It takes one...
Monday mornings. Heavy sigh. Today I'm on MFG floor duty, which is more lonely than anything. A four hour time block where we show our faces on the floor and give some presence so that folks know we're here. It ends up being quiet when we're around, which is a good thing. If folks know where to go and who to go to with problems, there's fewer chances for screw ups later. On the whole, I approve, just hate Monday mornings because it's my turn. Though, I suppose it gives me a chance to collect myself and ease back into the week, which I appreciate.
My weekend went too damned fast, and that's saying a lot considering I didn't do much after Friday night. Oh, yes. Friday night. Josie asked me to come over and sit with her while the mobile vet came to put Old Man Cat down.
Let me back up a bit. Old Man Cat was 14+ years old when she adopted him, and he was a really sweet cat, FIV positive. She was told he would die within a year of his adoption and that he just needed a nice place to curl up and die soon. To put age into perspective, my mother's cat, Tigger, keeled over and died when he was 13 years old literally of old age, so I knew (or at least I thought I knew) that what they told her about this cat was the truth. Well, Josie is Josie; she spent half a year's salary on Old Man Cat (who was old when she got him), and he lived another eight happy years in her care on top of his already very long life. That means that today, ladies and gentlemen, he would be at the very least 22 years of age. 22. He wasn't that affectionate, but he was somewhat of a permanent fixture in the home, nonetheless. She loved him, of course, and he had been going downhill for weeks. The real change happened sometime about a week ago, when he started refusing his meds, any and all food and water. From the outside it looked like he was trying to end it on his own, but was slowly starving to death. Moving him so that we could take him to the vet wasn't an option as he would yowl in pain upon even the slightest touch. We called the mobile vet, and they came to put him down at home.
Well, what I realized (like a terrible person) but didn't have the heart to ask at the time was "What are we going to do with his body after he's dead?" Josie's husband was supposed to come home from work so they could take him up to his parent's house to bury it. As it turned out, he didn't feel like coming home, and I couldn't just leave Josie there alone with the corpse of her beloved animal. We had come home from work at 2:30pm. It was nigh on 7pm at this point. I had spent five hours with Josie grieving in my lap. I poured a beer for her, went back to my apartment for two minutes, slammed down a bowl of miso soup, threw some shoes on, threw her dead cat in the back of my newly returned car and drove her, screaming and crying, to Martinez. When we got there we discovered that Josie's father in law mercifully had already dug a hole for the beast. About a half hour later we were done with his tiny funeral. All this while, I'm trying to keep it together. I hate seeing a friend cry probably more than I hate anything else. I'd rather take physical pain, torture, starvation, and Josie and I have seen each other every single day for months now. Her sobs were enough to put me on the edge of insanity, but I was still able to hold it together for her, telling her any horrible, gruesome, hilarious story on the way home that I could think of. About 3/4 of the way home from Martinez, she came around and started showing signs that she was going to be okay. By the time we returned home it was about 9pm. Seven hours.
I saw Josie to her apartment door, confirmed that her husband was home, and wild eyed and confused flopped on the couch to recover. I had terrible, gruesome nightmares that night as soon as I went to sleep, about people who were removing their skin like clothing.
The rest of the weekend was spent doing not much of anything. I went to the store very early on Saturday morning, made coffee and sat out on the step to enjoy the morning. I was outside when Josie left at 8am. She said she was going to adopt a kitten, and adopt a kitten she did. Not 12 hours after Old Man's funeral she was walking in the front door with a 4 week old runt ball of energy (I would question the choice had we not had so much foster animal experience). Yes, I think she's okay now. I'm still recovering from the emotional strain of Friday's happenings.
Wanted desperately to swim, but Saturday hours at the pool are non-existent until June. Boo. Have to be content with Mondays and Wednesdays for the time being. Sunday I tried my hand at preparing croque monsieur, and messed up what I spent so much time tidying up on Saturday afternoon.
Life isn't very exciting at the moment, but will be soon.
My weekend went too damned fast, and that's saying a lot considering I didn't do much after Friday night. Oh, yes. Friday night. Josie asked me to come over and sit with her while the mobile vet came to put Old Man Cat down.
Let me back up a bit. Old Man Cat was 14+ years old when she adopted him, and he was a really sweet cat, FIV positive. She was told he would die within a year of his adoption and that he just needed a nice place to curl up and die soon. To put age into perspective, my mother's cat, Tigger, keeled over and died when he was 13 years old literally of old age, so I knew (or at least I thought I knew) that what they told her about this cat was the truth. Well, Josie is Josie; she spent half a year's salary on Old Man Cat (who was old when she got him), and he lived another eight happy years in her care on top of his already very long life. That means that today, ladies and gentlemen, he would be at the very least 22 years of age. 22. He wasn't that affectionate, but he was somewhat of a permanent fixture in the home, nonetheless. She loved him, of course, and he had been going downhill for weeks. The real change happened sometime about a week ago, when he started refusing his meds, any and all food and water. From the outside it looked like he was trying to end it on his own, but was slowly starving to death. Moving him so that we could take him to the vet wasn't an option as he would yowl in pain upon even the slightest touch. We called the mobile vet, and they came to put him down at home.
Well, what I realized (like a terrible person) but didn't have the heart to ask at the time was "What are we going to do with his body after he's dead?" Josie's husband was supposed to come home from work so they could take him up to his parent's house to bury it. As it turned out, he didn't feel like coming home, and I couldn't just leave Josie there alone with the corpse of her beloved animal. We had come home from work at 2:30pm. It was nigh on 7pm at this point. I had spent five hours with Josie grieving in my lap. I poured a beer for her, went back to my apartment for two minutes, slammed down a bowl of miso soup, threw some shoes on, threw her dead cat in the back of my newly returned car and drove her, screaming and crying, to Martinez. When we got there we discovered that Josie's father in law mercifully had already dug a hole for the beast. About a half hour later we were done with his tiny funeral. All this while, I'm trying to keep it together. I hate seeing a friend cry probably more than I hate anything else. I'd rather take physical pain, torture, starvation, and Josie and I have seen each other every single day for months now. Her sobs were enough to put me on the edge of insanity, but I was still able to hold it together for her, telling her any horrible, gruesome, hilarious story on the way home that I could think of. About 3/4 of the way home from Martinez, she came around and started showing signs that she was going to be okay. By the time we returned home it was about 9pm. Seven hours.
I saw Josie to her apartment door, confirmed that her husband was home, and wild eyed and confused flopped on the couch to recover. I had terrible, gruesome nightmares that night as soon as I went to sleep, about people who were removing their skin like clothing.
The rest of the weekend was spent doing not much of anything. I went to the store very early on Saturday morning, made coffee and sat out on the step to enjoy the morning. I was outside when Josie left at 8am. She said she was going to adopt a kitten, and adopt a kitten she did. Not 12 hours after Old Man's funeral she was walking in the front door with a 4 week old runt ball of energy (I would question the choice had we not had so much foster animal experience). Yes, I think she's okay now. I'm still recovering from the emotional strain of Friday's happenings.
Wanted desperately to swim, but Saturday hours at the pool are non-existent until June. Boo. Have to be content with Mondays and Wednesdays for the time being. Sunday I tried my hand at preparing croque monsieur, and messed up what I spent so much time tidying up on Saturday afternoon.
Life isn't very exciting at the moment, but will be soon.