People-Watching in Fayetteville

A helping hand

2010-02-28T15:14:00.004-05:00

I know this is another post about a homeless encounter, but not a day goes by where I don't see someone camped out on a corner with a cardboard sign waiting for their angel of mercy and his jingling pocket of coin to appear.

I am now pretty good at squashing the guilt I used to feel about being a solidly middle-class, young, white, stay-at-home mother. I have no problem saying "no"and I even say it with conviction now. This change has come about very recently, actually. The breaking point came after a man ripped me off (er, rather, my father - as it was his money) on Christmas Eve by talking me (read: guilting me) into paying him in return for future yard work...so he could buy food for his family...and try to have a nice Christmas. Did I mention that it was Christmas Eve? He came right to my back door. Said he didn't want a handout, that he wanted to earn it. That he even had some sort of arrangement with the previous owners of the house. I appreciated his pride and ethics. I also wanted him to get the fuck off my back porch. My hackles were already raised by the intrusion and by the entitlement he projected. Like he had a right to be there, asking me. I have it, he doesn't and therefore I should help. And he could tell I have it because I was young and just moved into a big house. Nevermind that the inside is in disrepair and that it will cost us a small fortune to care for it. But most of all, I felt guilty, and much to my father's horror and bewilderment I gave in. Asked to borrow a fifty for the man.

His ploy worked and struck my very core. My heart cried out as I imagined his family hoping for some food - nevermind presents - just food and a nice memory. So I thought, this is gonna happen! As I was in the middle of unpacking I had no tools for him to use immediately so he swore with a weathered hand over his heart to come back the day after Christmas. I just knew he would come back. He shook my hand! He wants to work for the money...how honorable! And I wanted to be proven wrong...that good deeds can go unpunished...that he deserved the money. Though I had little, he was worthy of what we could give...and most of all, that he wouldn't screw me out of fifty dollars! He did not come back that Saturday to rake my leaves as promised. A few weeks later he drove up to my house and called out his window to ask if we needed him to work for some more money. No thanks, Larry. You broke my heart, you bastard.

But to be fair, I was already slowly becoming desensitized to our large homeless population and I was well on my way to ignoring my pains of sympathy and tender-hearted charity. One fall morning a homeless man selling little bags of jelly beans waited in the Wal Mart parking lot for me to exit because I told him I didn't "have money right then and there but maybe after I bought my groceries..." He waited forty-five minutes. By my minivan. I wasn't scared as he was one of the ones I was getting to know here in Fayetteville. He was a war veteran (of which war I do not know) and evidently an entrepreneur. He made his money selling candies and homemade pipe-cleaner and pom-pom pins and ornaments. Shame branded my heart as I handed over all I had to give. I did have money that day. I had lied. I had a dollar and change all along but I thought he would move on and return to his KFC parking lot where he usually lurked. I refused the little bag of carefully counted jellybeans. Even after, I didn't feel better. I don't think he did either...he waited close to an hour for less than two dollars? It may have been kind but it wasn't right. And I felt my resolve strengthening as this realization sunk in. I know how hard it is for the homeless population to find stability and that it can be a vicious cycle out there on the streets. But Fayetteville has shelters and food clinics set up...no one has to go hungry.

The city is currently trying to enforce a ban on panhandling, urging the citizens to "Just Say No". The money always goes to drugs or alcohol. But the guilt used to be a powerful motivator. I tried once to give a homeless man an apple but he stormed off really pissed. He did say he was hungry. That might be the answer...maybe I should arm myself with a mixed bag of fruit?

Oh yeah...I still got it...shit...I lost it.

2010-02-25T15:45:00.008-05:00

Every woman (every man, for that matter) enjoys a compliment. I am no different and due to my age and perhaps my ego, I especially love a compliment from a man...preferably about my attractiveness...and one that makes me feel good...puts a little swagger back in the step. "Hey lady, nice sweater...it really hides your back fat!" doesn't really cut it.

I may get my bi-annual dose of ego-boosting in dark bars when out with friends. This typically begins around 11:30 and no earlier as the menfolk haven't pounded enough beers to put me into that special soft-focus. You know, beer goggles? Come to think of it, I also magnetize the older population: the widowers and vets. But I think that can be explained in a similar manner to the beer goggle effect. Cataracts and failing eyesight really let my inner personality shine.

Occasionally I have been the recipient of some mysterious lascivious attention by the Latino population here in North Carolina. This summer I was followed inside a convenient store and had to endure a sexually-charged Spanish monologue. I shouldn't have said "Hello." when our eyes met at the gas pump. I really shouldn't have held the door for him. I prayed feverishly to just get the hell out of there fast and in one piece. He was loud and not at all bothered that he was frightening me. Naturally, Minnie chooses to let me know right then that she has to go to the bathroom. He waited - no, lounged - against the pork rinds end cap waiting for me. I escaped unscathed (obviously) though he did follow me out to the car. I kept telling him, "I don't speak Spanish. I've got my kids here, gotta go now! Goodbye!" I knew he would be able to at least put together the first and last bit. As much as I was able to put together "pijo" "mamita" "maquina" "trasero" "chinga" "curvas" and know that he didn't want to know where I bought my shoes. It wasn't the kind of attention that makes you feel special...quite the opposite...I felt threatened. I knew it was about intimidation. I found myself analyzing the bizarre situation on the drive home. Did I contribute to it somehow? No. I did not. I am way too polite for my own good, I thought, which translated to some sort of reciprocation or interest on my part.

So by now you may be thinking, "Wow Lauren, I didn't know you were so self-absorbed. Where is this going?" But I think young women...especially of the mother-variety really need these little unexpected affirmations. Not the above-mentioned stalking sort. Rather, it is the sincere and unsolicited compliment that can make your day, right ladies? And you think, "I've still got it!" And you really do, because you think you do. Suddenly you hold your head up a little higher. Suddenly you are something outside your role as mother or title of wife...you are simply a woman again. Even if it comes about by way of the Harris Teeter clerk asking to check your i.d. when your grey roots are showing a good inch...and then clearly seems surprised to see the date of birth. (It doesn't take much.) Maybe this empowers you. You grab the remote, or drink that extra glass of wine, or say no to some sort of obligation because you just want to paint your toenails in peace. Because you should. You are your own woman...if only for a moment.

This brings me to my next adventure which occurred today. I found it again, with a little help. At first, upon being approached by an unknown and undesirable gentleman making small talk, you paste your tight smile on your face and begin to hatch the escape plan, right? A man - out of nowhere - matched pace with me as I was walking up to the storefronts in a strip mall. My guard was instantly up. He commented on the weather, how cute Minnie is, and then..."Whooooo...it sure don't look like you have kids. You do not look like a mama at all! Fine." My overly-eager heart warms a little by this little nugget...like the tiny, little bit of chocolate stuck in the glue of the candy wrapper...it is unexpected and so nice. "Thank you! They keep me busy." Big mistake. I accepted and engaged the conversation. Many more nice things tumble out and very quickly it becomes creepy. In my defense, let me say now, he was the nicest dressed bum I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I didn't know he had an angle. Not until the story unfolded. How nice and bundled up we were, how we must have felt the chill. I walked a little faster. How windy it was and he just ran out of gas up the street and could I not believe that his woman took off with all his money? Some nice man already gave him two dollars and he just needed a little more to put enough gas in the car to drive home. Aaaaaah. And...wait for it, wait for it...ding! Could I (please) spare a few dollars?

So my ego-boost didn't count. He knew just how to affect me, how to work me, and boy did I feel ridiculous preening under his hollow compliments! After more civil small talk, I bid him farewell with sincerity and kindness and he in turn, did the same, holding the door to ULTA for me and with a "Have a nice day ladies!" he was off to find someone else. The irony of how and where he approached me was not lost on me. I was on my way to spend my disposable income in a store that caters to women trying to feel, to be, to look better. To leave prettier, younger, and better smelling than when they entered. I think I know what he must have really thought of me as I tried to run away from him to my warm, self-indulgent, and completely frivolous store. I saw it in my own sad reflection that followed me between the aisles.

When had I become so shallow? So desperate? I aimlessly walked down the higher-end makeup sections to distract myself. Past the serums and youth potions and rows upon rows of promises. I felt very disjointed with who I truly was and who - with help - I was trying to become...her ideally flawless, fresh face hung by thin wire on a 4' x 6' advertisement directly above me. (I can practically hear feminists screaming all across the nation as I type this!)

So, I looked at all the pretty nail colors to lighten my spirits. Yes, yeeesss...that's a pretty one isn't it? Amelia which one do you like? No, we have something like that at home. There! Let's get that one. There was a new mascara tool and my stars...! A sale! The Dior perfume lingering in the air worked its magic. Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to feel better.

Family Luncheon at Zaxby's

2010-02-20T12:50:00.009-05:00

I was enjoying a peaceful lunch with my daughter this afternoon. Well...as peaceful as I could hope for with Amelia. At three, you only shoot for the treetop. If we can exit without spilling a drink two times, or her crawling on the floor like she has entered into some kind of junior "worm" break dance contest, or telling every whorish teenager who aspires to be casted on "16 and Pregnant" that she is absolutely bee-u-tee-ful...I call that a success and somewhat enjoyable.

A large family (number in party not a physical judgement) sat near us, settled in and hunkered down to their fried chicken. Their boys were a little rambunctious and acted like maybe they didn't wear their respirators back at the meth trailer. Of course the youngest one, perhaps 4, fell out of the booth he was standing on (wonder why?) and proceeded to take down his meal with him. My heart broke a little as I watched all that wonderful fried food rain down. What a shame! What a waste! What an idiot...both child and parent-figure! Well, worry-not heart o' mine, after a good ole unsympathetic tongue lashin' -- I must admit, I was nodding my head in complete agreement up until a certain point -- "You shouldn't ofbeenfoolinaround!" Quite right. Quite right. Kid mumbles something to the effect of wanting different food now that it is ruined. Makes sense to me. A reasonable demand, one that you would like to say no to, make him suffer in brooding silence as he watches the rest of you enjoy, with loud smacking sounds, the feast set before you. But as a parent you can't -- or should I say -- you shouldn't do that because...well dammit, never mind. The parent-figure (sporting all the chin hair, standard Fayettville neck tattoo, curiously matted hair and Def Leopard Shirt was evidently a woman since she answered his mumbled, "But Maaamaaa...!"cry) ahem, er...rather, she said to the contrite and crying child, "You can eat THAT food," she jabbed her finger in the direction of the fries that littered the floor. "You were foolin'around! If you're hungry you'll eat it!" She slapped the meal back together with such grace and speed I gathered this was an all too common ultimatum. My eyes widened until they began to shrivel, my eyebrows were in my hairline and I know my jaw dropped down so far a small bit of fry fell out. If someone were to slap me on the back just then I would have been frozen into a real-life The Scream face. (Hence, the art above. Edvard Munch, "The Scream". Thanks www.kinderart.com!)

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Where were the cameras...where was the voice of reason? Shock immobilized me. Nothing could have been done for that boy by me and to be honest, this went down in seconds. To my utter horror...even more so than over what she asked of the child (or that the other members of her posse didn't find fault with it whatsoever) he slowly began to eat it with turned-down lips. Was it humiliation? Sorrow? Disgust? Looking back I should have ran over and picked it up while she screamed at him. Throwing it to the trash four feet away like I was a J-V basketball star shooting three-pointers, if need be, to force her to buy him a new meal. I didn't.

I was flooded with guilt. A bitter thought crept into my head as it often does in moments where I have a crisis of conscience (or hygiene) and I unsuccessfully try to make myself feel better . He'll be alright. He'll be fine. I did everything right. I didn't do drugs. I made my own baby food. I put my child down on his back. I protected my child and he still got sick. He still developed Autism. I had to work my ass off to help Douglas. That kid looks just fine. Worst thing that will happen is the shits for this kid.

I was done with my meal all of a sudden. I tried to hurry Amelia along. On the way out she had to tell a Snooki look-a-like, "You're so pretty!" I realized that I have my own battles ahead of me. I hope that someone steps in to intervene when Amelia tells us she is eloping or pregnant or joining a cult or dropping out of school because she can make so much more money in the exotic dancing (think: tattoo, or street performance, or adult film making, or no-money-down real estate, or pyramid "selling", or the xyz work from home) industry because her boyfrend who has a few years on Phil thinks she has "real talent". I will be the bad mother at the restaurant. Maybe I'll throw her food on the floor on purpose. I'll make her cry!

Oh, it's just one and a half pills. Easy.

2010-02-19T15:53:00.007-05:00

How not to give your cat medicine:
Don't put it in their fucking food. Period.

Yes, yes. I have a potty-mouth. But a deep scratch across the knuckle is so slow to heal, so hard to bandage, and hurts really, really baaaad! I put the dewormer in Stan's food, depriving him of food since morning. See...I had a plan! A plan that works well with dogs. Put it in their food, if they are hungry enough they will just swallow it down. Not my cat. He tasted the first SMALL chuck of it and ran from the kitchen. By the time I dragged him out from under a bed the medicine began to melt into the food. I had to carve out the yellow streaks with my fingers and attempt to force feed him the medicine. Nutro Shrimp Casserole is na-as-tee! Cats don't swallow things so easily as it turns out. He was able to regurgitate it with cunning and ease. For thirty minutes I fought with an eight and a half pound cat to swallow a pill the size of an aspirin. It was broken into four pieces and had melted all over my hands. I had cat food on my chin. His coat was slicked back with it and globs were caking his whiskers. I wanted to shove his head in his food bowl. Instead I whispered with a breaking, pleading voice, "Please, please, please Stanley. I know. I know. I am so so so so sorry. Please little guy? Come one now...that's it. That's it! I don't want to hurt you, I love you so much. Good kitty. Was that so bad? OH SHIT! YOU LITTLE SHIT! AGAIN? OPEN UP YOUR MOUTH!!! Yes, yes. Gooood kitty. Mama loves you so...please take your claw out of my boob."

With a dog you can also just drop it down their throat, close the snout, blow in their face, rub their throat and voila! Medicine administered, the animal on the road to recovery...and you feel like a hero. This cat made me feel like an asshole. I had him physically dominated yet he was able to outsmart me every time. Sometimes he just appeared to swallow it and then out of the side of his mouth -- like he was spitting watermelon seeds -- plop. Out would fly the chunk of pill (really, really small chunk by now). I managed to get most of it in...I think. Hopefully it was a lethal dose. At $15 per pill, it better be!

I called the vet to ask them about that and to air my grievances. How come they didn't tell me how hard it would be? They were unimpressed and unsympathetic. "Give it a couple of days, you should see it working almost immediately." I felt deflated. I was really, really pissed. I had done something so physically and mentally taxing and had the bloody hands to prove it and I wanted some kind of recognition...or even pity. I felt like I had done something really terrible and really great at the same time. I wanted to re-tell her the story. Maybe she didn't understand. Maybe I should have added sound effects? I wanted for someone else to have been there just so I could ask them, "Did you see that?!?" And then we could sit there and rehash the experience over and over, until the sun went down or until my shaking stopped.

"Thanks," I mumbled and hung up. I turned around to the mess left behind and the cat starring at me with narrowed eyes.

Don't trap your cat in a box if they have uncontrollable diarrhea, PART III

2010-02-17T13:00:00.000-05:00

I figured when his owners contacted me --and they would contact me! -- I could just ask for them to pay the bill which they would graciously do as well as perhaps slip a fifty in my hand for my generosity and hospitality. He rode home in his make shift Carrier, a cardboard box. He shit himself, and then rolled around in it. I found only what amounted to a shart on the blanket but a proud coating of his dooky lovingly wrapped his body...waiting for me. He of course jumped out of the box onto my chest and I was covered in cat shit. It was only 9:15 in the morning. And it dawned on me I had to bathe him. Don't cats HATE baths? And not only hate them, but defend their right to stay dry by tooth and nail? I had visions of my teenage cousin's bloody chest when I was a child. She said she just TRIED to give her cat a bath. I did ask the vet about this. She said cats are actually very clean and they "take care of that themselves".

I had to call for my daughter to run and get me a towel, no two towels! "Don't ask why! I need you to! The cat POOPED all over himself AND NOW ITS ON ME!! Please Amelia? Mommy really needs your help!" I must admit I behaved badly, I yelled at my daughter, whispered terrible, terrible things to the cat, and contemplated just letting him out the back door. But I am not a quitter and I did not just invest $98 in this fucker to have him smear his feline feces all over my sweater and arms for nothing. I would find those owners and reem them a new one!

Where was that girl? Where are the towels?!? The cat was traumatized from the vet and also my anger. I cleared the dishes out of the sink as I figured I would have the best control over him if I weren't in charge of a bathtub-sized space and on my knees. So I carefully took off my sweater that is churning my stomach, which is kind of incredible as I had to do it without letting Sir Shits-A-Lot go. Then I got the sink ready and lowered him in the sudsy water. I will say he didn't like it, he did try to get out, he used his claws to climb, but only a little. I knew he was showing restraint. He could have really done some damage if he so chose. I appreciated it and told him so. My anger left me all at once when he resembled that poster "bad hair day" kitty again and he let me bathe him. I was swooning again. Stupid woman! My daughter watched all of this with wide eyes. At only three, she knew the dangers of bathing a cat. In fact she knew just as much about cats as I did.
1. They hate dogs.
2. They poop in litter boxes.
3. They like to have their cheeks rubbed.
4. They purr.
5. They like to climb.
6. They will rip your things to shreds.
7. They hate water.
I think we both based our knowledge from cartoons. Thanks television!

He was even skinnier wet and he curled against me and now that I knew he was parasite free, we wrapped him up and lavishly snuggled with him. That night I allowed the kids to think, to only think of a name. A temporary name.

Wipe Your Paws at the Door, Please. PART II

2010-02-17T11:00:00.003-05:00

My mind was already set on finding him his home, and I technically took possession of him with the ads (I rationalized keeping him thusly) so...I guess the next step is housing him. We let our dog in as the rain began to pour again, and she sniffed him deeply. She is a reserved dog and as much as she was excited by him she was also a little scared. Not the cat, he was just excited, and took to trying to dominate her immediately. He hissed, spit, reared up, looked like a possessed boxing kangaroo (he has a very long tail), truth be told. And my dog just stood there, tail between her legs, confused. He was shooting venom, not at all scared, in fact moving closer, and chased her away. He celebrated with a a good ole crotch lick and set about exploring the house more leisurely. We followed him around for about thirty minutes. I was waiting for him to spray or take a dump on the bed, but he was very mannerly actually. He chose to take a nap on the couch (it is leather and I allowed it rationalizing that it would be easy to clean when the worms shot out of his ass) at the opposite end of the dog. Affronted, she crept upstairs. Thus began her month of pouting.

Stanley behaved himself. No accidents. Later my son was overcome when he came home to the cat inside. I began to see the folly of my selfish and kind-hearted actions. We left, with the animals locked up separately, to purchase a cheap litter box starter set and a couple of cans of cat food. Pretty much every fifteen minutes I would remind the kids, "We are not keeping him. He is not our cat. He is probably full of worms and parasites and probably will poo and pee all over your things. We will find his mommy and daddy and they will all be so happy to have each other again! Ok?" This became my mantra. Well, the cat who I refused to let the kids name, took to his litter box and greedily devoured his food. In fact, he was a perfectly mannered guest. He and the dog avoided each other. When their paths would accidentally cross he would pick up his front paws and while hissing we would jab the air. She would turn around and hide.

I did not let him in their rooms or in my bed. On the second morning he began to have horrible diarrhea. He did manage to get it all in the box which won him brownie points from me. In fact he took to it so well, I figured he was a run-away or he was dumped. Talking to the locals a lot of the military just dump their pets when they PCS. It really saddened me. But I would not lose hope. His owner would soon enough contact us. But the diarrhea! My God! Enough of it to warrant a trip to the vet and for my heart to ice over a little and take away those brownie points! See, by this time, I was madly in love with him. I had no allergic reaction which was miraculous, he adored the children, grew more comfortable with the dog, and sought out my arms or lap whenever he could. He was a Lothario and I was an easy target. So even though I loved him, I hated him for making me fell that way. What a jerk. The cat, not me.

The following morning I took him to the vet who declared a clean bill of health and jokingly surmised that we would have a pet cat soon. Bitch. Diarrhea...probably adjusting to the food, she said. And we went ahead and vaccinated him and bought the maintenance medicines. And they gave me a little information on cats. Too little. I asked over and over for her to "Really, I mean DUMB it down for me. I am a dog person. I know jack about cats. What do I do? How often do I feed him? Really, please tell me every common sense thing you know." I think she was afraid she would hurt my feeling with the obvious stuff or perhaps despite her perfect English she was foreign? Either way I left only with the knowledge of when to feed him and what they like to play with and to not leave string about the house. Evidently at this vet office they perform a lot of operations because cats swallow string. At a later date I will inform whoever chooses to read this blog all the stupid shit I learned the hard way.

The (long) backstory, aka Welcome Stanley PART I o

2010-02-17T10:53:00.003-05:00

Were you roped into owning a cat? Me too! Are you at odds with the cuddly fur-ball on your lap and your view of the world? Your life? The unbelievable increase in domestic chores? Then read on, friend, you have found a sympathetic soul...

Before you get all huffy, simmer down. I love my cat. I take good care of him He has tapeworms currently...but I'll get to that in a bit. Don't judge me. His name is Stanley and I'll post pictures soon. His story is a fun one and starts nearly four months ago, just before Halloween.

It was a day like any other, no wait, it was a beautiful early fall morning, the birds were chirping, the sky clear, my children's voices like glass notes sparkling in the cool air, no wait, that's not right either. It was cold, unusually cold, and dammit, it was raining. We were late as usual for our short three block walk to my son's bus stop. I was screeching "Hurry up!! You're gonna be late!" as I was fumbling with my daughter's rainjacket and trying to reason with her why she should ride in the stroller at the same time I was motivating (through my extreme shrill voice) my son to pick up his shuffling feet and actually commit to walking to the street instead of letting the cold rain soak through his jacket. I tried to bribe my daughter into the stroller until I realized that the van is locked and the keys are hidden somewhere inside my messy home. I always lose my keys. So, plan B, which is just what she wanted, and not at all what she is dressed for, but due to my poor time management skills, she has to walk to the bus stop.

She is three and a half, and perfectly capable of walking, even keeping pace, but also perfectly capable of making a huge mess. In fact she is the messiest toddler I have ever known. Others agree. She is not dirty, just really, really, messy. We are working on impulse control. So I am pounding the pavement in front of my kids, "Hurrrry up Doug! Amelia! GET OUT OF THE PUDDLE! You are in the middle of the street, child! Get over here! Come hold my hand! Doug! If YOU don't hurry up, YOU'LL BE HOLDING MY HAND TOO!!!" This is a powerful threat that strikes fear in the heart of my kindergartner as we are coming up on a older boy's home who Douglas idolizes. All of a sudden the boy has canned heat under his feet!

We work our way up and down the hill to the bus stop with time to spare, surprisingly. Or maybe not, the bus is not at all predictable. What is, is our tardiness to the bus stop and often missing it in eye-view. I digress, the kids are enjoying their wet, cold morning. It was very cold, lower forties and it had been in the seventies the week prior, and I am fantasizing about my second cup of coffee and a magically clean house. I am jerked out of my reverie by my daughter breathlessly exclaiming (imagine a saccharin southern debutante's voice from a 1940s movie here) "Oh mama...it's a kitty! Cahn I pet it, puh-leeese?" Of course she says this as she is running straight for it. My daughter is like that one character from Looney Tunes, the girl who smothers with love and body her animals. Amelia LOVES animals, especially soft furry ones, small ones, ones that we do not have. I have to call her back explaining to her for the thousandth time the rules about strays.

We live in Fayetteville and there are a lot of stray animals, especially cats here. She listened and came back to my side. I watched the kitty who has run out of the tree line to shelter under a parked car on street to our left. Please, please stay under there, please don't let the bus run you over. I heard the diesel coughing and gurgling its way up the hill, about three blocks away, and I am terrified that the cat will get spooked and run right under the bus and my kids will witness the crushing of a kitty...an animal that they long for...an animal even at the ages of five and three are synonymous with cuteness...and be scarred for life. Of course the cat ran out. Shit. But it headed straight for us. Double shit. The cat slowed to a saunter and wove itself around my children's legs, perhaps trying to find a dry spot. It was a black cat and now it is triple shit. It's just before Halloween and now this effer has been dipped in gold for my daughter who cannot articulate that this is some sort of cosmic sign, but I saw the gleam in her eye. "A Halloween kitty, mama!" Both the kids oohed and aahed over it and I heard that it is purring, poor skinny, ugly thing.

The cat was obviously domicile so I let the kids touch it, urged Douglas to wash his hands at school and reminded Amelia that she must scrub when we return home. "Oh mama, she's beee-u-tiful! See her? A cat, mama! A real cat!" Then, from my son, "Can we keep him, mom? Aaaah, look how cah-ute!" No, I told them, we can not keep it, and you all know exactly what I said because you have perhaps said it or heard it yourself: all the reasons why one cannot pick up a stray. The biggest reason, he may just be on a walkabout. I told them that we could be stealing him and make some other boy and girl sad. I wish my children would have nodded their heads solemnly and showed some sympathy. Instead I think it was a simultaneous snapping of heads and the look of "HUH?" that flashed across their faces. As in, who the hell cares...its a cat...here...and he's not running away!

See, my children chase cats. As I am screaming for them to stop (in Fayetteville, there are also a lot of outdoor cats) they never get far as the cat, scared shitless, finds a way to outsmart them. But no, not this cat, this whore-cat is seducing my children with his sweetness, purring, and affection. Then the bus comes and as Douglas, to my horror, tries to pick him up, he leaps out of his arms and runs up the tree we are standing next to. I mentally dust off my hands and smile a smile of thank you to the kitty. Good. Problem solved. "See? He wants to go away now, he'll probably go right back to his home now." Instead Mr. Frisky runs up and down the tree like a damn circus cat, and then around the front yard of the house we are standing in front of. Amelia is giggling, running to and fro, getting muddier by the minute. "Get out of that yard, girl!" The cat resumes his perch and I hug and kiss Douglas goodbye and tell him to tell the cat goodbye. He sadly waves bye-bye to the cat, sighs, and then the doors close and that box is checked, son off to school. Next, "Minnie, tell the kitty goodbye we have to go home now." She pitches a small fit and tries to out-reason me into keeping him. I tell her it would be catnapping but again, the look of, "SO?" I say goodbye to the cat, and Minnie reluctantly leaves too.

That bastard begins to follow us, again, with theatrics, running up and down the trees along the street, pouncing down upon us, waiting for us to catch up, and my daughter is enchanted. I begin to wonder if this is a witch's familiar. What are the chances that we are bringing something really bad down upon our home? As we round the corner to our street the cat has chased a bird across the street and my daughter's spirit is crushed. About time. I remind my daughter who then begins the line of questioning, "Well...if we can't have THAT cat, can we get a kitty? Puh-leese, puh-leese mommy?" that I am allergic to cats and that we have a dog. This registers with her who has seen the cartoon theme of animal animosity much in her life as she oddly enough, has a great appreciation for Tom and Jerry. I thought I was safe. I thought I was right. That motherfucker followed us home, in the cold, exposed in the rain. I pick him up two houses from our home and put him inside my raincoat. He is purring with so much force he is quivering my clothes. "YES!" my daughter practically does the Arsenio Hall arm pump.

I tell her we will put him in our car port while I call animal control. We will at least give him shelter, out of the rain. I am not heartless, guys. I love animals, I really love cats, but I love feeling well, and I love my dog, and there is no place for cats in my life. But I do have a soft heart. I felt the "OH! It's a kitty! It's a kiiiiitty!" girl inside me jumping up and down when he approached us. But I am also a mother, pet owner, and responsible citizen. The cat took well to the car port and I brought out an old snowsuit that was slated for thrift store donation for him to curl up on. He was a very sweet cat. And scrawny and perhaps a little rough around the edges. You know that obnoxious wet cat poster...maybe it says "bad hair day" or something? You see it at middle school book fairs and above the creepy secretary's desk? Well, that was him, with a few scars and scabs here and there. My daughter asked to eat breakfast out in the carport in the cold, and to solidify that I am not an unfeeling monster to you, know that I let her! I let her eat her bowl of cereal on the steps watching the cat clean itself. I sat down beside her and he tried over and over to get in our laps. I wondered about mites and worms and other infectious things it may be trying to share with us as well and turned it down each time. I tried over and over to call Animal Control but only went as far as the answering machine at 7:45 in the morning. Before too long, it curled up on top of a hard plastic tote instead of the snow suit. And we had to get on with our mornings and our lives as a small part of me told me that this indulgence could be cruel very soon when the cat is picked up or leaves.

On that very cold, wet day, we had a field trip to a pumpkin patch, which although was apropos it was miserable. We returned five hours later to the cat curled up on the AstroTurf-covered step, the same step we sat upon, to my amazement. My daughter, again, connects the dots, and as any true fatalist...it's a sign! "SEE!!! He's still here! He wants to stay! He came to his home!" I quickly pop that bubble of hope and usher her inside. We can hear the cat crying -- and it was a cry, not a meow, but a raaaaaawmaaaaaraaaah -- from the next room over. It is breaking my heart as well as my daughter's. I call animal control and finally talk to a real person. I don't remember her name but I remember the conversation fairly well.
Me: "Hello. I've picked up a stray cat and I was wondering-"
Her: "Where you live honey?"
Me: "Um, Haymount, but I was wondering-"
Her: "Where at?"
Me: (I give her the location) "Hey, have there been any reports of missing cats?"
Her: Flying ropes of laughter, more of a guffaw really.
Me: "Oh. Is that a no?"
Her: "Honey, nobody reports cats missing here. We maybe had five reports this year." (I made up that number because I don't remember the exact number, I do remember it was a shockingly low number, though.)
Me: "Really? That's unbelievable! They don't call for their pets? Do you guys not pick up a lot?"
Her: "We do pick up a lot, we full right now. Just nobody calls it seems."
Me: "Well do they get adopted out? If I were to drop him off would he find a home?
Her: Nah. I'll be honest with you, just between you and me, cats go if they kittens or they cute. "
Me: "Ooh, he's a black cat."
Her: Ooh. No. They go for the calicoes and pretty cats. We got a lot of black cats right now." (Then a sad, tsk tsk sort of sound as if to say poor thing...)
Me: "So it's kinda certain he'd be put to sleep?"
Her: "Yes, more n likely that would happen. You want us to send a truck out?"
Me: (Know this also: there was no deliberation, no pause) "No. I think I'll try and find his owner."
Her: "Well the paper lets you have a free ad for a few days, do you want any other shelter numbers?"
ME: "No, but thank you."
Her: "Okay. Thanks for calling have a good day, hon."
Me: "You too."

Fini.

I called the paper, put in my ad. I posted it on craigslist. I checked to make sure he was still about the yard before I got any one's hopes up. The rain stopped and he did venture from our porch, sometimes gone altogether, but he always came back and began to lie on the snowsuit. The dog was going bananas at this time, pawing and sniffing under the door. The cat was likewise active, mewing and meowing at her. Kind of an asshole move really, as it just wound up our dog and she became really miserable. I wouldn't let her do her job. There was obviously a danger, a threat, something to be dealt with, and it is a dog's duty --and honor-- to defend its owner and property. At least that's how I personified her. I'm sure she was just thinking, cat cat cat cat cat cat cat, oh come on, cat cat cat cat cat cat, really now, let me out, cat cat cat cat cat.

Some time later,I hear the side door open with its sticky creek and in shoots a black spectre. I stomp into the room, aghast, what just happened? The dog is feverishly chasing the cat and I am using all my wits and brawn to lure/pull her away and put her in the yard. Minnie is hiding under the dining room table. Come on kids! Do you really think we won't figure it out? We chase him down as he is like a wild man, sniffing everything, and slippery as an oiled wrestling girl on Spring Break! I fervently prayed that he won't start spraying -- I know that much about cats -- and by this time I had figured out it was a he as evidenced by the big sack dangling between his legs. Finally he stopped to drink out of the dog's bowl (GROSS!) and let me hold him, and again, starts to purr immediately. What a slut!

Just who the hell are you?

2010-02-10T08:48:00.000-05:00

Hello...I am the slightly repressed and often confused stay-at-home mother of two that you may or may not yet know. I am the face down the street, slightly harried, still attractive, but no longer captivating. I may have on a shirt that was once quite fashionable but is now graffittied by marker and food stains and pet hait. I tend to talk too fast, too erratic, as my brain divides-and-conquers the yard quadrants, keeps track of the children in said space, reviews my to-do list, tries to think of where the cat may have escaped to this time, scans for potential danger, and tries to recall social niceties all at the same time. I may seem a little desperate depending on the day. Or perhaps, I may seem utterly charming and content and you walk away from my house with a little smile of satisfaction that there is a young and capable woman very happy in her life and thinking that brings you joy that all is right with the world.

I am sitting at the computer right now with a three year-old in my lap crying because the cat scratched her hand during play. I am the mother who band-aids the finger, kisses the tears then scolds her daughter for getting upset. You taunted the cat and then he scratched. Fair is fair.

What happens inside my four walls I find hilarious...well...if I didn't I'd be drunk at 1 in the afternoon or maybe become some sort of deviant. So, yeah, laughing is really good, a better alternative to shoplifting cosmetics or urinating on your prize tomatoes at night time.