Mike

He was such a gentleman, he really was. My baby would do anything to please a girl. But he was still a baby too, at least at heart. He was always so polite. And he listened to me, he trusted my voice. Towards the end, he actually came when I called his name, instead of looking at me arrogantly from wherever he'd run to. And even though his litter box was half as big as it needed to be, he still used it. He was my heart and soul. He was my life, light of my day, the gold in my sun.

He didn't want to go into the cat carrier, I pushed and forced and tried to hard, and I got so frustrated with him. He wouldn't go in, it was like trying to drown a cat, it just doesn't mix - oil and water. But then, I couldn't blame him. The carrier was also too small, and the only times he'd been in it it was to move to a different place, with strangers. I held him in the car on the way over. I'd tried to be nice to him through the morning, clean water bowl, fresh food, clean cat box, open window and air. In the car, I told him he'd be right as rain, we'd be home before he knew it, we were just going to get a couple shots to make him feel better and then we'd go. He didn't like the room we were put in. The doctor gave him some tranquilizer in his back, lower spine. We waited for it to take effect, and when the doctor came back, he gave him some more, and some more, and some more. My baby was tough, remarkably immune to strong doses. He tried jumping off the table, his reactions were very slow by then. When I picked him up he was heavier somehow, and soon, as he was lying on the table, he would just stare ahead of him, his mouth drooping and drooling a little. Like when a cat breathes in a strong scent and their mouth hangs open. And then his head got heavy and it dropped to the table. I tried to adjust it so he could still breathe. I was sitting on the ground in front of his face, trying to talk to him still, trying to see some light of recognition. The doctor came in a last time and laid him out, shaved his arm, gave the last dose, the anesthesia that would slow his heartbeat to nothing. He left the room when there was no pulse. My baby was lying there, his arm stretched out so far it didn't look comfortable. I laid my head on his stomach like I used to, but it wasn't the same, it was like a pillow - no life beneath the surface, no gurgling stomach, no tension or breathing, just a pillow. I went around the table and knelt in front of his face again. His eyes were still open, and he looked so . . . angry, it was the same face he gave me when I did something he didn't like. I tried to apologize for the humiliating position I had to put him through, I tried to close his eyes. I tried to readjust him so he wouldn't be uncomfortable. But as soon as I touched him, tried to lift him up, it was . . . not the same. I backed up so quickly, he was dead weight, disjointed limbs, but most horrifying of all - he wasn't there anymore. He was so completely gone, and I felt like I'd betrayed him. So entirely betrayed him.

And I couldn't . . . be there anymore. That image of him - that's the last thing I remember. And then it's like a tape on fast rewind, and I see my holding him in the room, and then in the car, and then trying to force him into the carrier, and then the morning of attempting to spoil him and let him enjoy his last day, and . . . it kills me to see that it's because of me and my stubbornness that he's not here, my polite little gentleman, the most well-mannered animal, the most well-mannered cat with the stubbornest ideas and a yellow teddy bear to sleep with, is dead because of me. He's no longer here to sit like the Sphinx, or give me that arrogant look like the king of the jungle, or to lay on my side when I say I'm cold. He's no longer here to run after me to my bedroom, day or night, my little shadow, or to meow like a six week old kitten, or to soccer punch me so hard my glasses fall off my face. He's no longer here to lay on his back with his legs spread and his tail curled like a monkey's and his eyes looking at you saying 'look but don't dare touch'. And I'll never get to see his paws turn white, or his back get crooked, or his eyes turn cloudy. I'll never know how long he might have lived. He'll always be my baby, a couple white hairs here and there, a mucky little teddy bear that's never been washed, and the memory of the richest, sweetest, granny smith green apple eyes I've ever seen or ever will see. He had the loudest purr I've ever heard in a cat, you could hear it across the room, and I swear he could understand everything I ever said. He held grudges like no other, and when I left for a few months of the summer, he wouldn't let me pet him for weeks. And he loved only me, he trusted only me, and I let him down.

My guardian, my protector, my prince - I only hope he's watching over me now. And when I hear the thunder rumbling, and when I smell the crisp air of a fresh spring morning, or feel an ache on the side of my eye, I'll think of my beautiful baby boy, and know, and hope, he's thinking of me too.

I hope he takes care of my heart where he's at, and wraps his beautiful monkey tail around my soul.

Overlooked: The Hypocrisy of Life.

The hypocrisy of school grades. Who truly worked hard on these? Who got what they deserved? One never works, blows off classes left and right. Failed his first semester, did essentially the same thing second…got two As. One didn’t do any of her papers until the very last week of school. Didn’t hardly ever go to class, didn’t read the books, and still got an A. Then take the other, who stayed up all night to finish homework. Always read the assignments. Wrote A papers. Missed a couple classes and got a B instead. Maybe I turned a paper or two in late, and maybe I had a mental breakdown in between. I feel like I worked so hard. I only got a B, and an Incomplete. And why? Because of a few absences? School is for those who suck up. Good grades are for the sycophants. True learning never got a person a good grade.

I do not want to be another Amelia Sedley, watching all those less worthy getting all the glory. I don’t want to be eclipsed by everyone. I’ve been in the light, I’m the better wit and the kinder soul, but I leave for a little while, and it’s as if no one remembers how much better I can be than they. Unobtrusive…is that a compliment or an insult? It’s like I’ve been overlooked my whole life and for what reason? Timidity? A feeling of being an outsider already, a need to isolate or work on my own problems or work through my grief has led me to become more of an outsider among those who I thought were friends. My distance has led me to have only one person in the world who I feel I can rely on, and talk to, and know absolutely won’t let me down. That person is my fiancé, and I suppose it’s sad that my best friend, the only person I truly consider an actual friend now, is he. And even worse, is when I feel like I’m being neglected even by him. A busy schedule I have not, but it certainly occupies his day most fully. And when he is the only person who I talk to, and the only company I have, though he’s over six hundred miles away, it gets pretty lonely when he’s too busy to talk. I feel like a whiner. And I feel like a loner. And I feel like all of this is because of me, of my fault and origination. Maybe I was never destined for the limelight of social graces and gentility. I knew I was a hermit from childhood, life chalked it up to shyness. But though I’ve found myself capable of shining quite spectacularly, I still cower in my shell in the end. I had one semester of seeing the world of wit, sarcasm, and liveliness, and I retreated for a few months and found I couldn’t come back, found that the world I thought I had discovered and learned so well had changed so completely as to bar my reentrance into this place where I felt almost close to people, where I felt cared for, and fraternal concern was something I had missed so dearly.

Life has thrown me ups, but this year, it has mostly thrown me downs. I’ve had my moments, but I feel like it has stolen most of mine. Given the chance, I could have been quite the individual, but instead I’ve had to stumble and fumble my way through. If I have wit, it is because I have had neglect so sharp that the only way to lumber through it is to mask it with gaiety. If I have a modicum of intelligence, it is only because I have had no other company but my learning and my own thoughts. Through the tenfold mirroring and echoes of musings and scribbling and lonely thoughts, I have gained some progress in life. And unfortunately, the world I have passed my time in has occupied only myself, thus to me, life means only solidarity. If I come across contentment, I find a fortuitous fluke. If I come across closeness, intimacy, inclusion within a group of individuals loving of each other, I find it a fortunate and fleeting chance to see the other side of the universe, to reach into the sky and listen to the stars speak amongst themselves, and it gives me such a feeling of elation that it lights me up for days. But it never lasts.

The ring upon my finger promises a different path than I always predicted for myself. The ring on my finger says I won’t be alone for the rest of my days, that I’ll finally have a family that reaches out to touch your heart without the horrible need for a precursor or excuse like a familiar holiday or birthday. With this ring, I have the chance for love, and reliability, and hope. Yet, this hope that has to wait, wait for more silence, wait three years and some months, before I can finally have a life worth living, worth remembering, worth feeling.

Why is it that things always come down to this? This feeling of being overlooked, neglected, ignored. Why must it always come back to me feeling like I'm not being seen for who I am, not being acknowledged for my accomplishments, taken for granted, assumed invisible? Why do I always feel alone?

It's this constant battle with the world, fighting the hypocrisy of who gets the attention and the glory, of who is seen as the smarter, who gets the better grades and snazzier labels. It's like, in the midst of struggling to live, they've all forgotten about me. It's getting to feel pretty pointless.