Cold Comfort

There's a funny movie called "Cold Comfort Farm" where an old, tyrannical granny keeps a-hold of her family, keeps them chained to the farm, by having "turns" and repeating ominously that she "saw something nasty in the woodshed," when she was a child. That's kind of how I'm feeling when the people I haven't seen for a while ask how I've been and I say "my cat died." Don't expect much from me, don't expect much interest, or smiling, or even daily hair combing. I saw something nasty in the woodshed. My kitty died and my grief shall control everything, erecting a force field around me that means don't bother me and don't expect the best in grooming. Don't expect me to squeal with delight over your engagement, or congratulate you on your new part in the play, or to exclaim over your new bedroom furniture, or to drool over a good meal. Nothing can touch my soul, everything tastes like sand, the days are dark, the nights are endless, my clothes sadly furless, my bed cold. Little, moth-eaten fake mousies litter the floor, and I'm becoming Ms. Havesham from "Great Expectations," stuck on the day that she died, litter box untouched, cat food cans stacked in the cupboard, the last scrapings from her scratching post laying on the floor in a pool of catnip that she rolled around in on our last day together. The water in her water dish has evaporated in the skin-cracking heat of my apartment but I dare not move it.

People have said "it's just like losing a person." I haven't lost many people, bless buddha, but if they mean that there's a screaming void where your heart used to be and you hate God for a while, that there's the relief from your grievee's suffering, that the slightest thing brings you to tears, then it is like that. My little unconditional love, puddle of fur, goofy, proud, chatty, Poopy Pie, my little Pickles, Woman, Recalcitrant, Gramma, Poopilicious, Little Diva--too much to inscribe on a headstone at the Happy Acres Pet Memorial.

And its also so hilarious. I got the bill from the vets who she was last with, $1,000---but euthanasia only costs $75. I was on my way to acupuncture when I opened it and saw that, and so was crying when I arrived at my appointment. Anthony, my dear needle dude, had me lay down, and put needles in my arms feet and one in the middle of my forehead--the third eye, my favorite point--and then he lowered the lights and I let the tears roll down my face and into my sideburns. Then it struck me--I'm laying there with a needle sticking straight out of my forehead, weeping like a baby. And my feet stank. At that moment I could feel Poopy's cold nose on my face, something she'd often do when I cried or was laying down in pain as if to say, "I'm here. Hmmm...what's this salty stuff? You right, girlfriend, your feet are rank!" And I had to laugh and chortle and snort.

I try really hard to resent other people's animal stories, but it's too hard. Their babies are so cute and they are so proud/mock angry/happy about their antics. And who else can understand that unspoken bond?

My co-workers and I have a ritual in the afternoon when the office turns into an oven where we go around and give each other one or two complaints each. The other day we went around the room, and K said he had to re-print a bunch of letters, and E said that she was too full from lunch, and A said that her shoes were pinching her feet, and D said the heat in the office was horrible, and I said "my cat is dead." And then we laughed for twenty minutes, that great release of energy, that lovely, soul cleansing, tear producing, howling that comes from the belly.

And so, like everything, there is a barrel full of the absurd.

I know one thing, I'm SICK of listening to NPR--it's as negative and war-driven as Fox News sometimes, bleak, bleak, bleak, presidential candidates ad infinitum, and even Terry Gross of "Fresh Air" is interviewing pundits. C'mon! I want a funky, funny interview with Bonnie Raitt, or a story about children learning to play cellos, or a Sarah Vowell piece on having to spend the night in the Cincinnati airport. Bush's ridiculous gallivanting through the middle east touting democracy--you must be out of your mind--democracy in countries where women aren't allowed to vote or show their ankles? A peace agreement between groups that will not stop tit-for-tat bombing? WILL NOT STOP. The silly, silly man doesn't know what to do with himself. Don't think, George, that the "legacy" room at that great monolithic building (built in the shape of a lasso) you'll build in Crawford, Texas, the Shrub Museum (no library cuz you never read a book in your life--maybe a comic book collection), will contain the pen you signed a peace accord with, or a copy of the document signaling lasting peace between the Israelis or Palestinians or even pictures of all the American children you helped through your domestic policies. I'll tell you what it should contain--an old FEMA trailer, rank with formaldehyde, the empty shoes of a child who died in this country because she was uninsured, a sculpture made with the 4000+ helmets of the soldiers who died in Iraq, a replica of a rodent infested room from the Bethesda Medical Center where they treat injured troops, the stuffed carcass of Jerry Falwell, Dick Cheney's first artificial heart, the gun he shot that dude in the face with and the scotch glass he was holding when he did it, a crayon drawing of your tiny brain (complete with both sprockets and the rubber band), and a blackboard covered with your scrawl, 1000 times having to write "Iran poses no threat to the United States." jerk.

Can I digress or what?