I took Daisy and Thomas with me to the apartment in W.L. near the state hospital, when I got out.
I couldn’t pick which kitten to take.
We had visitors, cousins from Canada.
There was a scene.
I chose Thomas.
My sister objected as I made my way to disentangle him from the cat and human families coexisting there.
On the terrace in back of the house behind the glassed-in porch my mother had had built, I told her to stick a broom up her ass. I was thinking of the very old Linda Blair movie about a women’s prison.
She said “It wouldn’t fit,” and called me “clinically weird,” which I resented.
To the visiting cousins I explained that my family was having separation anxiety. Obviously, they deemed me completely insane, and I guess I was because I didn’t even realize it at the time.
So the family was split up. Thomas and Daisy like the apartment which I had taken with my former state hospital boyfriend. But Thomas spent most of his time howling inside the couch hide-a-bed or in the closet, still, it was clear, when I had to take them back to my mother’s, that Daisy preferred the farm, she took off for the higher ground there immediately, and Thomas held himself in princely fashion, snubbing Dorian. It was shortly afterward that Dorian, grubby and bedraggled in comparison, hit the road. I felt I had made some kind of terrible mistake but I still can’t figure it differently except that my mother should have taken Daisy to an animal shelter when I returned from Boston, because there was no room in my life for a cat any more and my mother had no business keeping her for me without my consent, it was one of so many times she should have stepped in but the Indulgence prevailed, with tragic consequences.
I can’t figure out how this relates to my own abortions but I’m pretty sure it does