The pharmacy has screwed up my two last Wellbutrin refills, so I’ve only been getting two-thirds of my regular dose for the past six weeks.
Or else my psychiatrist called in the wrong dose when he renewed my prescription. Either way, I think I’ve figured out why I’ve been so fucking run down lately.
I’ve been blaming it on the heat and humidity, but I’ve been uncomfortable with my self-diagnosis because it was only unbearably hot for a couple of days and nights — which, for me, starts at 26C, but gets really bad over 30C.
Just getting off the couch has been difficult, but when I’m walking I kind of feel as though I’m collapsing in on myself. Like, my shoulders are folding towards my chest so maybe I should just lay down for a little while.
I get very quiet at low doses, deliberate would be a good word. I also stop writing. Which would explain why this month has been my lowest word count in three years, both on the blogs and in the notebook.
And when I’m not writing in my notebook, or on the blogs, I end up writing in my head…
So I just realized I haven’t written anything about the kittens living on my balcony for the past two months. My girlfriend kind of adopted a stray, which very quickly got knocked up by my girlfriends tomcat. We figured that out when we came home and found four kittens in her shed.
My girlfriend wanted to take them to the SPCA pretty much right away, but I wanted to make sure they had at least a shot at healthy life. So I kind of adopted them.
I haven’t had a pet since I left home. I move around too much, and most of the rooming houses I’ve lived in had “no pet” policies. So I have no idea what “cat behaviour” is supposed to be, what’s unusual or what’s expected — my parents have cats, but they mostly just breathe.
So watching the family unit operate has been fascinating. Someone told me it’s unusual for the daddy-cat to hang around, but this one takes an active part in parenting. He sleeps with the kittens, he hangs around when their mother is feeding them… he’s a wide-faced, muscular orange cat with a beat-up face and orange eyes.
I don’t like anthropomorphizing animals, but he looks patient when the kittens — all female — are harassing him.
Their mother is a small, quiet, almost entirely grey tabby. She brings at least one mouse or mole to her kittens everyday. So now I have a little collection of bones on the ground below my balcony. I’ve never seen a cat nurse kittens while standing up, but I’ll check on them in the morning before I go to bed, and there she’ll be, standing up with four kittens attached to her belly.
She looks patient as well.
It’s crazy how attached I am to them all. I’ve set up a space for them by attaching chicken-wire to the balcony posts, so they can climb over my futon and chairs. Their main playthings are the empty beer bottles I’ve been storing out there. So when they’re playing it sounds like a tavern where everyone is toasting something.
I really like just standing in there while they play fight with each other.
We always knew we couldn’t keep them, of course, and we’re finally taking them to the SPCA at noon today (Thursday). But I tried to get them homes on my own. I made posters with a photo of them, and plastered it all over town. But around here cats, especially kittens, are like sand in Daytona. Every farm has a colony of cats in the barns. One person told me they just had four cats drop a litter each, so they have sixteen new kittens to deal with.
I asked if she wanted to make it an even twenty.
I think I’m adopting one of the kittens. Of the four, two are blond and two are black and white tabbies. But one of the tabbies has orange streaks, and instead of white her fur is a light orange. With the grey she almost has a purple tinge to her.
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been calling her “Tab Two”. Someone emailed about the kittens, and wanted to see photos. So when I archived them I gave the cats names… Blondie, after Clint Eastwood’s character in “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly”; Tuco, “The Ugly” part of the same movie… because she has an eye infection; Lilly, which was named by my girlfriend’s son, and; Tab Two, because she was the second tabby to be archived.
I would have gone with “Angel Eyes” — “The Bad” dude — but it seemed too… sentimental.
I’m still not really sure. I can barely — barely — take care of myself. But mostly, I think I just don’t want to fuck it up. And the idea of having something in my life with emotions, something requiring my attention… having something like that in your life, it’s a drain. It’s a black hole for your emotions. You can almost see the light flowing from one to the other.
It’s something I would have to automatically care about, twenty-four hours a day… and I can’t even do that for myself.
All of which goes to show how ready I am to have a child in my life.
I’ll probably keep the cat.