Christy The Writer

Some days when I’m getting ready for work, I look in the mirror and think “Heeeey, not too shabby.” Then other days, no matter what I do, all I can think is “Wow, thanks for nothing, Mom and Dad.”

Since my brain obviously keeps a running list of Things to Worry About, why does it only decide to drag it out at 3 a.m.?

I finally finished my student loan paperwork for grad school, only to get it all back in my lap because I neglected to mention that I’m a female. Apparently there are a lot of 41-year-old men out there named Christine who are trying to give the slip to the Selective Service.

Thank you to everyone who expressed their sympathy over the past couple of weeks as we’ve dealt with our loss while studiously avoiding all cute animal commercials and any reference to “Marley and Me.” I continue to wear Harry’s collar as a bracelet and put fresh water into his bowl, and Guy is beginning to think the vet just kept him cause he’s honestly that great a cat. The stages of grief and all that, I guess.

And I, as always, am finding solace in my writing. Susan Sontag says “The writer is the exemplary sufferer because he has found the deepest level of suffering and also a professional means to sublimate his suffering. As a man, he suffers; as a writer, he transforms his suffering into art.” Whether my weepy ramblings have been art I really can’t say. But I do know that putting my heart into words has been cathartic for me, and the love and support I’ve gotten from you have made a very rough time a little more bearable. Thank you, my friends.

The sudden death last week of our beloved kitty, the inimitable Harry Potter Kass, left me heartbroken to the point of being unable to function for two solid days, and going numbly through the motions of my life for the remainder of the week. Since I’m 41 and “involuntarily childless,” Harry filled the role of the kid in our house. Toys scattered everywhere, a dozen different kinds of cat food on top of the refrigerator to keep dinnertime exciting, a fresh catnip plant on the kitchen windowsill, a mosaic of cat hair on every surface you can imagine and a few you can’t, Harry didn’t live with us as much as we lived with him.

When we first picked him up from the family who originally owned him, the woman handed him to me, a sleeping bundle of black fur. He’d opened his eyes, given me the once-over, settled into my arms and gone right back to sleep with a slight purr to let me know I was approved. I was instantly smitten. We took him home, put him down and let him explore the apartment. Except for an unfriendly greeting for that sonofabitch in the full-length mirror, he took to life with us immediately.

As the years passed, Harry became such an integral part of our world that we couldn’t remember life before him. First thing every morning, he’d meet me in the kitchen for a cuddle while the coffee was brewing, last thing at night he’d snuggle on the bed between us and favor us with a purr. He loved to ride in the car, he loved peanut butter, he’d get so aggravated when Guy would tease him with a toy that he’d hiss, he loved to wrestle with Guy in a little ritual we called Harrypalooza. He loved to hide in the shower, he would almost lose his mind with excitement when I gave him a twist-tie off the bread bag. He would jump on the back of my writing chair and almost tip me over. He’d hate it when I’d cry and would get in my lap and put his back to my chest while pushing his head up under my chin. It made sense to him and it always made me feel better. At the end of a particularly exciting day, he’d flop down on the couch and start to snore.

His unexpected death last week brought our world to an abrupt halt. Never had a cat been more loved or more doted on. He was only five and had been the picture of health. Why Harry? Why now? Why us? We clung to each other and wept with grief and anger and confusion and betrayal.

David Sedaris likens the death of a pet to the end of an era, but for me, losing Harry was more like watching my dreams dissolve in front of me. I cried for the toys I won’t be buying, for the cuddles I will no longer get, I cried for all the times the tears and blood fell from me simultaneously as I flushed away another 28 days of my fertile years. Harry was like my child, but he was also a reminder, a furry little beacon of hope, that I could be a mommy. I was capable of giving all the love and nurture a tiny life could need. To have that snatched from me was wrenching in a way I can’t even describe.

His toys are still in their big bowl on the living room floor. His dishes are still in the kitchen. The catnip plant is full and beautiful. I find myself looking at it first thing in the morning now as I sip my coffee by the window. The leaves are soft to the touch, a vibrant green that almost glows in the sunshine that spills in the window. And life goes on.

If you want a little snapshot of someone’s psyche, take a look at the history of pages they’ve searched recently on Wikipedia. Don’t believe me? Here’s mine:

Clarence Thomas, Cleopatra, Eliot Spitzer, Get Fuzzy, Hollywood scandals, Kalahari Bushmen, Kramer vs Kramer, Lou Costello, Louisa May Alcott, unsolved murders, Menudo, Phantom of the Opera, Sara Teasdale, Vlad the Impaler.

Yep. And you’re welcome.

I love it that the international media still feels the need to write a story about it when people get hurt during the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Damn, did you guys see this? People got trampled and, wait … let me look, what was that other thing? Here it is … gored! Damn, does the chamber of commerce know about this? Cause that just sucks.

They had my iced chai soy latte ready and waiting for me at  Starbucks this morning. It’s nice to be loved.

“Psychic octopus predicts Spanish victory in World Cup”

“Germans bring sexy back”

“Viagra-popping seniors lead the pack for STDs”

And now, I’m just going the hell back to bed.

Am I the only one who is now looking sideways at everyone around me, wondering if they might be a Russian spy? As if I didn’t already find everyone else’s life more exciting than mine …