And, yes, as a few of you said, the pain is unequivocally worth it after all the happiness they give us. I have feared the pain of this time since the moment I fell in love with her, but I also always knew that I would never regret her for a second.
I am grateful that I have so much travel planned this spring. I will be spending two weeks on the East Coast in April, meeting my mom's family for the first time, then taking a road trip with her up the coast and spending some time in Nova Scotia. Then in May my brother is taking me to Paris. He called me Sunday morning to ask me to go with him, and was a little startled when I broke down bawling instead of the reaction he expected. Once I've had a little time to heal, I'll have that trip to look forward to - not only spending time in Paris, but also spending time getting to know my brother as an adult. He's 11 years older than me and moved away when I was 7, so we really don't know much about each other, strangely.
The main reason I'm grateful for the travel plans is that it will force me to hold off on getting another cat. If I didn't have that, I might only make it a few weeks before going crazy in this silent house and bringing home a cat that will inevitably be nothing like Mosca. I don't want to resent New Cat for being her/himself. I need to recover from Mosca and move on to the point where I no longer yearn so much for specifically her. Once I get back from France, my plan is to begin volunteering at the local Humane Society to get to know the cats and let one of them choose me. One of the very first lessons that Mosca taught me was that cats know best when it comes to pairing up with a human. We frequently choose wrong, I think. At least, I do.
I'm not sure whether I'll get a kitten or a full grown cat, but I'm leaning toward the latter, as then I'll know more about that cat's personality from the get-go, rather than having everything change on me as a kitten grows up. We'll see.
But again, thank you guys.
Often people don't know what they have until they lose it. I can honestly and with joy say that was not the case with Mosca. The very first moment she ran up to me out of the darkness, skinny and dirty and smelly and crying for me to love her, I knew she was a blessing, a precious gift directly from God. Every day since in the past six years I have thanked Him for her over and over again. I knew I depended on her, I knew I'd be lost without her, and I knew I'd be a wreck when our time together ended. I just didn't realize it would be so soon. Last month a co-worker's cat died unexpectedly and I thought with fear what I would be like when I lost Mosca, but also with relief that she was young still and I didn't need to panic yet. I could continue to soak up all the love she had in her for years to come. I'm glad I didn't know.
I have always had a cat, since forever. Fat ones, skinny ones, mean ones, smart ones, and the occasional dumb one. I loved them all, but I always wished they were a little different. A little less cat-like. I used to reach out a hand toward a cat and wish against all hope that it would reach a paw back to me. I was always sad that they could curl up on my lap, but they'd keep their heads up rather than resting their chin on my forearm. But cats just don't do those things. Except Mosca. She loved to rest her chin on my arm (it seems odd to sit here and type without having to hold my right arm still for her) and every time - every single time - I absently stretched out a hand in her direction, she would always meet me with a little paw. She would often start it, in fact. She'd reach out a paw and grab a finger with her claw and drag it toward her just to tuck it under her chin. And I'm afraid I'll never have that connection again.
Apparently, time will heal me. But I feel that time is also dragging me further away from her. 1 hour ago, she was with me, 2 hours ago, 12 hours, 24 hours, 48 hours . . . further and further away. My world has narrowed into Before and After. The last time I opened this cupboard, walked through that door, picked up this book, she was still here. And each time I do one of those things, it's one less thing I have from Before.
I miss the sound of her purr, and especially all the sounds of her meow. I think she suffered a vocal chord injury as a kitten before she found me, because she had this bizarre little wailing cry that would startle anyone who wasn't used to it. It was almost like she never grew out of her kitten voice, but that it only got louder with age, rather than deepening like other cats. Yet she also had this quiet little chirrup sound that she made every time she jumped onto the bed or the couch or anything (she had to announce her presence). And I'll never hear it again. Why, oh, why didn't I record all her little noises?
She was so small. She never actually reached 7 pounds. She was an excellent hunter, deftly plucking birds from the air and mice from wherever mice happened to be, but she panicked and cried if Voodoo, the neighbor's demon cat, attacked her. I had to rescue her constantly from his clutches, and she never once fought back (are you happy now, Voodoo? Hmm?).
When I was sad, the best cure was to bury my face in her ridiculously soft fur. Now I'm sadder than I can ever remember being, and I don't have her to turn to. She was my safe haven, my refuge from the storm, and as I mentioned the other day, my first thing in the morning and my last thing at night. She was my girl. My little Mosca (Moesh-moesh, Moshkeda). The one being I loved more than any other. And now she's gone and I am lost. I won't allow myself to get another cat until I'm over it, because I would only be disappointed that she isn't her. That she doesn't rest her chin on my arm or reach out her paw to me. What will I do now without my Mosca?
I'm getting updates about people in Christchurch and the surrounding areas. It appears that everyone I care about is just fine, and that's wonderful. But I don't know yet about their friends and family, or the state of their homes, or their jobs, or their pets, or all the many other things that can go wrong in a situation like this. It's horrifying.
I planned to log on to TORn as soon as I got home to see how everyone was, but I arrived (with a half-numb face, courtesy of my dentist) to discover that Mosca is sick. She has been since Sunday night, but it was worse when I got home today. Scary worse. I took her to the vet and I'll know more tomorrow after they've reviewed her bloodwork. The good news is that, although the doctor initially thought she might have gotten into some antifreeze and was trying to prepare me for "the end," she now thinks she can safely rule that out. She also believes that Mosca is not in immediate danger, although she has a swollen right kidney and elevated heart rate, in addition to the vomiting, refusal to eat, lethargy, and strange behavior that lead me to bring her in.
So that's bad. The earthquake is bad. Bad, bad, bad. I need to log onto this place when things are good, too. It's nice to see that Bojo is still taking amazing pictures and Revie is still playing with robots and that life has gone on as usual. Although apparently Nenya has given up horses for ostriches. Weird.
Now, off to fix a late dinner and cuddle my poor widdle kitty.
Must be the Russia thing.
Grrr, though! I never write here anymore. I barely have time to skim through my friends page. So I'm essentially paying for something I don't even use! I wish I did, and I hope I'll come back and spend more time here someday, but I don't have it. I just don't have any time. Between the time I spend with my boyfriend (going well, thank you) and all the other activities I've gotten involved in (jewelry making tonight, ballroom dancing tomorrow night, shooting on Fridays . . . ), I don't have time to blog anymore. Which is really sad. I should make myself make the time for it, I know, and I miss you guys but . . . I'm just so exhausted when I get home that it is only one of many things I should be doing and don't.
But now I'm paid up for another year, so hopefully that will motivate me. *sigh*
But enough of that. I said I had good news, too, and I do. I had an appointment at a consignment shop yesterday (I've given away or sold more than 75% of my clothes!) and while I was there I found some good stuff to try on. The "skinny" pants I bought two months ago that were a little tight are now loose, so I decided to try a size smaller and guess what? Yep. You're so smart.
So, there I was in the dressing room doing a stupid little happy dance (see icon for example) when I decided that I really had to share my news right then with the two ladies in the shop who don't know me at all. They were very happy for me and even put up with me announcing that the next pair fit, too, so it wasn't just a fluke, and then they obliged me with happy little squeals when the pair after that turned out to be too big. Yes, I am a dork, but they seemed to have fun with it.
YAY. I have dropped another size.
My house smells like smoke.
I've been struggling with Diet. Diet is beginning to bore me, and complains that I take Diet for granted. In an attempt to spice up my life with Diet, I've been trying all sorts of new recipes from all over the world. For the most part, Diet approves and we've had some wild times in the kitchen. I'm reaching a point in my relationship with Diet where I'm getting comfortable trying new things. This has lead to some memorable dishes. To wit:
Cooking experiment #287: chicken soup. This is your classic missionary posish. A staple of the kitchen. Diet and I have been living on the stuff.
Cooking experiment #308: Thai chicken soup. This came from Diet being bored of regular chicken soup. It’s like missionary position with handcuffs. Not for everyday use, but a good way to spice things up.
Cooking experiment #372: Lamb with Dijon sauce. My, oh, my, is this one ever a keeper. I’m blushing just thinking about it.
Cooking experiment #412: Moroccan food. Yes, yes, yes, OH, YES, OH, YES, OH, YESYESYESYESYES!!!
But with the good must also come the bad.
Cooking experiment #326: some weird Jewish dish involving apricots and beef. This is NOT. OKAY. I did not finish. I don’t think Diet finished, either.
Cooking experiment #449: lemony chicken rice stuff. Diet and I took one whiff of the finished product and did not even START. This is why my house smells like smoke right now. Recipes can be really misleading sometimes. I seriously looked at the page in the book and then turned it on its side, then upside down muttering things like, “how in the world?” and "you want me to put what where?" and it really did not look possible. But, then, this is how I started with the Moroccan dish, and look how that turned out. I should have stuck with my gut, though, and gone for something safe. I think I pulled a muscle.
Let's re-cap how this "nice guy" treats Kate Hudson after she tells him she doesn't want anything serious with him:
1. He tells her he loves her (pressure!)
At which point she dumps him entirely, so:
2. He hires his friend to take her on a date so unbelievably horrific that she would theoretically come crying back to him by morning
3. He decides to be her best friend EVAR until she relents, so he stalks her day in and day out in order to continually surprise her with fresh coffee and little donuts arranged to make creepy smiley faces
4. He shows up AT HER HOUSE to keep applying pressure, and when he finds out she's with a guy, he goes busting in to confront the couple
5. He gets angry that she's not taking him as her date to her sister's wedding, where he was hoping to be presented to her parents as her boyfriend
6. He drunkenly upsets said wedding to shame her in front of everyone
This is the nice guy we girls are always accused of hurting? Of choosing jerks over? This guy, who refuses to take no for an answer, who won't listen when she tells him to stop, who won't back off, and who thinks he knows what she wants better than she does?
And let's not forget the entire premise of the movie is a guy that ex-boyfriends hire to take girls out and treat them like crap so they will realize what they "gave up" with the ex and go back to him. Of the two exes we meet during the movie, one is a cheating bastard and the other is a guy who refuses to ever take his girl out in public. So these girls really were on the right track by dumping those losers.
Gentlemen, believe me, we girls may not always know what we want, but we quite usually know what we don't want. If we tell you that you're what we don't want - walk away. That's what an actual nice guy would do.
That is all.