Two and a half years ago, when I was face down on the floor of the euthanasia room, it wasn’t because my kitten was dead. In fact, it was the opposite. My kitten, the only one left unclaimed from its litter, moved too fast, always opposite me in the room, always facing me from at least five feet away. I tried to imagine what was going through this trailer-park kitten’s head.
If I take my eyes off this lumpy beast, it will eat me, he might have thought. It must have to eat many kittens like me to have grown to its current size. And what the hell is wrong with that ratty fur on its head?
He was not going to give in to me, not one iota.
Meanwhile, I wondered how I was supposed to fucking bond with this cat if I couldn’t even get near him at eye level. In the trailer-park litter, there was a pretty kitten, a playful kitten, a snuggly kitten, and a kitten who was ever so slightly more friendly than the one I faced off with in the euthanasia room. How did I end up in this situation, obligated to bring home a kitten who couldn’t stand the sight of me? How the hell could I make this work, knowing that my husband knew I had manipulated my son into begging for a kitten?
That’s the question I’ve been trying to answer ever since.
Thank you for listening, jules