I thought I had the need-to, need-to, need-to smoke thing completely beat. I don’t crave it with coffee, after dinner, while driving, etc., etc., etc.
But apparently I still do when I’m very, very, very angry.
And I am. Very, very, very angry.
It’s bad enough when I realize that my buttons are being purposely pushed. It’s even worse when it involves my cats.
For the record, I don’t have children. I know that parents will say (rightly, perhaps) that “it’s not the same.” But, given that I’m missing the human equivalent, these are my kids. My kids that I had to give up custody of them after Katrina because of housing issues. My kids that were staying with someone who supposedly cared enough about cats and who supposedly cared enough about me to take care of them.
My very sick kids, it would appear. I have one with me; I have two in Tampa. My codependent cat, here, is fine and dandy. Fat, really, with the winter weight she’s gained. The other two aren’t doing so hot.
“I have to bring Cow Cat to you,” he said. “She’s shitting everywhere.”
This, of course, after an alleged near $900 vet visit to determine…get this…they have flea anemia.
“The good news is the doctor doesn’t think that they’re presently symptomatic of feline leukemia or kitty AIDS.” This a couple of days ago when I was dealing with the academic crisis which I am just now recognizing as my Word Trial version expiring right as I’ve spent days trying to look for some code.
Talking to this guy is literally like interpreting literary (garbage) text. It’s not just inflection or tone. It’s not just replaying exact verbiage. It’s looking for what’s missing, too.
No wonder I got such a headache talking to him. Sometimes I think about him, shake my head, and blink as a little cartoon bubble floats above my head with the letters “WTF” flashing in neon pink.
“‘Presently symptomatic’? What does that mean? Did the vet even mention aids or leukemia?”
“Well, no, but their symptoms strongly mimic those.” If a sigh could be full of doomsday grief, his sigh would chock full of it.
“Right. So the vet didn’t even mention those.”
“So what DID the vet say?”
“The have flea anemia. They’ve both lost a lot of weight and have patches of hair missing.”
Flea anemia. They’re both allergic to fleas which I discovered the hard way just a couple of months before the hurricane when a “friend” brought her dog-fleas with her. Despite living in the woods, I had never had a problem with them before. That would explain the missing hair. But the whole time I’ve assumed they’ve been doing fairly well. I knew that Neuroticat didn’t adjust too well to her foster mommy leaving and his moving a new chick in, but other than that, it sounded okay.
Flea anemia. COMPLETELY PREVENTABLE. With flea treatments! It’s amazing.
Just a month ago, he called out of the blue, to tell me that he cared about me, wanted me to know that he was taking care of the cats because I was important to him.
I felt the buttons then, but didn’t say anything because I figured he was trying to lure me back into being his back up plan. “I just want you to believe me that I’m taking care of them for you.”
“I believe you,” I said. I mistakenly thought the important part was ‘for you.’
Because apparently it takes about $900 for a vet to discover they have a heavy flea load but the person shelling out the cash can’t be bothered to mention that one of them has been shitting her brains out, Cow Cat has ruined a comforter.
And this is so very wrong of me, but all things considered, this is a good news/bad news post. The bad news: The ex boyfriend is apparently coming hard and heavy to drop off my cats.
The good news is that I told him to bring both cats and to bring all receipts for treatment and care, and we’ll settle up. The better news is that, while I still have no place to put the cats (it’s not like my circumstances have changed), I will no longer have any excuse to maintain contact, and I will be free in a way that I’ve been looking forward to for a long, long time.
And, despite that fact that I know, know, know that this makes me a vindictive bitch, I would consider the best news of all that my pretty little Tumbleweed shat on his comforter.
You’ve proven that I couldn’t trust you with my body because your dick was prone to falling into other women. And you wondered why I wouldn’t sleep with you again.
You’ve proven that I couldn’t trust you with my mind because you didn’t respect boundaries and purposely manipulated me. And you wondered why I didn’t open up to you again.
You’ve proven, now, that I can’t trust you with my cats. And you wonder why I didn’t, don’t, hadn’t, won’t want to see you.
No, you’re not marriage material. Not for most people, I’d imagine, and definitely not for me.
Enjoy your shitty sheets.
I’m about to dive under my comforter blessedly clean of fetish material. Smokelessly, that is.