My husband do be a Canadian. I finally understand that he loves me, and always will, just as I love him, and always will. I understand that he permitted the divorce, which I didn’t understand myself, in order to protect me, and that he is chagrined by my persistent harassment of him via email, cell phone, and text.
How I come to this via a story about Marmalade, an orange striped cat, is as baffling as it is to explain that a cat DO have nine lives.
For instance I put them together by length and color of fur; I saw my cat Daisy, after her death, in a long-haired grey tortoiseshell cat very like her, queenly, who came to our street via the neighbors who held themselves over us but fell through his having an affair that got around through all the neighborhood children. That’s how I heard of it.
There was a house the second house down that had about five cats lounging in the driveway and road; and next door, a cat in whom I saw my cat Samantha–just as skinny and quizzical, short-haired tortoiseshell, grey. And two pit bulls, in the back yard, behind a tall wooden fence.
I always forget the dog in a bucket at the end of our driveway, by our mailbox. The lady down the street hit him, and the next door neighbors, who weren’t too friendly, put him at the end of our driveway. The man who lived next door to the lady who hit him came down to the middle of the street wailing, outside our house; finally I opened the door, seeking to comfort him; but I think he thought I did it. I never knew, but I guessed sometimes I got blamed for a lot of things in the neighborhood. Then there was the family around the corner and down a few blocks on the main road, who my whole family became thick and fast with. They had two dogs and a female cat. My son and her son watched the dogs mate, and there were some peculiar puppies.
At the end of it all I cried out that the woman was having an affair with my husband. I was incensed with this and obsessed. It was the reason for everything terrible that came down on all of us. She feared my attraction to her husband who was cuddly and cute, and an Englishman, one of the few in America whom I had had the chance to become friends with. And schemed to take the interest of my husband, and did, but later it turned out there was an altogether different other girlfriend. This comes together in my mind because of the bad man I saw jumping out of an Easter bunny costume–my husband, I thought–in one of my dreams during the bad end, and the bad cat who got my little Daisy pregnant at only a year old when she was lost and lonely.
The night my mother brought me home from the visit to the hospital, before I went to stay there, she, my mother, threw Daisy, who was very pregnant, aside into the laundry room because she came to us begging for attention and my mother thought it unimportant next to ME (argh). I started crying. My mother thought it was because I had been told by a nurse unqualified to diagnose me, that I was schizophrenic. long story. Actually it was because I was so scared for Daisy. I was sure the kittens were born prematurely, the next day, the night that I went to the hospital I think. And the night I had my son, who was almost born dead, I had a nightmare of my cats, of Daisy, which I can’t remember now; while I was carrying him I had had nightmares of kittens born to me.
As I said at the outset this tale is baffling, I am trying to make connections between the “disconnect” in my life, the various injuries to me and to the cats, and how it all fits together into a clear picture which I can’t see. I had to stop posting my last post in order to give my son a ride to his friend’s house half an hour away–it was a crazy ride, 80 m.p.h. on the highway when I never usually speed. Now I’m lost.
And it all amounts to how my story, the real story, is just too complicated to tell, and I hate complicatedness, it doesn’t make for good literature. And I wanted to be literary. So I am here trying to reduce it to complexity, and if I never post it here again you may know that I have caught the tail of the tale and worked it out in my mind.
I know that my real family is God’s family and that these cats HAVE been a liability, that my love of animals, has been a temptation in this world I never recognized before, whether of world, devil, or flesh I am not sure.
Do I forget to say that my husband be a Scot of one of the Clans of the Cat?
Well. That explains it I guess. Why it is Godly to be so preoccupied with cats on a Sunday when I should be in church worshiping or furthering my prior hard and fast intent to tease out all the strands and simplify, simplify, simplify. I’ve been getting there. Now I don’t know quite where I am going, so God, please show me how to put one foot in front of the other, I’ve been lost for three hours.