Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...well, ok, a year ago to the day...and in ireland..no, england...well...
I was in England for my friends' wedding. The fact that I saw them quite unexpectedly here last weekend in Montreal on their wedding anniversary has prompted this post. I was staying with one of my best friends in South London whilst I was there. It was, I think, the day of yet another boring world cup final. Now the night before I flew back to Dublin, he'd told me his big news:
"We're getting kittens"
-oh, great. What are you going to call them?
"Jango and Boba"
And I said... "that's ridiculous. I'm tired of people giving their pets pop culture references as names. I promise you now, if I ever get a cat, I'm going to call it 'Star Wars' "
I might add that I don't like cats - because dogs rule - so this would be a doubly cruel thing to do. Next day, on returning to Dublin, I take a bus to my then-girlfriend's house to pick up my car and as I am literally putting the key into the lock of the driver's door, I see an old man in front of me leaning over the railings of her next door neighbour's house talking to someone in this sunken open basement. I'm mildly interested until I notice that he's talking and the respondent is miaowing.
And yes, this is going where you think it is. Only it's ultimately a tragedy and not at all funny. So read on, mirth fans.
I go over and there below us is the most heart-breaking scene you ever saw: a tiny black, white and ginger-striped muddy, thinning rug of pussycat hair and eyes trapped in this deep concrete bunker with no food, no water and no way out. But I have keys to the ex's house so I go in and grab some slices of ham and a tin of tuna from her fridge, chuck one slice down to the cat and we watch her pounce and tear it apart as if she hasn't eaten in weeks. Turns out she hadn't. I throw some more down and the same thing happens. Old man and I discuss things and he says a neighbour round the corner has a ladder, so I go and ask and this very kind middle-aged couple come over with their ladder and lower it down, then the husband bravely descends and has a bit of a struggle to pick her up but eventually he does - and as he does, he lets out a sickening grunt, which I cannot understand until, as he climbs back up the ladder and places the cat in my hands, suddenly makes complete sense. For although this is a full size adult cat, she feels exactly like a stripped roast chicken-carcass. There's little more than just fur and ribcage attached to this dirty, manky head and lifeless tail. As she empties the tin of tuna and a big bowl of water I've put out for her three times, the four of us look at eachother and all say much the same thing...
"Well, I can't take her"
So we call the ISPCA and they can't and we call our cat-loving friends and they can't, but the lady says she has a definite connection to a cat fosterer who she can't get in touch with until tomorrow, so I reluctantly (though maybe not entirely so) pick her up and pop her on the passenger seat of my car with no idea where the hell i'm going to put her when i get home. Just that I have grown strongly attached to this wretched thing who looks like it's had a rough time (I think pop psychiatrists call it 'projecting') And as I drive off, the neighbour asks 'what are you going to call her?' and that's when I realise that less that 12 hours earlier i'd made a promise I never thought I'd have to fulfil (for why else does one make such promises?). And so, a year ago this week, I became the proud foster-parent of a 4 year old tortoiseshell calico cat named Star Wars
Tomorrow... How Star Wars turned to the Dark Side, shat and pissed on every single valuable thing I had and ended up killing my pet Ewok
|
I was in England for my friends' wedding. The fact that I saw them quite unexpectedly here last weekend in Montreal on their wedding anniversary has prompted this post. I was staying with one of my best friends in South London whilst I was there. It was, I think, the day of yet another boring world cup final. Now the night before I flew back to Dublin, he'd told me his big news:
"We're getting kittens"
-oh, great. What are you going to call them?
"Jango and Boba"
And I said... "that's ridiculous. I'm tired of people giving their pets pop culture references as names. I promise you now, if I ever get a cat, I'm going to call it 'Star Wars' "
I might add that I don't like cats - because dogs rule - so this would be a doubly cruel thing to do. Next day, on returning to Dublin, I take a bus to my then-girlfriend's house to pick up my car and as I am literally putting the key into the lock of the driver's door, I see an old man in front of me leaning over the railings of her next door neighbour's house talking to someone in this sunken open basement. I'm mildly interested until I notice that he's talking and the respondent is miaowing.
And yes, this is going where you think it is. Only it's ultimately a tragedy and not at all funny. So read on, mirth fans.
I go over and there below us is the most heart-breaking scene you ever saw: a tiny black, white and ginger-striped muddy, thinning rug of pussycat hair and eyes trapped in this deep concrete bunker with no food, no water and no way out. But I have keys to the ex's house so I go in and grab some slices of ham and a tin of tuna from her fridge, chuck one slice down to the cat and we watch her pounce and tear it apart as if she hasn't eaten in weeks. Turns out she hadn't. I throw some more down and the same thing happens. Old man and I discuss things and he says a neighbour round the corner has a ladder, so I go and ask and this very kind middle-aged couple come over with their ladder and lower it down, then the husband bravely descends and has a bit of a struggle to pick her up but eventually he does - and as he does, he lets out a sickening grunt, which I cannot understand until, as he climbs back up the ladder and places the cat in my hands, suddenly makes complete sense. For although this is a full size adult cat, she feels exactly like a stripped roast chicken-carcass. There's little more than just fur and ribcage attached to this dirty, manky head and lifeless tail. As she empties the tin of tuna and a big bowl of water I've put out for her three times, the four of us look at eachother and all say much the same thing...
"Well, I can't take her"
So we call the ISPCA and they can't and we call our cat-loving friends and they can't, but the lady says she has a definite connection to a cat fosterer who she can't get in touch with until tomorrow, so I reluctantly (though maybe not entirely so) pick her up and pop her on the passenger seat of my car with no idea where the hell i'm going to put her when i get home. Just that I have grown strongly attached to this wretched thing who looks like it's had a rough time (I think pop psychiatrists call it 'projecting') And as I drive off, the neighbour asks 'what are you going to call her?' and that's when I realise that less that 12 hours earlier i'd made a promise I never thought I'd have to fulfil (for why else does one make such promises?). And so, a year ago this week, I became the proud foster-parent of a 4 year old tortoiseshell calico cat named Star Wars
Tomorrow... How Star Wars turned to the Dark Side, shat and pissed on every single valuable thing I had and ended up killing my pet Ewok
|
Comments:
Post a Comment
