The Rich Tapestry
At least one acquaintance has pointed out that in this blog I tend to portray myself as a kind and thoughtful person. To me this seems perfectly natural because, Acquaintance, it's my damn blog, after all. To show yourself in a good light is only natural. But the fact is that I'm actually a battlefield on which conflicting impulses contend, and I bite back sudden rages about three dozen times a day.
Like yesterday. I'm hanging out with Panther at the hospital, and at the next cage these people are visiting their Jack Russell terrier. Personally I'm sort of a cat person, if you haven't noticed. To my mind, owning a dog is OK, if you think that's what you want to do, and owning a Jack Russell is sort of OK too, in the way that engaging in one of the more out-there sexual fetishes is OK between consenting adults but I don't want to be in the room with you or within earshot either and I gladly forgo the company of Jack Russells too. They run around too much and they're too yappy. This dog's family left and it started whining and then it started yapping. I tried soothing it. It refused to be soothed. I sat holding Panther, whose nerves were not helped by the racket, and considered my options.
My first impulse was to walk over to the dog's cage, right next to Panther's, bend down, and bellow shut up! shut up! shut up! at it but that was just an impulse. I decided it probably wouldn't help. I looked around at the shelves and drawers. There must be some tape around here, I thought; I could tape the dog's mouth shut. But that would be a little obvious. People are always walking in and out, and there I'd be, with the dog's mouth taped shut. It wouldn't look too good. A bottle of barbiturate and syringe, I thought, must also be handy. It wouldn't take long. But I didn't know the right dose—too much would be lethal, and too little would be ineffective. I might, through ignorance, use too little. So I gave that idea up too.
I just sat back, soothed Panther as much as I could, and indulged a favorite fantasy. Jack Russells have springy, well-defined muscles, and I always imagined them skinned, like a lamb at some Mongolian barbecue. They're about the size of a large game bird, a grouse, say, and if you butterflied them and marinated them overnight they'd probably be delicious grilled, with grilled vegetables, wild rice with mushrooms, and a nice pinot noir or zinfandel. No barking, just the clink of glasses and forks and knives, the hum of happy diners. Aaaahhh!! As I say, not all my impulses are kindly, but I do like to make guests happy with a good dinner, that I do.
By the way, Panther was withdrawn again when I got there, and I had to call him several times to make him realize it was me, but he jumped up and came over. The vet student resident who brought me upstairs stood and watched. "He really likes you," he said, as Panther rubbed his face against my hands, purring, spinning around to rub again and again.
"Either that," I said, "or he does a pretty good imitation of it." Another vet student walked in, stopped, and gaped. "Look at Panther with his dad!" she said. "He's reactive!" Panther just kept purring. I felt sorry for him, when I'm not there, and I felt a little sorry for these kids too. Here they've studied how to be vets for the last four years, and they can't get Panther to be reactive. Listen gang, it's just that he's scared, and unlike most pet cats, who've been treated kindly since they were kittens, he knows all too well from his early years about the cruel people. It's nothing personal, but he doesn't trust people until they've got a track record with him. These kids have studied for four years to be vets, see, but I've studied how to be his friend for double that, so I've rather got the advantage of them there.
By the way, they're doing a bunch of tests today, but they think they may already be closing in on the solution to what ails him. And maybe, let's hope, he can come home soon and be reactive all the time, instead of just for one hour out of an otherwise bleak day. I'd feel pretty reactive myself, if that could happen.
Like yesterday. I'm hanging out with Panther at the hospital, and at the next cage these people are visiting their Jack Russell terrier. Personally I'm sort of a cat person, if you haven't noticed. To my mind, owning a dog is OK, if you think that's what you want to do, and owning a Jack Russell is sort of OK too, in the way that engaging in one of the more out-there sexual fetishes is OK between consenting adults but I don't want to be in the room with you or within earshot either and I gladly forgo the company of Jack Russells too. They run around too much and they're too yappy. This dog's family left and it started whining and then it started yapping. I tried soothing it. It refused to be soothed. I sat holding Panther, whose nerves were not helped by the racket, and considered my options.
My first impulse was to walk over to the dog's cage, right next to Panther's, bend down, and bellow shut up! shut up! shut up! at it but that was just an impulse. I decided it probably wouldn't help. I looked around at the shelves and drawers. There must be some tape around here, I thought; I could tape the dog's mouth shut. But that would be a little obvious. People are always walking in and out, and there I'd be, with the dog's mouth taped shut. It wouldn't look too good. A bottle of barbiturate and syringe, I thought, must also be handy. It wouldn't take long. But I didn't know the right dose—too much would be lethal, and too little would be ineffective. I might, through ignorance, use too little. So I gave that idea up too.
I just sat back, soothed Panther as much as I could, and indulged a favorite fantasy. Jack Russells have springy, well-defined muscles, and I always imagined them skinned, like a lamb at some Mongolian barbecue. They're about the size of a large game bird, a grouse, say, and if you butterflied them and marinated them overnight they'd probably be delicious grilled, with grilled vegetables, wild rice with mushrooms, and a nice pinot noir or zinfandel. No barking, just the clink of glasses and forks and knives, the hum of happy diners. Aaaahhh!! As I say, not all my impulses are kindly, but I do like to make guests happy with a good dinner, that I do.
By the way, Panther was withdrawn again when I got there, and I had to call him several times to make him realize it was me, but he jumped up and came over. The vet student resident who brought me upstairs stood and watched. "He really likes you," he said, as Panther rubbed his face against my hands, purring, spinning around to rub again and again.
"Either that," I said, "or he does a pretty good imitation of it." Another vet student walked in, stopped, and gaped. "Look at Panther with his dad!" she said. "He's reactive!" Panther just kept purring. I felt sorry for him, when I'm not there, and I felt a little sorry for these kids too. Here they've studied how to be vets for the last four years, and they can't get Panther to be reactive. Listen gang, it's just that he's scared, and unlike most pet cats, who've been treated kindly since they were kittens, he knows all too well from his early years about the cruel people. It's nothing personal, but he doesn't trust people until they've got a track record with him. These kids have studied for four years to be vets, see, but I've studied how to be his friend for double that, so I've rather got the advantage of them there.
By the way, they're doing a bunch of tests today, but they think they may already be closing in on the solution to what ails him. And maybe, let's hope, he can come home soon and be reactive all the time, instead of just for one hour out of an otherwise bleak day. I'd feel pretty reactive myself, if that could happen.
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