Guess what. Trooper yet lives. 

So, in my last post I wrote concerning how torn up I was about having to give him to a place that might kill him. Well, at the end of the day I just couldn’t do it. I don’t know if anyone else saw that coming; odds are that everyone did but me. I, personally, was surprised. I tend to think that I’m capable of doing the logical thing if I really have to, but I think I’ve got too much of an imagination and can very well convince myself that the logical thing is not entirely necessary yet. I harbor much more hope than I let myself believe sometimes. So, curious to see if maybe Trooper would get better given a few days, I decided not to take him to the SPCA. No one questioned me on this; and it seems that secretly, though the decision had been left in my hands, everyone was also hoping for the best for Trooper. My roommate included, who has turned out to be his saving grace.

She is [ most likely] adopting him.

Trooper’s already made himself at home here. He lounges where he wishes, though we’re attempting to keep him from forming bad habits early on (for example, stepping all over my laptop while I’m trying to type). He’s showing signs of getting better I think; his breathing still sounds horrible but his attitude is brighter. He’s really curious, about everything, and curiosity is one of those things that I love to see in anyone, so this kitty won me over from the start.  My roommate got him some medicine, a decongestant and antibiotics, so hopefully it’ll start doing him some good very soon. It was such wonderful news when she told me she wanted to keep him. It’s a relief to me that this sweet little guy will be loved and taken care of, and I’m happy that he gets to stick around here for the next couple of months. 

Man, he just stretched out on my floor [he’s so freakin’ adorable!].

Also, just wanted to give a shout-out to my boyfriend for all the help he’s given since Trooper found us. He went with us to the vet, stood by while I tried not to cry, messaged people he knew to try to find a place for Trooper and totally supported me as I flip-flopped on what to do with this cat. He’s wonderful. 

Anyway… life; I feel like I’m finally living it again. More on that later I guess. 

Wisdom from my mother: Make sure your doors are locked. And your windows. Check them. 

I suppose the past few weeks have been interesting. Plenty of good things, a few bad things, and the occasional thing that simply confuses me. Such is life, and it’s still good.

Yesterday, of the various things in life that were experienced, one stood out, and that was sadness. It’s all because of a cat, or really it’s all because of me, or maybe it’s all because of things that are out of my control… regardless of the reason, I keep wondering if it was a mistake to have given him a name.

To make a long story short, a small cat came up to me two nights ago as I was sitting on my front steps Skyping with a friend. The cat then proceeded to follow me into my house. I alerted my roommates, and we tried to give it some food, and we gave it a bath. I named him Trooper because he did very well with letting us bathe him, although he whined a lot, or at least he tried to. He couldn’t meow - his attempts resulted in pathetic sounds caught somewhere between a wheeze and a whisper. Just by listening to his breathing it was obvious he was very congested, which I didn’t question considering how cold it’s been the past few nights. The next day I tried to put up a notice online, hoping that maybe someone would have the means to take care of this cat. His breathing seemed to be getting more difficult as the day passed though and I got worried so I found a cheap vet nearby and made an appointment. The vet said Trooper was so congested that it was difficult to hear his lungs, and he’d need a couple of tests to rule out him having FIV or cancer, since a cat as young as Trooper shouldn’t be that sick. I knew I couldn’t afford the tests, and I doubted anyone I knew would be able to either so getting someone to adopt him was probably not going to happen. The only other option left would be to take him to the SPCA, where they’d test him for things and if he was actually ill, they would put him down. I tried to find a local no-kill shelter but most were at capacity or had requirements that Trooper didn’t meet. I went home feeling pretty defeated, and I cried quite a bit more than I expected, considering that I never intended to cry at all.

Later that night, I found myself still trying to come up with a better plan. My roommates had gone to bed already, so it was just me and the cat for a little while. I tried to take good care of him; I refused to think about the fact that it might not even matter by the next day. Part of me was still holding onto this hope that if his condition seemed better by morning, maybe I could keep him longer, and maybe we’d find a place for him. He was hungry, so I mixed a can of soft food with some water to see if he’d eat it, since I couldn’t get him to drink water for whatever reason and according the vet he was dehydrated. At first he just stared at the mush, so I got down onto the floor and waited for a long while, but finally, he nibbled at it. As entertaining as it sounds, I sat and watched him eat. The sounds of his wheezing as he tried to breathe through his mouth while eating were loud in the quiet and the house was dark except for the light in the kitchen. So, there we were, both chilling there on the tile floor, Trooper trying to live, and me wishing he could stay that way. Ten minutes passed like that  before I decided to actually go to bed. And instead of actually going to bed I distracted myself with internet and with writing. Without the distraction, I’d have fallen asleep still thinking of the things that  had made me cry during the day, and I probably would’ve dreamt of them. I felt as though this cat was trusting me and somehow I was betraying it to its death. It’s a heavy thing to say I suppose, but hear me out.

In my mind I see the betrayal play out as a tragedy, a blatant cruelty: packing the cat up in a box,  dropping him off with strangers, leaving them to run tests on him that will probably come up positive, who with cold hands inside rubber gloves will eventually stick something sharp into his small body, a needle filled with poison, and soon after the shock of the momentary pain, he will start to fall asleep, and then, within seconds, die. Just like with dreaming, Ole Lukoie takes the sleeping boy away, only this time it’s to death.

Part of my guilt is that, if I imagine the cat knew what was going to happen and was able to ask me why he had to die, all I could answer was that he was too inconvenient, or not important enough. For that I feel ashamed. It just doesn’t seem a good enough response. I can say that no matter what, he’ll probably die and this is the most humane thing that can happen, but in the end it all comes down to a lack of money. 

It probably seems like I’m really beating myself up - admittedly I am - but I don’t beat myself up often so I guess that once in a while I’m allowed a free pass on this. If I’m going to beat myself up over something, I have no qualms about it being this. 

I let Trooper into my room last night to sleep on my bed with me - I figured that he may as well be comfortable if I’m sending him to his death soon. I think it seems that there are two main decisions to make when you know someone will not be around much longer - you can protect yourself and pull away, leaving them alone, or you can get close enough to keep that person warm so that when they have to leave, they leave with the residual feelings of a love that was near them. Making that last decision means accepting not just more love but accepting more pain. When I was younger I didn’t see my life as being meaningful to anyone else’s life, so it just made sense to always pull away from people, because in my mind, no one could stick around forever anyway; oh the delusions of a child’s self-absorption. I’ve since reformed my views on how important my love can be to another, and I’ve decided that the intense pain that often accompanies loving someone at least has a liveliness that the dull pain of distance will always lack. I’m not sure why that seems better to me, but it does. Probably because I think that love is worth the price. 

I know he’s just a cat; this thought keeps recurring in my head, questioning the logic behind feeling so sad. I even wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have given the cat a name since I knew he wouldn’t be staying. But, I think that even if giving him a name somehow made it that much harder to let go, he deserves to have a name. If he’s got to die, and I can’t do anything about it, I can still give a little love. It’s a bit funny though, how this cat is reaping the benefits of lessons I learned from my dad being sick my whole life. 

*Note: I still have Trooper for a few hours today before taking him to the SPCA, so he’s not gone yet. I’m trying not to think about it though…

**Note: I am now trying to delay taking him to the SPCA for maybe a week… I really just want to see if his health improves. I can’t afford this though, I don’t know what I’m thinking by doing this. I don’t even know what I’ll do with him if he gets healthy, since if he has FIV the SPCA is still not an option.