I’ve never had to cancel a trip because of feline obligations. Until this week. I did not take it well.
I had lined up a two-night stay in Squaw Valley for the final nights of the writers’ conference up there. No obligations but to party and mingle as co-head of Litquake. But on Monday, when I was at my fifth veterinary appointment in two weeks for three different cats, it became eminently clear that my junket was turning to junk. The last straw? Being handed two meds for Skeeter, and being told that she needed one of them twice a day for ten days. It didn’t take a genius to do the math and realize I wasn’t going anywhere. That, combined with the fact that Lizzie the kitten was still not yet stable (she is a veritable pooping machine with scabby skin), caused the door to close.
Yes, I always have a petsitter, but even the marvelously patient and kind Kim has her limits. If I’m overwhelmed, imagine how she would be? There’s only so much I can ask.
So I sat in the parking lot with Skeeter cowering in her carrier next to me, and dissolved in tears of frustration. I hadn’t been anywhere in three months. I was seriously burned out from taking care of too many kitties. And now I felt like a prisoner in my own home. The expletives flowed like lava. Until they stopped, and I looked in the mirror to dab my face.
“You chose this,” I told myself, sniffing. “Deal with it.”
Having too many cats is actually not a huge burden to me; I do love each and every one. But what puts me over the edge is having three temporary pets – all fished out of the ravine in varying stages of poor health, from cancer to infections, and needing much TLC. (Not to mention two of them needing eventual homes). Ginger (who will be with me until the end) seems to be changing; she is less hungry and slower, and her face seems to be shifting some. Her mouth cancer might be moving out of remission, and every day I look for signs that she’s leaving me, and my heart breaks a little.
It breaks a different way for Lizzie, who is the bravest little thing I’ve ever seen, and still recovering from her ordeal. Still less than 2 lbs., she amazes me with her pugnaciousness, hissing at grandpa Pokey (!) who is five times her size, when he gets close to her food.
And darling, sweet Skeeter (named for the scrappy heroine of The Help), whose upper respiratory infection has caused sneezing and coughing fits that make me wonder if she will lose the ability to breathe. (Hence the medications.)
It seems that I have two ways of looking at my current state of overload. I can focus on the piles of poop or the rejected medications or the trips to the vets or the money it’s costing or the fact that when I minister to the flock I fall in love with them and then feel awful when they go. Or I can focus on the moments of joy and the tiny breakthroughs: when Skeeter first purred, and when Lizzie had a solid BM and when the bandages finally came off Big Mike. Or, this week, when I first saw Dorian Gray back in his natural setting, chirping at me happily and looking so handsome.
When I keep those moments in mind, I know I’m doing the right thing. Squaw Valley will always be there; right now I’m needed at home.
I turned to Skeeter and said, “come on, you tiny pain in my social schedule, let’s get out of here.”
And then I went home, and gave kisses to my captors.