When you're a hip young mover and shaker in the city with a wildly unpopular blog that all of 22 people read and a high input low yield job your days can be full of all the finest things the city has to offer: a little brunch, cappuccinos, some retail therapy, a stroll through the neighborhood, a glass of your favorite Malbec. Or your days can be like mine: knee deep in shit and up to my eyeballs in cat urine.
Gucci has decided to boycott his now littler box which, might I add, was the Cadillac of litter boxes. I bought my cat a large secluded lunar space station to do his business in. I had to empty half of my coat closet. I moved my shoes, I relocated Prada for Gucci. And the cat lovingly repays me by refusing to use the litter box and instead peeing all over my Ralph Lauren cushions. And for good measure he took out my bathmat too.
I wrote previously about my routine. I wrote about how the first thing I do on any day is make espresso. Today I never even made it to that first step. I woke up to Gucci pacing frantically looking for a place to eliminate what probably amounted to three liters of urine. My paisley cushions seemed to do the trick. Then the list starts, like a news ticker in the back of my mind; I start thinking immediately of all the things I need to do. I need to call the vet, I need to spray that area of carpet down before it dries, I need to vacuum I need to shampoo Gucci, I need to take down the new litter box and bring out the old one, I need to buy new litter for the old one, I need to return the space station to Petco but before I can do that I need to empty the litter that was never used and bleach it down and come up with an excuse for why I wasn't able to use it, I need to dispose of the two cushions and bathmat immediately, I need to brush Gucci as soon as the no-rinse shampoo in his fur dries. I need to wash my hands before touching anything. I need to put on pants before doing about 40% of those things. But wait, I have to change my socks first, then I can put on pants.
It's at this point in the frenzy that I lock Gucci in the bathroom with his food and water, sit down on the kitchen floor and, on the verge of tears, call the one person who would be able to talk me down from my imminent nervous breakdown: my mother.
After a day of cleaning, re organizing and stressing about the cat I finally decided to go to Jewel and buy my weekly box of wine. Jewel is, of course, out of my Pinot evil so I have to buy some other shitty wine I've never heard of. I finally get home ready to kick my heels up and drink my box of wine and Febreeze everything I own. The second I open the door to my apartment Gucci runs out between my legs. He runs toward my neighbor who is standing, slightly aghast, in her doorway. She issues me a look of disgust because:
A. I can't control my pet
B. She realizes that it is me singing don't rain on my parade in the shower every morning
In this moment time conveniently slows down as to allow me a moment of reflection on the events of the day. Gucci, seems hellbent on ruining my life. Despite the fact that I do nothing but love him, give him pets and attention and spent ridiculous sums of money so that he can eat the most expensive food and refuse to piss in the most expensive litter, this cat hates me and wants to destroy my life as I know it. He is stubborn, moody, constantly complaining, destroying my things and making me feel incompetent. If he were a forty-year old gay man this is the point when I would break up with him. As I watched him run down the hall of my condo building toward my disgruntled neighbor there was a pert of me, the darkest part of me, that wanted to just let him "run away." Go ahead go to my neighbor's fancy renovated apartment and take a dump in her shoe. Go right ahead. See how far you get before someone throws a glass of water at you or swats you with a broom. It's a tough world out there on the tenth floor of my condo building, and if you want to explore the hard knocks of my high rise go ahead.
Then my better judgement kicks in and I realize that this cat is the last man in my life and he was hightailing it just like all the other. And where I let every other man get away I felt an impossible to ignore tug for this one. I threw my box of wine down and dove on the floor to catch Gucci. I skinned my knee, hit my head on the door molding and saw enough of my neighbor's apartment to be jealous of her light fixtures. Before she slammed the door on me and Gucci.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's okay I caught him you can come back out. Or, well, you can stay inside do. Just forget me and go about your day. Nice meeting you.
Gucci howled. He dug into me with his back claws. I don't believe in god and I don't believe animals have a higher conscience but I do believe that someone or something in this world was punishing me. I brought Gucci home and threw him on the bed and went to make dinner. Then he just stared at me sweetly with his big eyes and meowed at me. The same cat that is so miserable here after only a week that he tried to make a run for it.
I remembered the last song from Wicked, where Galinda and Elphaba sing about how they were drawn to each other to learn something but also to teach the other something-- and that in life we're drawn to the people that will teach us the most. I wonder if, like shoes, each animal is perfectly fit to their person. And even if they're not comfortable at first they become a perfect fit over time. Maybe there is something that this disgruntled rescue cat is supposed to teach me that all of the other men in my life were unable to.
No comments:
Post a Comment