Reflections in Fur: Part Deux

     Okay.  I succumbed to feline mind control.  Larry decided he'd had it with outdoor living, so he just barged into my house one day and wouldn't leave.  He is endearing, affectionate, and absolutely infatuated with me, but he's gunning for Bucky.  As I feared, Larry is an unneutered male.  Territorial with a capital "T."  It has been a trying three weeks as I attempt to keep the two at bay.  When I took Larry to the vet for his shots, it was discovered that he has the feline version of HIV.  While Bucky has had his shot for this, it is not 100% effective against the disease, especially since it is transmitted by blood.  And what better way to transmit blood than by fighting tooth and claw?  So not only must I keep the two of them apart for Bucky's sake, I cannot let Larry outdoors anymore.  He is forever under quarantine.
     The vet suggested I put Larry up for adoption with someone who might take a special-needs cat.  I called animal rescue shelters and sent out gobs of emails, but to no avail.  Thankfully Bucky loves the outdoors and is being a good sport about this, but it's getting cold and wet out there.  So I put Larry in the laundry room when I go to sleep or leave for a few hours so that Bucky can sneak in, eat, drink, and relax a bit.
     So what was Larry reflecting for me?  Trust.  When faced with intractable problems, I send up a prayer:  "Make a way out of no way."  I was having major fears.  Would I need to give Bucky up for adoption for his health's sake?  Would I make myself crazy trying to keep two cats apart for the rest of their lives?  Could I afford his upkeep?  But through it all, the Still Small Voice just said, "Wait.  Give this time.  There's a solution."  And so, I put my fears aside and trusted; what else was I to do?
     A few days later my vet called to inquire if I had found a placement for Larry.  I told her no.  "Well, I just had a client come in who's looking for a companion for his quarantined FIV cat.  Here's his number.  He'd like to talk to you."  Colin and I spoke for a good long time.  This man is serious about cats; he has eight!  And his home is set up to accommodate each of them with their varying needs.  After his family visited here, they all decided that Larry would be a good match for Skittles.  To top it off, they graciously offered to take the neutering responsibility off my hands, saving me a bundle of money!
     Larry will go to his new home November 2nd.  Bucky can return to the comfort of his home, and I can relax...with some tears to be sure.  Larry is a dear and I do love him.  But I know two things:  he'll be in good hands, and I can trust a Loving Power greater than my fears and limited resources to bring about a perfect solution.  I hope this inspires you to trust more, too.

Pax tecum.
    

Reflections in Fur

     You know how you can interpret dreams and find insights into your life by discerning symbols?  Well these days I'm interpreting cats.  My present circumstance is just waaaaaay too bizarre to  think of it any other way.

Buckminster as bathroom doorstop

     Buckminster is my main cat.  We adopted each other two years ago.  He's huge, intrepid, defiant, and goofy.  He falls asleep in his water bowl like a drunkard in his cups.  He sprawls out in the most inconvenient places.  He reflects the part of me that is comfortable and well cared for.  The part of me that is brave, imagines wonderful and sometimes confrontational scenarios for myself.  I know it all.  I believe in myself.  I can get a little stupid.
     Kierkegaard is a delicate, tiger gray feral cat who is a mass of anxieties.  I can't get more than three feet near him before he bolts.  But he will take food on the porch, and if I'm patient, I can coax him into the house.  As can Buckminster.  One day I came home from shopping to find the two of them in a Mexican standoff on the outer rim of the upstairs porch.  Clearly Bucky had taught him how to navigate the cat door, climb up the stairs, and squeeze between the balusters.  Kierke reflects the part of me that is scared, insecure, afraid to get too involved for fear of losing independence, yet in need of a mentor and helpmate despite my reluctance.
     Larry is my homeless cat, a petite, orange polydactyl.  Larry is besotted with me.  He follows me around the neighborhood on my walks.  But he requires mucho medical attention, and the budget will not allow for that at the moment.  So I keep him well fed and sheltered on the porch so that he doesn't share any potential diseases with us.  But Larry hates Bucky.  And the two of them have gotten into it pretty viciously.  It is astounding to see my twenty pounder cower in front of this bantam weight.  Larry knows about the cat door, and while he can't use it, he knows Bucky does, and will stand sentinel to see he doesn't get in or out without a fight.  Larry reflects external reality.  It dogs me with a leaking roof, skyrocketing medical premiums, replacement tires, and faulty feet.  It won't let me escape into comfort or confidence, real or imagined.  I must keep attending to it despite my desire to keep it at bay.
     Right now I'm a little annoyed with all of them.  I care for them and their conflicting needs so much that I am neglecting my writing and everything else I want to devote myself to.  So here's my plan for the week.  Minimal involvement.  They're cats.  They're smart.  They'll have to do without me a bit more because I am going to be more self-centered and take care of myself.  I have to, because they sure can't.  Let's see what happens when I change the dynamics.    
     And pray that I don't fall victim to feline mind control!

Pax tecum.