That's us - the one who wants another dog, the one who HATES cats, and the dog who tries to eat cats. So what do we do?
Save a kitten, of course.
Cuz that's how we roll.
Don't worry, when I'm done it will all make sense. Today Yesterday (I feel that mentioning I'm still awake and working on this haggard paper only warrants a parenthetical note) was a day when I clearly needed to be pushed off my pedestal. A day when I had done nothing but feel sorry for myself and my unfortunate luck, culminating in a precarious BALANCING act on the fringe of a breakdown. A day when the drive home was consumed by a lame attempt at composure so The Man would be spared the conversations he has deemed: The Talking Elise off the Ledge Chronicles was the perfect day to walk in the door to find this
and suddenly my frivolous woes seemed, well, frivolous. I'm 87.3% sure that if I hadn't been sleep deprived and worn out a more intelligent, functional thought would have popped into my head, but instead I immediately thought:
OMG!
What if my head is
permanently cemented
into the hideous cavity it's currently stuck in?!
Yep. It wasn't a proud moment, but it worked. Even at my worst I can recognize a sobering flash. I had not one thing to complain about within the realm of my life, and especially not as I watched a tiny kitten sleep, content and secure - an impossible feat just sixteen weeks ago.
Because she's now almost 5(five!) whole pounds, we easily forget the state she was in just weeks ago when The Man found her on the front steps of his warehouse. I'm sure she instinctively knew death was a heartbeat away. She was 1.4 pounds of skin and bones, hypothermic and unable to stand on her own - there's no way she would have made it through the night. The vet wanted to put her down. I refused. 16 weeks, a half dozen lost pens, and a lost battle to pet hair later and she's become a tiny psycho who will morph from sweet cuddle bug to evil ball of fur and claws in the blink of an eye.
And her name is Luna
