As I sat in the kitchen eating the manicotti my mother cooked earlier, I hear my cat, Loon meowing by the trap door in the basement. Instantly, I feel relieved and grossed out. The piece of pasta I had just put into my mouth was cold and the sauce contained a piece of garlic I overlooked. I guess I hadn’t warmed them up enough in the microwave. I hate piping hot food, but not as much as I hate garlic. My focus was no longer on my cat as as I feverishly tried to wash the horrid taste out of my mouth with some water and bread. The bread (french) had just been taken out of the oven several minutes prior. I knew it would be useful for absorbing the disgusting taste of garlic, but also- it’s bread–and I love bread. I imagined it would contain the perfect ratio of crispy crust to airy dough. Warm, delicious, and comforting. This was not the case. Instead it was dry, stale, and hard. What’s with me and stale bread lately? It felt like I had just tipped my head back, opened my mouth wide, and poured a can of breadcrumbs down my throat after being dehydrated for 3 days. The only bread worse than this would be garlic bread.
Damn. I really could have used some nice warm comforting french bread after spending time freezing outside earlier tonight. I have trouble the beginning of each season adjusting to temperature changes and always spend a month or longer inappropriately dressed. Sleeves in 90 degree heat, and tank tops and light jackets on windy 45 degree days. That reminds me, I need to clean up my room and bring out more winter clothes and put away the summer stuff. But I have too many clothes. I have so many clothes that it becomes too overwhelming that I wear the same combination of things to work everyday. I need a bigger room. I need my own apartment. What am I waiting for? I know I can afford it. Damn that breakup messed up all plans and time-lines I had set for myself. Stop thinking about the breakup–you are over it remember? Does this mean I should see a shrink? No, yes, I don’t know.
My cat continues to meow. My focus shifts back to being relieved. You see, a few days ago I went down to the basement to get some pants that had been drying and I couldn’t find my cat. Usually she runs up to me, throwing her head against my leg repeatedly like some retarded [read: mentally ill] child with a football helmet banging against a wall. I panic. She got out. She gets out all the time because my dad could care less about “the stupid cat” and leaves the doors and windows open. Why is he so mean? But I haven’t been checking up on her all week so who knows how long she’s been out there. What if she got run over? What if a male cat tried to rape her? Wait- do spayed cats get raped? Or do the males know not to bother unless a female is in heat? I should research this on wikipedia.
I also started thinking if I told someone this story they’d automatically make the assumption that I was a horrible parent/pet owner. I should maybe keep this a secret. In my defense–I was just so busy–Mets games, long nights at work–I simply didn’t have the time or energy to go down and play with her. Plus, she is fed everyday by my father (oddly) who hates her or my sister who doesn’t. Ok, I decide it would be safe to tell the story as long as I explained that part.
Cat is still not around. I’m running late for the train again. How could somebody be running late for a 12:02 train when they are to be at work by 10:00? I should start going to work earlier. If I take a mini break, I’ll get back on track–I’m just too burned out right now. A few days, a week off–I’ll be good to go. I feel sad that my cat might be gone but I need to get these pants on and rush out the door. I make another mental note to call for her when I get home that night. My cat is going with me when I move out of here. She’s my buddy–I’ll be torn into bits if she wasn’t around anymore. Absolutely crushed.
I came home later that night and I didn’t call for her, I forgot.
So as I drink more water to wash down the dry breadcrumbs that have now caused a minor cough attack -I think about how happy I am to know my cat isn’t dead. She’s back. Missing me, meowing for my affection and attention–everything back to normal. Yes!
I clean up the kitchen and pour myself a tall glass of ice water to take upstairs. The cat still sitting in the same spot by the clear plastic trap door window, calling for me, as I make my way to my room without turning back.
I am a horrible parent after all.
Recent Comments