Caterwauling

It’s been nine months since I fed my street kitties.

I think of them every day.

I don’t leave the house in case I run into them. Says the girl who used to take regular walks and had a somewhat normal weight because of it.

They don’t come out anymore. Not often. They know they are unloved.

They know someone who loved them very much, doesn’t anymore. And I can only imagine how that scarred them.

I do see them from time to time. Usually the one I called Kadie who was named Whiskers. Saw Meatball once or twice. Maybe saw Fancy once.

Haven’t seen Poppins or Amelia or Smalls or anyone, really. They know this place is evil. The are good at hiding.

But I know they live here. That they deserve food and love and a warm place to sleep.

It’s little comfort, but it dawned on me the other day that the person who loves and cares for them most — Rita — was unable to get the HOA to leave us alone. To set up a safe zone. To chastise these asshole residents for abusing us and the cats.

Not blaming Rita. Not her fault we live among fuckface tRumpers.

But I did get sick of not being allowed to use bowls. To throw food on the ground. To be forced to feed cats by the pet walk where all the dogs piss and shit themselves. Where those same dogs go fucking apeshit because nobody fucking trains them.

I mean, it’s not the cats’ fault. But I try to assuage the overwhelming guilt with knowing I no longer have to go out at 5 a.m. or midnight. That I would happily buy those heated cat houses but no one would let me. That I’d leave water bowls without having residents threaten to kidnap the cats behind my back.

I still hope Carl, Latin Bitch Boy and Butterface on a Bike die. Violently, preferably. And slowly, even better.

But if the cats can move on or at least enjoy their nothing in peace, maybe that’s better than struggling to get some slop thrown at them on the cold and stinky concrete.

If I were in charge, man, things could be so different. But I’m not. And I have to accept that things could only change if I actually cared enough to be. And clearly, I don’t.

I always say I am the champion of waiting.

You can put a gift under my tree or mail me a birthday box a month in advance. I am that person who can leave it alone till the right moment.

That way I have time to build anticipation and the joyful reaction the giver no doubt desires.

It’s low-stakes though. I have the item(s) in hand. I can afford to wait.

I come from a family of shoppers.

Not shallow shopaholics, as someone shouted from the troll holes she dug on the interwebs.

Rather, people who are thoughtful gift-givers. My grandmother, despite us barely having a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, was always thinking of everyone else.

Especially me. Giving me pretty things brought her joy.

But hearing from distant cousins now with wonderful stories of Aunt Rose shows that she was beloved across the family. And not even for gifts, but for her time and wit and her phenomenal back-scratches.

Mom and I shopped together all the time. At our peak, we hit seven Ross Dress for Less stores in a day. We didn’t buy a ton — usually we saw something in a small at one store and and XL at another store and so we’d set off to find the perfectly fitting large.

And we’d try new restaurants and be able to sleep well after our adventures.

We did that in different FL beach towns too. Of course we’d see the beach and the attractions. And I’d always buy a pink souvenir tank top somewhere that Cindy would make fun of.

But those are souvenirs of my time with my mom. So before you flap your yapper, know that I have an array of sentimental items that make me smile.

I usually don’t think of mean people. But I saw a pic of a happy person they know. And he looked stressed. No wonder, if Meanie Cottontrini snapped the photo.

Anyway, my theme this year is delayed gratification. It’s Jan. 17 and I’m already twitchy.

But that’s the point. I can do hard things. I have done hard things. I can do hard things again.

Kanye reminds me of someone.

And Taylor reminds me of me.

Speaking of Jan. 17, it’s the birthday of two people I know on the other side of the veil.

I have a mug that Sia brought me back from Germany on my altar.

And I have a photo of Janna and me leaning up against it.

Posed them w the blanket that Cocoa and Momma both died in.

“Me and my ghosts, we had a hell of a time.”

I dreamed about Janna two nights ago, and mom last night. Haven’t dreamed of Sia in a minute but I think of her often.

I have a new travel partner now. Two of them. I miss my spicy Capricorns (and Virgo, Momma!), but my Pisces and Cancer girlies are fun, too.

Taylor’s lyric, “There wouldn’t be this if there hadn’t been you,” comes to mind.

Sending love to my birthday girls in the great beyond. And to the ones who showed up — really showed up — for me at my lowest and alone-est.

Gratification in the friend department was a long time coming. (“It’s been a long time coming. BIG REPUTATION. And they said Speak Now-ow!”)

I’m just grateful it finally came.

Here’s to me getting the good luck that was denied to my departed family and friends. I am ready to receive it when it comes.