Day End.

Something happened. He came back.

There was trouble... trouble in the water from a few days after he arrived. Tiffany's little heart-patient kitten was in love with him, and it was delightful. Then he started swatting at her to play. Then his playing got stronger, and she couldn't keep up. Then his playing got strong enough to be unacceptable. He hit her and pummeled her and wouldn't leave her alone. Tiffany's other cat, Button, was part of the game, and fought right back with Plymouth. But Annabelle isn't strong enough for that. He got to the point of making her life miserable.

Sean, Tiffany's boyfriend, was wonderful with him. He and Tiffany both dealt with Plymouth sucking on their ears, and drooling down their necks at night... sleeping on their faces, etc. They were wonderful and tolerant and patient.

On Monday, 8 days after I took Plymouth to Tiffany's house, she texted me at work. She apologized profusely, after having kept me updated nearly every day on Plymouth's progress (or lack thereof), and said that she was going to have to bring him back. I asked if I could come get him after work, and she said no, she already had him loaded up in the car and was on the way.

She tried so hard... she was so wonderful... but he's just such a butt. And she had no choice.

So that's that. It feels both wonderful and strange to have him back, knowing that I love him so dearly, but that he makes my life partner so miserable. I don't know how to make him more tolerable. The point is, he's back. My little boy is back home with me.

Day 4

This was supposed to get easier. It just isn’t.

Day 3

Getting easier still. I can leave Mya out of her cage now, because there’s no one to jump on her. The house doesn’t smell as much, because Mya mostly potties outside. The kitchen counter is messier than before, because I have no reason to clean up after myself. And when Violet pops the back door open, I don’t have to freak out because now everyone in the house is allowed outside.

I spoke with Tiffany this evening. She says that Annabelle loves Plymy, and is trying to rub all over him like she did with Tiffany’s Mr. Kitty. Plymy still isn’t warming up to her, but has been out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and living room, but every time the dogs see him, they perk up in their crates and wag their tails and it scares him and he runs back. He and Tiffany’s little black cat Button don’t seem to have much of a relationship yet.

So there we are. I know what’s best for Plymy, which is probably living with Tiffany. I think he’ll be happier there, and I think that in the end, not having Curtis’ frustration and dislike pointed at him every day will probably help him be a better and happier cat. But right now, every day of his being scared and growing used to the new place is a day that I feel all of the fear and pain right along with him. I miss his silky fur, and petting down his head and neck and back when he was laying on my chest. It will be a long time until I feel that again, as I have decided not to visit him for a while, to avoid his getting confused. Oh, I miss that little boy of mine. Mom really was right. It’s the pains in the ass that worm their way into your heart. And that’s what it feels like… like I’m a dog with heartworms, and the heartworms are being pulled out by the ends, and taking chunks of my heart with them.

Day 2

This is actually a little bit easier than I thought. Most of the day I haven’t thought about him, but then I go downstairs, and the couch, the top of the snake tank, and the top of the refrigerator are all empty. No orange cat there.

He was the softest cat I ever petted.

Tiffany says he stayed under the bed. He tried to come out a time or two, but the dogs scared him. He came out to eat and to knock a photo frame off of the dresser, but other than that, he’s stayed under the bed. She says Annabelle is trying to make friends with him, but he’s not having it. But he did get up in the middle of the night and use the litter box like a good boy, even though she hadn’t shown him where it was.

I ache for him. I miss him so. Everything but the floor of the house seems so empty without him. All of the counters and the back of the couch, and … well, just everywhere. There are a hundred ways in which life is easier without him. The bedroom door can be open at night now because he won’t come in and walk all over Curtis. I left a bit of food on the kitchen counter today, and realized that I didn’t have to dispose of it immediately because there’s no one around to steal it. I left a cup of water on the coffee table and realized that when I got up and left the living room, there was no reason to take it with me. There was no one around to put his big clubby paw in it and to knock it over and watch the water spill.

Oh, I miss him. I’m walking a very fine line between wanting what’s best for him and being completely and utterly selfish. I want him back. I want him to sit on my lap right now. But in reality, he wouldn’t be on my lap if he were here. He might possibly be around my neck on my pillow, but he never was a lap cat. And the more I wanted him there, the less likely that he’d be there. What a little prick he was. 80% of the time he was an absolute ass. But the other 20% of the time he was my sweet little boy, and all he wanted was my love. I cherished those moments.

I want to go visit him, but it doesn’t seem like that would be fair to him. I need to give him time to adjust. It’s the right thing to do, I know. But all of this “right” and “selflessness” feels like crap.

Plymy

I just did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I’ve never cried so much at one time.

I just took my beloved Plymouth to my friend Tiffany’s house, presumably for good.

Curtis and I had a long discussion about Plymouth, who was supposed to be adopted out from the very beginning when he was 3 weeks old. Then I put my foot down and said “no, we’re keeping him” because I was so attached to him. Curtis never wanted a cat.  In fact, Curtis always did NOT want a cat. So, after two and a half years, I am attempting to keep my agreement. Plymouth has gone to live with a new owner.

I feel like the worst failure in the world. First of all, I was raised that when one takes responsibility for an animal, one takes on that responsibility for the life of the animal. Animal comes in, animal doesn’t go out until it’s time for it to pass on to the next life. Second, I work in the animal industry. Everyone knows this anyway, but those of us in the animal industry especially know that there are way too many animals out there without a good home. To take an animal with a great home and re-home him is just … well, it’s just shameful. Third, and finally, I work in animal rescue. I feel like it’s one of the reasons that I’m on this planet. How could I get rid of one that I raised from infancy, fed him a bottle, and lived with for 2 years? And I got rid of him why? He wasn’t peeing inappropriately; he wasn’t sick, and he didn’t cost a bunch of money to keep around. I got rid of him why? I got rid of him because I agreed to a long time ago, and because he makes Curtis miserable. He drools, he demands attention…. He breaks stuff. He spills glasses of liquid just to watch the liquid flow, he gets into the trash. He’s just generally a pain in the ass. He jumps on my head while I’m trying to make his breakfast and dinner… it’s totally cute, but hurts my neck. He jumps on my head when I’m cooking people-food, and he drools so much that it drips into my dinner. Cute, yes…but totally gross.

Still, I will miss a thousand things about him. I will miss the way he jumped on my stupid head. I will miss the way that he was always waiting for me outside my bedroom door in the morning. I’ll miss the way he always liked to sit on the glass on the lid of Mary Jane (my boa)’s tank and drive her crazy. I’ll miss how he wrapped himself around my head when I slept, and how he’d try to nurse on my earlobe. I’ll miss how he liked to sit on top of the refrigerator. I’ll miss how I could never hold him because he’d bite my face, but he’d lay on me and cuddle as long as it was his idea. I’ll miss how I could never keep him out of anything in my house, and how I had to put magnets on all of my cupboard doors that contained food so that he didn’t get into them and tear through plastic bags to eat it all.

I think that Tiffany’s house might be better for him anyway, because s he has two young, playful female cats, and Plymouth could really use someone to play with. Annabelle has a heart condition and won’t be a good playmate, but Button is very spunky, and they may be wonderful playmates. His feline housemate here was an old lady cat with a bad back and a grumpy intolerance for young, playful boys.

I wonder how many times I’ll cry tomorrow. Tiffany has the day off, which is why I took Plymy over tonight. They will have tomorrow to spend together at home. I’m off work on Tuesday, which means that I won’t be able to talk to Tiffany about things on Tuesday, either. That ought to give me a couple of days to calm down over the whole thing and think rationally. I want Plymouth to come back here immediately. But maybe he IS better at someone else’s house.

I have so much to think about. For now, I’m going to try to get some shut-eye, and try not to think of my little boy, the only little boy I ever had; the only little one that I bottle-raised from infancy… the only animal I ever had that couldn’t fend for itself when I got it. My Mom always told me that when she was teaching, the most difficult students were the ones that you grew the most attached to. And that seems to be translating to the cat world. He’s the most difficult animal I’ve ever had. And this is absolutely, unequivocally, ripping my heart out through a sieve.