Shoulda, coulda...Target?!?

In life, and in fashion, there are patterns. There are metaphorical patterns, like trends coming and going. Then there are literal patterns, like gingham. Then there are other patterns, behavioral patterns. People, animals, everything works in pattern. Supposedly, if you stand far enough back from anything you'll notice a pattern. And when the pattern in cat urine, it's not hard to stand far back.

Gucci went to the vet for the first time today. I learned how much he hates being in confined spaces, so much so that he broke the carrier box to escape in the lobby of my building where he made a run for the east entrance, and I can only assume from there he would make a left on wabash to Nordstrom where he would avail himself of the pre-season sale on the new kiltie monkstrap loafers from Prada. From there he would spend a lovely afternoon stopping for lunch and sitting on the patio of Tavern on Rush, buying some socks and a belt from Paul Smith and then maybe he would bang a right on Michigan which would take him to 900 north, where his namesake store was and he could then pick up the new beige leather diamante change purse I've had my eye on.

Oh wait, never mind. That's not my cat's perfect day, that's mine-- the afternoon I woulda shoulda coulda been having it it weren't for my grand pooh-bah poo factory cat. I again, for the second time this week, in front of my neighbors, dove on the floor to rescue him from having a fabulous afternoon about town so he could be stuffed in a dark box and instead spend the day at the vet with me.

Support for Gucci has flowed from all (twenty-three) directions since I've begun blogging about it. Almost all (twenty-three) of my readers have expressed concern and asked how the cat is doing. How is the cat doing? Don't let this anecdote in the lobby of 440 north miserable street fool you. My cat leads a spoiled and wondrous life even more fabulous and entitled than mine. He eats organic food while I eat ramen. He uses organic almond-based litter while I'm forced to use 99-cent toilet paper so that I can afford his extravagant lifestyle. I haven't bought a single pair of shoes this month. In fact the highest tab I ran in any store was the one at Target yesterday where I re-bought cheap, shittier, and more bleach-able versions of all my home decor. When the sales lady told me the amount I almost coughed up a hairball.

"I coulda bought a pair of shoes for that much!"

"Just one pair?" She said incredulously, while trying to stuff my new bathmat in the same bag as my new less-than-100 thread count comforter.

"Well, if they were on sale."

Oh yes, there will be no more fancy cashmere pillows, velvety duvet covers, or silky smooth linens. Welcome to home by target, where everything is cheap and machine washable.

Once I finally got Gucci to the vet his doctor wanted to get a urine sample but said he couldn't feel a bladder.

"Well, I know he's got one, believe me he's got one."

"No, I mean it feels empty. I doubt we'll be able to get a urine sample from him."

"Yes, he decided to pee all over my Jonathan Adler throw this morning so he's probably out."

The vet looked at me, back at the cat, and back to me.

"Well, he's got good taste." This, unfortunately, was true. My cat must have been channeling Clint Eastwood's daughter, only instead of setting fire to Birkins and Louboutins he's simply peeing on designer things. My little darling, and his $100,000 bladder.

All of this, though, has given me a different perspective on what really matters in life. It seems like some people are quick to tell me to take the cat back to the shelter. My theory is that those people have never had their heart broken. Those people have never lost the love of their life because they weren't good enough or things got a little tough. Those people have a self-serving idea of what forever means. When I adopted this cat it wasn't forever, or until the road gets rocky. When I say forever, this is a forever home, I mean it. I know many people don't believe this. They cite extenuating circumstances. People change. Things happen. They forget that when you enter into a pact with someone, as I did with this cat, it is no longer just about them. My life isn't just about me anymore. And I'm all he has. After two owners, a medical history and the fact that he's almost eight, this is it. If I don't work out he's not going to get adopted. I owe it to him, and the promise I made to make this work.

I sometimes feel like that cat though, so maybe I'm sympathetic. In the past people were quick to give up on me when I wasn't everything they'd imagined. When I wasn't as great as they once thought. It was if their love were merely contingent on how much fun they were having. I could never do that to someone after having it done to me. I could never give up on someone just because things weren't east or neat and tidy. I may be obsessive about my home and my lifestyle, but for as materialistic as I may be living things have always come first for me. Even if the cat destroys all of my loafers (which is an impossibility as they are boxed and catalogued well out of his reach) I could never get rid of him. I will make more money. I will buy more shoes. But this is his one life to live with me and that, as soap-opera-y as it sounds, is worth something. That's a target worth aiming for.