July 14, 2006

• MIXED FEELINGS

  The trip to Wasilla yesterday was enjoyable, productive and even
  therapeutic, but I am impaired today as a result of yesterday’s
  activities.  That is probably worse than it might have been if I
  hadn’t spent the previous day moving furniture to rescue kittens. 
  But I’m certainly not sorry I rescued the kittens, nor do I regret the
  town trip.

  One of the kittens already has a name that will probably stick with
  her for life.  The calico that I found hanging by her neck is
  Fancy, named for another calico cat I had at our old place across the
  highway for a couple of years, a time far too brief.  The first
  Fancy started out being called Fancyface by Mark, the man who gave us
  this place after we’d been housesitting here for him for a couple of
  winters.  Fancy was the daughter of Mark’s cat Sassy (now the
  catriarch Granny Mousebreath), and the littermate of the cat Mark
  called Prissy, whose name Greyfox changed to Muffin.  Fancy had
  two more littermates, Tux and Penny (whom I called Pidney), but only
  placid and not-too-bright Muffin survives.

  The new Fancy’s littermates are being called Tabby (for her color
  pattern), and Jonesy (after Bustifer Jones in White Spats from the
  musical Cats).  Those names are likely to change as they grow and
  show their characters, but I think Fancy is fancy, and she has caught
  my fancy.  We bonded.  I am sure it had something to do with
  our traumatic meeting.  The animals with whom I have bonded most
  strongly throughout my life have been ones who had been weak, wounded,
  traumatized, or abused, and then tended by me.  A cocktail of
  adrenaline and oxytocin is probably involved in that process, and maybe
  some other neurotransmitters I don’t know about.

  Hilary has settled contentedly into the nest I made for her in the
  corner of Doug’s closet.  One of us goes back occasionally to just
  look at the kittens, or to feel their soft warmth.  I’ve been
  resisting the urge to take a photo of Fancy in the palm of my
  hand.  She’s photogenic enough now, but cries when picked up from
  the nest.  When she feels more secure, I’ll get some shots of her
  fabulous fancy face and post them.

  ---

  I have a fridge and freezer
  stuffed with enough food for a month or more, and supplies of cat and
  dog food, dog biscuits and rawhide chews for at least that long. 
  That was the productive part of yesterday’s town trip.

  The enjoyable part was being with Greyfox, lunching at our favorite
  Mexican restaurant, talking about everything and anything.  We
  left my car at his place, fetched heavy bags of cat food and other big
  non-perishable items from the warehouse store on the hillside near his
  cabin and returned to offload them into my hatch before leaving again
  for town and the rest of our errands.

  Both of us were tired at the start, he from unloading enough knives and
  other stock from the car to make room for me and my groceries, and I
  from the aforementioned busy, strenuous, stressful day.   I
  reclined my seat for some of the cross-town travel, and sat in the
  parking lot and let him fetch some things at one store.  We
  shopped together at some others and he pooped out and returned to the
  car midway through the next-to-last late evening shopping stop, at the
  biggest supermarket in town, as I threaded all the aisles filling my
  cart. 

  Back at his cabin later, he nuked some dinner while I unloaded his car
  and transferred all my stuff to mine.  This trip, I don’t think I
  left any of my stuff behind at his place, and only brought one of his
  purchases home with me:  a movie on VHS that he’d found in the
  thrift shop where I got “new” pajamas and flowerpots.

  The therapeutic part was the NA meeting.  It always does me good
  to spend time around spiritually-attuned dope fiends.  The topic
  was humility, and discussion included the usual attempts to
  differentiate between humility, humiliation and “humbleness,” whatever
  that is.  Someone quoted Mother Teresa as, “Humility is
  truth.”  I can see that.  The reading from the daily
  meditations included the cliched wisdom that we can’t save face and
  save or ass at the same time.  Yeah, that one resonates with me,
  too.  There were lots of laughs.  The newcomers who needed
  encouragement got it, and the rest of us also got what we went there
  for. 

  There was even a bit of disagreement, which I always appreciate. 
  Without some dissent and disagreement, the place starts smelling like a
  cult and sounding like rote readings from the Book.  One person
  with four years clean, whose spouse recently relapsed and is in the
  “newcomer” category again, tried to reassure another relapsed newcomer
  that clean time doesn’t matter.  I can see the logic in that, for
  that person, under those circumstances, wanting to reassure the spouse
  as well.  It might even have been a recent topic of discussion at
  home.  Someone else, with 18 years clean, said he wouldn’t trade
  his birthday for anything.    My sympathies lie with the
  latter one.  There have been times I might have gone out and
  gotten loaded if not for the thought of losing my clean time. 
  It’s an investment, as I see it.  Why throw it away?

  

  • 7:48 pm
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