, looking dead.  I poke him sometimes to make sure he's still alive and get the "shitty look."  When he's not doing that, he's having his usual Irritable Bowel Syndrome and leaving nastiness on the floor.  For the most part, the little darlings are asleep in a patch of sunlight.

Meanwhile I have never had so many interesting experiences as when I joined Match.com and Zoosk. This was at the recommendation of my therapist and Evan Marc Katz who swears the more one dates, the more likely she is to find a "sensible partner."  Not "the One," mind you.  He doesn't believe in "the One," just someone a gal can spend her life with without wanting to kill him on a daily basis.  I guess in other words, someone who doesn't make a gal want to throw up every time she sees him naked.  Thanks, Evan.

Not a glowing endorsement of marriage I suppose.  My notions might be way too romantic.  I come from a couple who, at seventy-something, still make people sick.  The way they met should be a black and white movie starring Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.  My mom sort of looked like Ingrid Bergman when she was younger.  My parents met on a train.  My dad is a train fanatic.  They sat opposite each other and my dad kept peeking over his newspaper to watch my mom in the reflection of the mirror.  Eventually he struck up a conversation.  When they both got off the train he asked for her number.  Then he lost her number, but he remembered where she worked so he looked the number up in the directory and called her at work to ask her out.

They've been married over forty years.  Serendipity?  I think so.  The train was a nice touch.

My romantic history consists of an abusive asshole; a sociopath; a drug-dealing felon; an emotionally constipated ranch cowboy; several flings; a twenty-three-year old dork who is going to be really awesome when he grows up; and a commitment-phobic Cowboy who adores me, does everything for me, but refuses to settle down in an actual relationship.  Those are the highlights. I know I've made bad choices in men. I own that. Sometimes I wonder if I'm relationship material at all since I seem to have trouble finding someone who wants to have a relationship with me.

As per the book:  They are just not that into me.

I own my part in why my relationships don't work out and have been taking steps to change things. For instance, not putting up with bad behavior and walking away when some jerk starts treating me badly. After some of my escapades, however, I cannot help but think that the bad behavior out there outweighs the good.  I have met some lovely men online, and after a couple of dates or even one date, it was clear there was no connection or chemistry and we parted ways respectfully.  I have to say most of the men I went on a first date with have been pretty nice and respectful.  I have no complaint of these men. The ones that amaze me are the ones I don't even go out with.  There's the guy who sent me one email that merely said "Hey, sexy!"  I know every woman on these sites gets that one and I just wonder.  What kind of a guy thinks it's a good idea to send out multiple "Hey, sexy!" messages to random girls just to see who will respond?  What is he trying to accomplish?  Obviously this guy is not looking for quality.  Or even a real woman.

One profile showed up in my matches starting with "Experienced dom looking for new sub."  It then proceeded to explain just how experienced of a dom he was and what exactly he was looking for in a sub.  There are sites out there for that kind of thing, specific BDSM dating sites geared towards that kind of an interest.  If one is cruising Match, they are probably not going to have a whole lot of luck finding someone willing to be a "sub."  This person has a specific lifestyle and is interested in finding someone with the same tastes.  He'll have more luck on a BDSM site, and I'm still not sure what it was in my profile that prompted Match to think it was a great idea to throw him into my "Daily Matches."  Maybe I just come across as a masochist because I'm online dating?  Or just dating in general?

I was highly entertained by the guy who emailed me a few times, then asked for my number so he could ask me out.  He was close enough that there was absolutely no reason we couldn't meet for coffee in an afternoon.  He texted a few times.  Then he sent me the ever-popular "So you have any more pictures?"

Nope.  No, I do not.  If the pictures on my profile are not good enough for you, I don't know what else you want from me other than nudes, and that's not going to happen.  I have several recent head shots, a couple full body pictures in cute outfits, and I am smiling in all of them. Everything I present in my profile is the truth.  I'm not lying about my weight, my height, or even my age.

I just don't understand why a man would text a woman he has never met, asking for more pictures when she's already posted several perfectly good ones on her profile. I get that he might be worried that I don't look like I've presented myself, but at the same time, we are close enough to meet.  So if coffee doesn't go well, that's why it's coffee. It lasts an hour and then we part ways. I can even pay for my own coffee if a guy is that worried about having to spend an hour with someone who doesn't live up to his visual standards.  I was not disappointed when he never contacted me again.

There's a guy I was sort of seeing in town who's been a friend of mine for awhile.  Boy, is he a fart in a skillet.  We had a few drinks one night. He texted me every day for a week.  Then he asked me to dinner so I went to his house and he cooked dinner.  I thought we had a good time. Haven't heard from him since, and he's supposed to be a friend of mine.  That's fine, he probably decided he wasn't that interested after all, but here's my beef with that one.  First of all we've been friends long enough. One would think he'd have figured that out sooner, and he could have just told me he's lost interest too.  Second of all, it seems like these guys can't get enough of me for a week, and then they just lose interest.  Or they work and work and work to get my interest, and as soon as I start falling for them or get a little interested, they run like a pregnant racehorse who needs to pee.  I'm beginning to think these guys really want is the chase. If I actually agree to go out with them it's no longer fun.

I met this beautiful man online who's profile was as well-written as mine.  He was handsome, nerdy, referenced Pride and Prejudice and the Princess Bride, and the title of his profile was "Knight Looking for Queen."  That should have been my first red flag, but I fell for it.  I liked his profile, he emailed me, and we texted for about a day all about comic books and superheroes and geeky stuff like that.  Then he disappeared, just stopped texting.  My crime?  He sent me a picture of Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer with a chain around his neck. I said while I love Spike, I don't care for the bondage thing.  His last two texts were extremely short and curt and that was the end of that. Apparently there was more than one dom looking for a new sub.  At least the first guy was upfront about it.

The texting thing drives me insane.  I will connect with someone on the site, exchange a few emails, and they will ask me for my number. I figure, okay, let's talk on the phone and meet.  No sense in wasting more of each others' time if it turns out we don't like each other.  But, no.  They want to text. And text.  And text!  All day long.  All night long.  Just constant back and forth bullshit conversation that gets boring and old really fast.  Why would someone invest so much time texting someone they haven't met yet?  Why go through that?  Also, don't these men have jobs?  Who the hell has time to text constantly all day long?  I mean, I work for a living.  I'm culpable too, as occasionally I fall into the trap myself and instead of cutting these guys off, I indulge their text-apaloozas.  I need to get better at setting boundaries.  They can send me a text along the lines of " Hi, it's __________ from _________" and "Is now a good time to talk? Can I call you?'  That's it.  Anything else makes me think he is a thirteen-year-old girl.

On that note there is yet another one who texts me every couple of days and the conversation goes like this every time:

Him: Hi.

Me: Hello.

Him: How are you?

Me: I'm fine.  How are you?

Him: Good.

Crickets afterwards.  For God's sake, ask me out or leave me alone. He lives in my town!  I need to scrape up the balls to say this.  I'm being too nice and once again indulging bad behavior.

To be fair the twenty-three-year-old texted me for four months before I finally got sick of it and told him one night that I was going to see the Minions movie the next day and he was welcome to join me. He asked if it was a date.  I said maybe, or maybe all my friends are lame and backed out.  He replied to that with a wink and "It's a date."  I asked him later if he was ever going to get around to asking me out had I not suggested meeting at the movie, and he told me that sometimes a guy doesn't know if a girl will say yes when he asks her out.  I will allow for being twenty-three here.  I told him for future reference, if a girl spends four months replying to a dude's texts, chances are she will say yes.  However, it is the dude's job to grow a pair, sack up, and actually ask.  The chances of a girl saying "Yes" go way down the longer he fiddle -faddles around.

Speaking of texting, I had one who is, what my girlfriend likes to call, a stage-five clinger.  He had trouble understanding boundaries.  We'd never met, but for awhile he was texting me things that a boyfriend would text.  He kept saying stuff like how after we meet and have been together awhile we'll have this amazing relationship and he was sure we'd have beautiful babies together.  Then he pushed for us to meet while I was in his city, visiting another girlfriend.  I told him that I was with my friends for a weekend of shopping and martinis and girl time, it had been planned for awhile, and I was not going to ditch  my girls just to meet him.  I'm too nice, I should have just cut off contact.  He kept pushing just for an hour, just to meet, he could meet us at the mall and my girls could go disappear in a store for awhile.

Uh, no.

He continued to text me throughout the weekend which I ignored.  Then he said something about being willing to drive us around as our DD.  I politely thanked him and said I would be driving.  What finally put me over the edge was a text that said "I hope you had a good day, sexy."  And I lost my shit.  I texted him back with  "We have never met so please don't call me that."  Instead of apologizing, he justified his behavior with "Oh, wow.  I was just giving you a compliment.  I didn't realize it would upset you."  The proper response to that would have been a respectful "I'm sorry."  I finally told him to buzz off.

I met another guy for coffee who, it turns out, works with the drug-dealing Felon's mother at the same high school.  He was a lovely man, I enjoyed talking to him, but I think he probably just couldn't after hearing that I dated the drug-dealing Felon.  He recalled a young man with naked women tattooed all over his forearms and probably immediately changed his opinion of me.  I haven't heard from him since coffee.  That was probably my fault.  But then, I just couldn't either when I imagined a conversation he might have with the Felon's mother:

Him: I'm dating this pretty librarian in the next town over. Her name is Anita!

Drug Dealing Felon's Mom: Oh, yes, my son used to date her!

Him: Um....really?  Your son with the naked ladies tattooed on his forearms?

Better we know now to avoid the awkwardness.

I dated a guy last summer.  He was an old friend, and a good one, or so I thought.  I spent a weekend with him, riding on the back of his brand new Harley, hanging out with his friends, boating on the lake, drinking, watching fireworks.  He asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.  I wasn't sure if he was kidding.  Not to get too x-rated, but I'm here to tell you he was not worth the wait when we finally got together. It was definitely him and not me, as I had a girlfriend tell me later that I was not the first girl to report his very bad performance. He pretty much ghosted me after that, and then I found out that he'd professed his love to someone else two weeks after that weekend, proclaiming that she was "it."  Turns out she wasn't "it" as that relationship lasted two months before she apparently ran screaming for her life. She probably heard the reports.  I'm thinking he's just a chronic player and our friendship didn't mean as much to him as it did to me. 

My favorite one is still Mr. White Knight, the suitor who got between me and the rattlesnake a few weeks ago. He gets it. True, he moves slower than molasses, but honestly, this isn't a bad thing. He takes me on actual dates, calls or texts between dates to let me know he's thinking about me, and actually holds a conversation.  He may be shy, but he still has confidence so he's not fiddle-faddling around, using shyness as an excuse to be a pussy.  He's very gentlemanly.  He hasn't tried to get in my pants.  He's not bombarding my day with constant text messages because he actually has a job and a life.  This is a rare man.  He is a mythical figure.  Not only that, he's very handsome and has an absolutely lovely smile.  I'm so used to going on a first date, clicking with someone, and then having them all over me for two weeks before flaming out and disappearing, that I'm not quite sure what to do with this one.   I appreciate him because in a sea of complete bozos, this one gives me hope that there are still respectable, decent men with manners out there.  They are few and far between, but they're out there.  They are even nearby and believe me, I've had moments where I wondered if every man in the area has gross emotional problems.

I'm not saying he is "the One" (Evan would snort at me) or that he is my Prince Charming among the frogs.  I'm not jumping the gun here, as I have finally learned that taking one's time yields better results. And of course the difficulty in dating goes both ways. I have wondered why Mr. White Knight is still single given his looks and personality, but it has occurred to me that women probably behave just as badly on these sites as the men do. They can be completely nuts. I have a couple of guy friends with a few stories that made me ashamed of my own sex.  Among them are the lady in the primary relationship looking for a secondary willing to tie her up; the lady who gets off on asphyxiation; and the rather disturbed woman who wanted to dabble in bestiality with my friend's pet pig (I shudder to think of what she had in store for the cows and the pet sheep).  I'd say keep that gal away from Percy.

It's bad enough when a guy sends a woman he has never met a dick pic with "You like?" as the caption, but I think the gal with the porker fetish might top the list of bad behavior.  Or maybe just really deranged behavior.

Kind of makes me wonder: Who are the real animals here? The dogs and cats, or the humans?

Every little girl with an unrequited crush

I Have to Go to the Potty!

I am so over these litter box wars.

I have never seen so much drama involved when using the bathroom as I have seen with my three cats.  If I put on such a theatrical every time I had to pee, I'd be exhausted.  I could write a whole new musical about cats: CATS: To Potty or not to Potty?

Bathroom drama doesn't stop at the litter boxes.  When I'm in the bathroom, either to take a shower, do my makeup, shave my legs, or use the toilet, there is always at least one cat in there with me.  It's usually Percy, though Tess has an interest in watching me apply makeup before a night out on the town.  I don't know if that's because she knows makeup symbolizes my leaving the house for an evening, or if she's just fascinated that I'm in the bathroom for so long.  Tess takes very little time eliminating.  She pees and poops as quickly as possible so she can go back to chasing bugs and watching the cars go by outside.

Percy has an unhealthy obsession with water.  His favorite thing to do in the bathroom is get in the shower with me.  If his head gets wet, then he freaks out and yowls like it's my fault.  He's fallen in the tub before and gotten soaked.  He also likes to sit on the toilet.  I have to keep the toilet lid down because Tess will drink out of the toilet and Percy will sit on the seat and paw at the water.  Percy has also taken to stretching out behind the toilet on really hot days.  I guess it's cool back there.

Puckett treats the bathroom the same way she treats the litter boxes: as quickly as possible because she doesn't want anyone to know she does disgraceful things.  The only time she spends a longer amount of time in the bathroom is in the mornings when I'm taking care of business and she feels the need to rub against my legs and weave between my ankles.  This is merely to remind me that it's breakfast time and I'm wasting precious minutes on the pot when she could be eating.

Lately, the little darlings have gotten more finicky and pissy about their litter box situation.  I have four litter boxes, none of which appear to be good enough for Their Majesties.  Willow, as mentioned before and frequently, doesn't even bother with the box unless I lock her in her cage for awhile.  She has her own litter box in her cage, another litter box underneath the cage, and she still manages to pee on the floor on a daily basis.  In the last week I've noticed that not only is Willow peeing on the floor, but Puckett is too.  Puckett isn't as blatantly rebellious about it as Willow, though.  Willow does it because Percy bullies her whenever she gets out of the box, going so far as to attack her and knock her to the ground as soon as she gets out of the box.  I would develop a toilet aversion too if I had some jerk knocking me out every time I flushed.  He tried it with Puckett once and she trounced him so bad he never bothered her again, but Willow is small, spazzy, and has no self-esteem.  I protect her as much as I can.  Particularly on weekends, I have noticed that Willow will go up to the box under the cage to poop, and no matter where Percy is in the house, he will come running and lie down at the foot of the steps, waiting for her.  I then remove him from the foot of the steps and hang on to him until Willow finishes her business and takes off.

This pisses Percy off like nobody's business, as if I have single-handedly ruined his entire weekend  by not allowing him to beat up on a tiny cat doing her business in a box he never touches.

The little asshole.

Puckett is more discreet.  The only reason I figured out that Puckett was also peeing on the floor was because I discovered puddles the next morning when the night before, after putting Willow in her cage, I was certain there was nothing.  I keep plastic litter traps on the floor outside the litter boxes downstairs where Percy and Puckett go.  The litter boxes are of regular litter box size with lids.  Besides leaving puddles on the litter traps, I have also witnessed Puckett squeeze herself into one of the litter boxes and then hang her considerable booty out of the opening, accidentally pooping on the floor.

At first I couldn't figure out what would make Puckett pee on the floor.  She has never done that.  That's Willow's little trick.  Puckett isn't sick, she hasn't been declawed, she has no bladder infection or urinary tract infection (these are all causes for litter box aversion).  Percy definitely isn't picking on her.  If nothing else, she beats him to a pulp every day when they have their daily kitty rumble.

It turns out that kitty's got back.

Puckett no longer fits in the litter box.  I suddenly had an epiphany the other day, thinking what if Puckett just cannot comfortably situate herself in the box anymore and peeing outside of the box is easier for her? After all she's not finding a completely new place to pee.  She's not soaking the carpet like Willow did before I pulled that out.  She's peeing right next to the litter box, as close to it as she can without actually going in it.  So I went to Petco, bought two boxes twice the size of the old ones minus the lids, extra litter, and litter freshener.  I washed all the boxes out and put the smaller ones aside, then filled the new boxes and put them in the potty area. 

Then I held my breath.  Cats are so finicky about litter boxes.  Some cats won't use it at all if there is even an ounce of waste in it.  Other cats get really pissed off if the box gets moved a centimeter to the left, let alone replaced by a whole new box.

Percy was horrified at first.  He approached the new boxes, sniffed them all over, then sat a few feet away and stared at them.  Then he stared at me.  Then he walked back over to the boxes, sniffed them again, put one paw in, and quickly yanked it back out.  He returned to a few feet away and glared at the boxes.  I tried to cajole him over to the box and show him how amazing it was, but he was having none of it, so I went back upstairs to do something else, leaving him alone and hoping he would get into it when he really had to go.

An hour later both boxes were full. Then I watched Puckett get into one of them, circle once, scratch the litter, and do her business before streaking out of the box at top speed like she usually does.

Success!  There have been no more accidents, and even Willow's been using the box the last two days.  I switched her small box with one of the bigger ones under the cage and disposed of all the lids.  Apparently, kitties don't like lids.  It makes them feel like they are trapped in a Port-a-Potty.  Percy's habit of attacking Willow probably makes her feel like the person who gets trapped in a Port-a-Potty by some jokers who then tip the Port-a-Potty over as an extra joke.

I guess I'd pee on the floor too rather than go in a Port-a-Potty where someone can humiliate me.

I'm beginning to think it would be a lot easier to just train these guys to use the toilet, but with three cats and one toilet, this may not be a feasible solution either.  First of all, the only one I think might actually be okay with learning to use the toilet is Percy.  Puckett doesn't balance well and Willow is such a spaz I can just see her falling right in.  She's the only one who could fit in the bowl too.  Percy would probably then proceed to flush it.  Second of all, every time I'd have to use the bathroom, a cat would be sitting on the toilet, newspaper in paws, giving me that snotty look, like "It'll be a minute!"

On the plus side, Puckett does seem a lot less stressed.  She's been in a pretty rotten mood lately, and I wonder if that's because she's been forced to pee outside of the box, something she deems completely disgraceful and beneath her.  Things like behaving in a way other than queenly do cause anxiety for her.  Since the "Great Box Switcheroo," she's been purring, rubbing against me, seeking me out for affection, sleeping on the bed.  Kitty's happy now and I guess I understand it.  I know I'm a lot happier too when my bathroom rituals run smoothly and comfortably.

When Life Hands You Manure, Grow Flowers

Boy, are my pets in rotten moods lately.  As usual they tend to take it out on me, like it's my fault their lives are falling apart.  And of course their lives are totally falling apart.  It's constantly ninety degrees, they don't get free-fed anymore, I'm at work eight hours a day, I don't let the cats go outside, and for the love of God, why do I never let them kill spiders?

My animals always let me know in no uncertain terms that they are pissed.  Willow pees on the floor. She likes to mix it up too.  Sometimes she pees on the plastic litter pads outside of the boxes downstairs, and sometimes she pees on the plastic sheet under her cage upstairs. Puckett yaks up her food.  When she's really mad she poops in my shoe.  Percy also yaks on the floor, but when he's really mad he releases his anal sacs all over my foot and leg to remind me that one does not mess with something that can release an overpowering stench.

If I painted a white stripe down his back, Percy could totally double as a skunk.

To be fair, my pets are probably pissed at me because I haven't been home a lot.  If I'm not at work, I'm in recovery, on a date, or at the coffee shop, writing.  I can't write at home.  My pets get in the way and don't allow me to get anything done.

Meanwhile Willow has peed on the floor three times this week (to be fair, she has gotten better since she no longer pees on the carpet). Puckett barfed twice.  Percy barfed once and released his anal sacs twice, and Tess has this annoying habit of pooping in the exact place she runs through when she's chasing flies outside.  I've read that animals don't like to eat, play or drink water in spots where they eliminate.  Cats especially are finicky about this which is why the litter boxes are downstairs and their food bowls are in the kitchen.  The only exception to that is Willow's cage.  Her litter box and food bowl are both in her cage, and if she doesn't want to eat where she shits then she should start thinking about maybe not peeing on the floor.  Tess, however, has no such reservations.  Her favorite place to chase flies is in the corner of the backyard where my little crab apple tree grows.  It is also her favorite place to poop.  She races around that tree several times a day and every time she tromps through the piles of shit she leaves behind.  I clean them up almost every day in the summer, but my God, can that dog poop.  I don't get it.  She eats once a day.  I fill her bowl up whenever it's empty because she is not a hog and only eats when she's hungry.  Usually she only cleans the bowl once or she snacks lightly throughout the day until the bowl is empty.  I have no idea where all this crap is coming from.  For a dog who eats so little, she sure does poop a lot.

The cats, on the other hand, eat constantly and so they also poop constantly.  I clean litter boxes three times a day, sometimes four depending on how smelly Percy decides to be.  That's his other trick.  When he's annoyed or huffy with me he somehow manages to generate the stinkiest nastiest dump any animal is capable of and usually right in the middle of my lunch.

It's been a smelly week.

When I'm in a rotten mood I generate emotional shit.  Of course one thing that will put me in a rotten mood is having cleaned the house and litter boxes top to bottom only to have Willow pee on the floor, Puckett yak on it, and Percy release some kind of stink so that the entire house needs airing out.  This happened the other night.  I fed my animals as soon as I got home from work.  The house stunk to high heaven indicating that Percy had recently been to the box so I cleaned all the litter boxes.  Willow proceeded to pee on the floor once all the boxes were clean (really, Willow?) and then Percy promptly barfed up the entire contents of his dinner all over the steps and then on the carpet downstairs.  He then went to use the litter box again.

It was a double whammy.

I yelled.  Willow fled.  Percy released his anal sacs.  Then he gave me the snottiest, shittiest look I've ever seen on that cute little black face and marched off.

I had to bleach everything - the floor, the litter boxes, the steps.  I am here to tell you, nothing smells worse than a male cat's anal sacs.  And no male cat takes greater pleasure in grossing humans out with it than Precious Percy.

One probably wonders why I keep these little bodily fluid factories around, but honestly the good really does outweigh the bad.  My emotional shit is worse than anything physical these three furballs can generate out of whatever orifice.  They put up with a lot more shit from me than I put up with from them.  My animals pick up whatever mood I'm in, so if I'm feeling pissy, they get pissy.  When I'm anxious and I make them nervous, causing the dog to pace and the cats to race through the house or scratch their scratching posts incessantly.  When I'm in a little too good of a mood, the cats race through the house, bouncing off the walls, and Tess leaps and bounds around me, usually narrowly missing my face with a paw she's waving around.  She and Percy like to wrestle.  Puckett and Percy also like to wrestle.  When I start dancing in the kitchen, the dog dances with me and the cats bounce all over the place like little rubber balls of fur.  If I dance or do Pilates downstairs, the cats all join me in a bit of Downward Dog and Planking, though the cats' idea of Planking is stretching full length on their sides either beside me or underneath my "Plank." By the way, trying to hold any Plank position for ten counts while a tail runs back and forth under one's nose is almost impossible.

Honestly, my pets are neurotic because I'm neurotic, so therefore their physical shit is generated by my emotional shit.

It can all be construed as my fault.  I may yell, but I'm not going to punish them for that.  As usual I bring all my shit and theirs on myself.  Theirs just happens to be more tangible, smells terrible, and is overall disgusting.  There is no doubt, however, that emotional shit is more toxic than anything that comes out of a cat.  Negative self-talk, depression, anxiety attacks, the constant spinning of one's mind imagining all the things that can go wrong are enough to lower the quality of one's life a lot worse than a few piles of kitty poo.  I am not a glass half full kind of person.  I never was.  I was always a bit more pessimistic than optimistic, preferring to call myself a realist.  I like to prepare for the worst, that way I'm never disappointed.  I like to base decisions and outcomes on what is most likely to happen due to history rather than what the most positive outcome might be.  I never like to get my hopes up to high.  I've been too jaded.  The funny thing about negative thinking and always expecting the worst is that it puts one in a rotten mood, and as demonstrated by my cats, rotten moods only produce more shit.  Because it has finally sunk in that shit only begets more shit, I've changed my outlook and tried something new: positive thinking, gratitude, and self-care and most importantly positive self-talk, because honestly cutting myself down is no fun.  I would never speak to a dear friend the way I talk to myself sometimes, so why should I treat myself any differently?  As much shit as they produce, my cats don't shit all over themselves, so why am I shitting on myself?

And you know what? I think it's working.  Having a more positive outlook on life has improved my writing, improved my relationships with friends and family and coworkers, and improved my attitude at work. It's also possibly attracting a better class of men and weeding out the worthless ones who aren't for real.  Little by little, even with my bad days and my funks, I'm feeling better and less hopeless about stuff in general.  I smile more, I laugh more, and I'm finding nuggets of fun in my day to day life.

I really am a professional shit shoveler which qualifies me for recognizing my own shit and starting to shovel it.  It's a stall-full, I'm not going to lie, but shovelful by shovelful, it's getting dumped in the wheelbarrow and taken to the manure pile.

Now if I can just figure out how keep up with shoveling the physical shit of my pets.  They may eventually bury me with it.

Patience is a Virtue

I'll be the first to admit that I have zero patience.  Patience is a virtue I seriously lack.

Interestingly my cats share this lack of virtue with me.  Cats are notorious for their patience.  No one can sit by a mouse hole, hour after hour without moving a muscle like a cat.  I've seen cats fixate on a hole for an entire afternoon waiting for some creature or other to crawl out unsuspectingly, and their patience always pays off.  They always end up with a snack or a toy or a little of both, the remains of which they leave on the doorstep as testimony of their excruciating patience.

My cats have no patience.  As soon as I open my eyes in the morning Percy is wailing for food, Puckett is sitting by the bed staring at me, and Tess is pacing around the bedroom, begging to be let out.  If I don't jump out of bed immediately, Percy jumps up on the bed, races across it, and jumps down the other side.  He'll do this over and over until I either get up or throw him across the room. Otherwise he will race through the house, thundering like a herd of elephants and ensuring that there is no way I'll go back to sleep.

When Precious wants his food, he wants it now.

This can happen at any given time of day.  As far as he is concerned, Percy always wants his food.  If I wander into the kitchen at midnight for a drink of water, he's sitting by the cabinet expecting me to get his bowl out even though all meals stop after nine.

This lack of patience also factors in when playing with bugs, spiders, and inanimate balls of tin foil.  My cats don't sit patiently, watching bugs come to them.  They pounce almost immediately, tear the poor things apart, and leave carcasses of legs and carapaces all over the carpet for me to find.  I try to save the spiders, but I'm usually too late.  By the time I get to them, a paw has already mashed their little eight-eyed faces into the ground.  

There is nothing sadder than a mangled spider body.

Flies are luckier only because they can fly.  My cats have no patience with that either.  They will sit and gawk as a fly buzzes around the room, but as soon as it lands somewhere they are on it like ticks on a hound dog.  Sometimes they don't even wait for it to land.  They throw themselves at the French doors in the bedroom, running their paws across the glass, and genuinely freaking out as the fly calmly buzzes away and traps itself in the light fixture. My cats never catch flies.  Occasionally they catch a moth or two.

If feels like I'm always waiting for something: to hear about the budget at work so I know what my next year of work will look like; a date I'm looking forward to; my bread dough to rise; the next Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Star Wars movie to come out; The BFG movie to come to the movie theater; my vacation; spring to get here so I can start my garden; the Christmas season so I can decorate my house with lights and tinsel.

I can be patient about some things.  Standing in line at the grocery store doesn't bother me.  Waiting my turn at the doctor's office doesn't bother me.  Hanging out while my car gets an oil change also doesn't bother me.  With these types of situations I have infinite amounts of patience as I bring a book and read.  I will wait all day for appointments.

Waiting on perpetual tardiness bothers me a bit more.  Everyone runs late.  However, when it becomes a habit that I am ALWAYS waiting fifteen or twenty minutes on someone who is supposed to be meeting me for dinner or a movie or whatever, then I do get irritated.  But I am also one of those people who doesn't mind dining alone or watching alone.  If someone is taking too long, I'll just go ahead and order without them.

And on that subject, I no longer wait by the phone for some man to call.  He's not calling, I'm off doing something else fun.  Why women wait on these calls that never come, or when they do are unsatisfactory, is beyond me.  If a woman wants to see a movie, she should go see it.  If she wants to have a glass of wine, she should have it.  If she wants to go skydiving and he promised her, but isn't delivering, then she should go sign herself up for that jump.  Men like women to rely on them as their heroes, but if they aren't delivering, then a woman has to be her own Prince Charming.  If a guy is going to make me wait, then he will immediately be replaced by someone else who is  more fun, better looking, and more inclined to deliver on their promises.  I'm talking about those men who make promises to call or do something together and then never do.  I'm not talking about men who have busy lives and may not be able to drop everything right then and there to take me to the opera but still have every intention of doing so when he can.  Kind, generous, and considerate men have lives and that's okay.  Jerks who make me wait with unfulfilled promises and half-assed pursuit are not worth the time it takes to delete their phone numbers from my phone.

I also have zero patience for drama, people who generate drama, and people who try to drag me into their drama.  And I definitely get very impatient with people who ask me over and over and over for advice on the same issue when I've already given them all I can on the subject.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  The definition of how to make Anita lose her patience the quickest is to ask me over and over the same question and expecting a different answer (albeit, the one you want to hear, rather than my honest opinion or advice).

I have the least amount of patience (or rather NO patience) waiting for my life to start.  Okay, granted my life has already started and I'm doing things in my life that I enjoy while working towards several goals, but really this process is taking too damn long and I'm getting sick of waiting.  I want my best seller and writing career NOW.  I do the work involved, but I still want it NOW. I want that novel done in a day, dammit.  I want my quilt to be finished NOW.  I'm tired of looking at that stupid half-finished knitted blanket.  I want it done NOW too.  And this dating process is really getting on my nerves.  I want the love of my life to walk up to my doorstep already so I can get off these stupid online dating sites and stop dealing with broken hearts from my bad decisions.  Again I do the work involved to get there.  I've been working on myself to attract a better class of men (and the emotionally constipated ones are getting dropped off the side of a cliff). I read my devotionals.  I'm in recovery.  I'm working on my mental health issues while being open enough about them so as not to appear to be hiding them.  I'm getting to know people and taking the time to date rather than jump headlong into a relationship with someone I barely know (because of chemistry). 

As per a wonderful little book called "You're Late Again, Lord! The Impatient Women's Guide to God's Timing" by Karon Phillips Goodman, I'm in the waiting room, working on my control issues and trying to come to terms with the idea that things happen on God's timetable not mine.  My long wait is a result of my avoidance of certain issues that are now bubbling over the surface and forcing me to address them.  Thus, the waiting room.  I'm not ready for the things I desire because I'm still working on myself, and a year and a half in working on myself already feels like a lifetime.  Take into account the many times I've backslid, and it could be another five years in the waiting room.  Backsliding is my own fault.  Every time I think I've got my sheep together and my poop in a group, I get cocky and start reverting to old bad habits.  The inevitable backsliding happens and BAM.  Back in the waiting room.  Every time I start to think "Hey, I can handle this! I'm taking the reins!" I stumble and run the wagon off the road, putting me right back into the waiting room.

Then I wonder why I'm frustrated and depressed.  Once again, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  For someone who hates waiting, I sure do everything I can to ensure that I will keep waiting.  Also, if I'm constantly waiting for something or looking ahead at something, I miss out on the present.  One of the lessons I'm learning in my waiting room is to live in the now and enjoy the present.  It's hard, but I have moments of brilliance.

I'm usually in such a rush that I miss things, and I realized the other day that maybe there is another way.  One of my suitors is most decidedly not in a rush.  Not that I have a crazy amount of men chasing after me, but on an online dating site, one always has several people one chats with.  This one is one of my favorites.  We have had three dates.  The first date was pretty awkward - a lot of getting to know you small talk and uncomfortable smiles.  The second date was a hike.  Still a bit awkward, but at least we got to walk (and the rattlesnake provided excitement and drama). We went out for dinner and drinks for the third date.  This guy moves slower than molasses on a winter morning and it's actually brilliant in its simplicity.  So many men are like a fart in a skillet, bouncing from woman to woman.  They start off coming on super strong, swept away by strong chemistry, and then things fizzle out just as quickly as they heated up and they are on to the next thing.  That's exciting when a woman is in her twenties.  After several situations like that, it becomes confusing, hurtful, and more than a little annoying.  How can someone be all about me for two weeks and then suddenly just disappear?  Are feelings really that shallow?  These men demand everything upfront, right away, and then there's nothing left to wait for and they get bored.  Lovely.  My suitor, however, takes his time.  He apparently has patience in spades.  There is that cliche, "Good things come to those who wait."  And wait and wait and WAIT...

In the words of Willow from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: "We have a lot of fun, but I want smoochies!" Okay, maybe it's not that bad.  I'm glad he's not trying to paw me in the backseat of his truck.  This guy is a slow burn.  Like I said, brilliant.

In a world where everyone is in a constant rush and instant gratification is a way of life, I can see how we all got to a place where slowing down and waiting is just an inconvenience (I blame Google, by the way - talk about your instant gratification).  I have also noticed that when I get what I want immediately when I want it, I'm not necessarily satisfied because I didn't hold out for the best.  My cats seem to be in the same boat.  They demand their food, gorge it, and then either yak it up all over the carpet or else want to eat again five minutes later.  The dog is bad too.  She begs for her treat,  gobbles it down, and then she's magically by my side again, sitting in front of the cabinet like she's forgotten that she just had a treat.  She's also pretty demanding about that treat.  If I haven't given it to her as quickly as she'd like, she's got her nose nudged up against my hand and her whole body pressed against my legs.  Too bad I can't do this with the universe: press myself up against its legs, stare at it with big eyeballs, and silently plead "Where's my best seller? Can I have it now? How about now?  Now??"

There is a method to the madness, I'm sure. There is a reason we get stuck in the waiting room for months, maybe even years.  While one waits, one learns valuable lessons, but I'll be the first to admit that waiting can be excruciating and there are days when I wonder what's the point and does my life really have a purpose other than going to work and Netflix?  That's when I try to take control and make things happen the way I want them to, so that I don't feel so useless or futile or like I'm letting my life march by without me.  It's an illusion, of course.  We never really have control over anything. We just think we do, or we wish we do because waiting is so hard.

Perhaps that's why most cats play with their prey for so long?  They enjoy the element of control since they get to decide how long the game plays out and who inevitably wins, like small furry gods. Meanwhile they cultivate their patience because these games can go on forever and they never seem to get bored of them.

Not my cats, though. My cats have no patience for patience, and the only thing they enjoy controlling is me. Meanwhile I have no control over anything, including my cats, and my time in the waiting room stretches longer and longer.

Good thing I have a stack of magazines and books to read while I wait.

Rattlesnakes on the Path of Life

Somewhere along the way, my life has gotten off course.

I've had better weeks.  This last one I ended with a huge bowl of chocolate, double dark chocolate, and chocolate peanut butter gelato topped with a huge pile of homemade whipped cream.

It didn't help.

I blame the rattlesnake I encountered Tuesday evening on a hike with my dog and one of my gentleman suitors.  If spiders are good luck and I welcome them scurrying across my life on a daily basis, rattlesnakes are the opposite.  I like spiders.  I despise snakes.  Snakes in general get a bad rap in literature, particularly in the Bible.  I've always considered them as a symbol of evil, duplicity, betrayal, or at the very least, "Proceed with Caution."

In my years of living in Wyoming I have never encountered a rattler.  Bull snakes, water snakes, and the cute little black thing that shared the backyard with Tess for a couple of summers are the only snakes I've seen since moving here.  All perfectly harmless, more scared of me than I was of them. On my hike last week, my suitor and I were strolling along having a conversation while Tess bounded this way and that, sniffing everything.  This head popped up out of the grass along the path and the air filled with the sound of a hissing rattle.  I've heard rattlers on TV, but I've never heard the real thing.  Someone told me that it's one of those sounds all humans instinctively recognize whether they've ever heard one or not.  I jumped to the other side of the path, swearing.  My companion moved between me and the snake, and Tess obliviously gamboled about several feet ahead, completely unconcerned that her human nearly stumbled into a deadly snake bite.  Truthfully I was more worried about Tess.  She's never seen a rattler either, and while she is very good about listening to me when I order her not to go near or touch something, she would be more inclined to blunder over a snake while sticking her nose in piles of grass than she would be to purposely challenge one.  The only exception here is if the snake attacked me.  Then I can't vouch for how Tess would react, and the last thing I want is for my dog to lose her life due to nasty bitch-snake bite.

I leashed my dog immediately.

The snake was quite pretty actually.  I thought rattlers are brown with a perpetual bitchy resting face, but this one was almost emerald green under its markings which is why we didn't see it until we were almost on top of it. Its appearance did nothing to soften its attitude, however.  It flicked its little forked tongue, weaved its head back and forth in striking imitation of the Real Housewives of Atlanta head wag, and rattled loud enough to warn off every creature in the mountains looming above us.

I'll take this moment to point out that on the way to the hiking path, a skunk ran across the street in front of my companion's truck, so I don't know if I want to blame the crappy week completely on the snake.

Things went downhill since the hike.  My car battery died.  My phone battery died.  My brakes died. I ended up pumping a good chunk of money into my car, and while that was a bummer, it was still better than having to buy a new car.  The ridiculous Cheyenne-esque wind destroyed my flowers, and it was 90 degrees all week causing high tempers, short fuses, and an overwhelming desire to drown oneself in a pool of ice water. The weather combined with my PMS did nothing to improve my mood all week long.  I broke my favorite mug featuring Snoopy as the Vulture by catching it with my elbow and knocking it out of the cabinet, a feat I never would have been able to accomplish in a normal week considering I stash that mug in a relatively safe place. I had three dates last week and several texts from other suitors, and while the attention is flattering, I'm pretty exhausted.  I'm not used to being the popular chick (and there are only so many evenings in a week). They are all lovely men, but I still don't know any of them very well, and seeing them once a week or every other week doesn't help with developing intimacy.

Or maybe it's as I feared, and I'm just one big dating disaster.

Perhaps this is just what "dating" is all about.  As a serial monogamist generally attracted to morons, I am not familiar with the concept of just "dating."

As long as I'm confessing my sins, I also subjected myself and the Paleontologist to the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie that I was sure was going to be a complete stinker.  It wasn't too bad actually, kind of reminiscent of the old cartoons I used to watch as a child,  Unfortunately that caused me to go on a nostalgic rampage of wishing I was still twelve when the only problem I had was whether or not I missed that cartoon on Saturday mornings because I overslept.  I definitely wasn't worrying about a full time job, how to pay all my bills, dating, was I going to die alone, or who was breaking my heart.  My small group recovery didn't do much to raise my spirits as it usually does, and I even felt like my daily devotional and my Bible were judging me based on this last weekend's readings.  In other words, even God is breaking my heart right now (but it's only fair since I break His continuously).

Worst of all, other than Tuesday night hiking with my dog, I have barely spent any time with my animals due to dates, work, and the heat rivaling the bowels of hell.  That heat makes them avoid me like it's my fault the weather is being so obnoxious.  Percy hides in the coolest place in the house, Willow banishes herself to the top of her cage so she can sit by the open window (and continues to protest by peeing on the floor), and Puckett doesn't want to get any hotter by snuggling or being around others with elevated body heat.  This is understandable considering her thick fur coat, her layer of fat, and the fact that she is a cat with a high normal body temperature.

Looking back the week really wasn't all that bad.  The crappiness was only magnified by the heat, the wind, and the PMS.  I tend to overdramatize.  The crappiness did, however, get my attention.  And also, researching snakes as symbols and spirit guides, I discovered that they actually symbolize healing, transformation and life changes, and an increase in energy.  Running across a snake in life can mean a major life transition and a period of personal growth.  I have to say, that is more spot on than the Bible reading I had this last weekend that prompted me to throw my Bible across the room in anger at feeling judged.  But then,maybe that reading wasn't completely off either. My life has gotten completely off course which I am definitely not comfortable with, but the appearance of that rattlesnake got my attention as well.  There are definitely transitions happening.  I am definitely going through personal growth from my recovery and moving through the steps. And while I don't have as much energy as I'd like (I blame that on the Snickers bars I've been eating for breakfast), I do know that tweaking my diet back to healthy eating and reinstating Pilates every morning will help with that. I don't always like what my devotionals (and my rattlers) are telling me, but I have faith that it's stuff I need to hear and work on.  I thought I was doing fine for awhile, and then I stumbled again and am back to struggling.  I am learning a lot about myself dating different guys and getting to know many people rather than fixating on one guy and obsessing (like the serial monogamist that I am).  Dating like this has also dragged me out of my comfort zone and forced me to socialize in a manner I'm not completely comfortable with.  It's helped with my confidence, and while I can get discouraged and jaded, I refuse to give up as I've done in the past.  Small group sharing in recovery is also out of my comfort zone.  I hate sharing my issues with strangers, but I have made new friends from this and now they are no longer strangers.

I don't know what I'm transforming into, what I'm transitioning to, but I do know the journey is terrifying and exciting at the same time.

Kind of like nearly stepping on a rattlesnake in the middle of a placid, pleasant hike.

What Becomes of a Broken Heart?

When it comes to love, animals are infinitely easier than humans.  They are easier to love, they love more easily, and the only way they can break one's heart is to take that final walk over the Rainbow Bridge.

The first animal I lost devastated me.  She was also the first animal I completely connected with.  I love all animals, but some are just special and connect with our hearts differently.  It's the same with people, I think.  We can be kind to each other and tolerate each other - love thy neighbor, God says - but that doesn't mean one wants to be friends with everyone. In that same vein, I love all animals, but that doesn't mean I want to own all of them (and definitely not the wretched beast with the high-pitched yap barking outside my back door all morning).

I met Colleen when I was fourteen.  I had just started volunteering at the animal shelter.  I had always wanted a dog, though my parents forbid it which was their right, of course.  My dad wasn't a fan of big dogs and my mom didn't want the responsibility.  That would change a few years later when my first shepherd, Flag, came into our lives and my father cried harder when he died than any of the rest of us. 

But I digress.

I went to work one morning and found a tiny tri-color collie puppy in one of the kennels, all alone.  She looked at me, I looked at her, and I was immediately hit with that thunderbolt of love at first sight.  I've only felt that one other time, and not even with Puckett.  After I finished my chores I spent a good hour in the kennel with her, snuggling her and keeping her company.  My coworkers laughed and teased me about "spoiling the puppy."  Even my mom cooed over her when she came to pick me up.

For four weeks, I couldn't wait to get to the animal shelter every day so I could play with Colleen.  She imprinted on me and when I let her out of her kennel, she followed me everywhere.  She played with the other puppies, but she never let me get too far out of her sight.  When she was in her kennel she watched me go about my business, her eyes following me as I worked back and forth in the kennel area.  Logically, I  know this pup imprinted on me because she was four weeks old, barely weaned, and orphaned with no littermates, and I was the first person who offered attention, comfort, and love to her in a strange cold place.  Emotionally, I know that's a load of crap.  That puppy adored me and the feeling was mutual.  She was mine in every sense of the word but legally.  Even my mom and coworkers commented that Colleen never seemed to take her eyes off me.

My dad wouldn't let me adopt her and I cried for two days.  I don't blame my dad.  He's not as empathic or emotional as I am, and he doesn't attach as easily.  It is what it is, but once I knew that I couldn't take Colleen home I went about the business of trying to peddle her off to prospective adopters.  I wanted her out of that place as soon as possible.  I wanted her to have a good home even if it wasn't with me.  It was not to be, however.  By the time Colleen turned turned eight weeks old, she got very sick and my mother offered to take her to the vet and pay the vet bill to get her treated.  The prognosis was parvovirus, and in such a young dog the treatement was too expensive.   The shelter decided to euthanize her, and I still believe the way events played out that that little puppy belonged to me and always would.  Either she would live with me, or she wouldn't live at all.

As I said, the only way animals can break one's heart is to die.  I cried for months.  This tiny puppy I'd only known for four weeks has made a huge impression in my life even twenty years later.  I have one picture of her and one drawing, but I still remember every detail of her.  Her huge brown eyes, her soft black coat, her little white paws and white tail tip, and the heart shaped blaze on her forehead.  I've seen lots of dogs with similar coloring, but I've never seen another one whose blaze forms a perfect heart at the top of its head. 

Colleen was the first to break my heart.  Even though I've had a lot of disappointments over the years, I can say that only one person has truly broken my heart to the same extent as Colleen.  I"m going to come right out and say dating is tedious, and being single looking for love is an almost impossible task.  I've been on plenty of dates lately.  My mother is no help when she says one should feel an instant spark upon meeting someone and that's how two people know they are meant to be together.  It happened for her and my dad.  Here they are still married and still making people sick with their happy lives together.  I think they are a rarity.  Few people get to have that and they are lucky.  I haven't felt a spark with anyone yet, not that they haven't all been super nice guys.  I just don't really know any of them very well. Evan Marc Katz is also no help with his constant, "Choose the right men" and "Don't let chemistry blind you," and "Dating is a skill."  A skill I apparently suck at, thank you very much, Evan. By his philosophy the more men I date the better chance I have at finding true lasting love and happiness, but only if I learn to weed out the frogs from the princes properly (by paying for his coaching services, of course).  If we go by my mother's philosophy, then I should be with my drug-dealing Felon, and he already walked away from me with his "I don't deserve you and you will always be too good for me" nonsense.  And now he's gone and broken my heart again. On the heels of losing August again, and that was shattering enough (incidentally, he also gave me the "You deserve better than me" speech, whatever the hell that means), I learned that my ex-boyfriend has barreled once more down the road of stupid decisions and gotten himself tangled in another drug bust.  This is what the rumor mill is churning out and I haven't found written proof of it yet, so right now it's just hearsay.  It did come from fairly reliable sources, however, and it just figures. This would be the Felon's second offense, he got off easy the first time around, and now he's looking at ten years.  Don't get me wrong.  He deserves it.  He obviously didn't learn his lesson. I am well rid of him because if we were still together this would now be my problem too.  It shouldn't bother me one bit.

But it does.

I'm not over him, but I am past him. That just means that while I no longer want to be with him and I actually really think he's a dumbass, his doofus decisions still have the ability to affect me.  One doesn't stop caring about someone because that person is a moron.  Just like one doesn't stop caring about a little puppy twenty years later, just because she died.  I had truly thought him better than that.  I even told him that, and when he said he would most likely land in jail again I told him I didn't believe that, that I believed in him.  So it's no wonder my heart is broken.  It's broken for him, it's broken for his three year old son, and it's broken for myself because I feel like an idiot.  I wish things were different just like I wish things had been different for me and Colleen, and even me and August.  Between August and the Felon, they are going to drive me to drink.  We can love, but we can't control those we love.  The price for loving animals and people is the risk of having one's heart broken.

It is up to us whether our hearts grow back twice as big, allowing for new loves, or if they remain broken.