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Last night:
Show itself: Great
Hangings: Great
Attendance: Flaming Spectacle of Suck (for which I blame)
Planning: Fucktacular
Thank you those of you who came out, and those of you who supported me from elsewhere. You know who you are. It's appreciated. At least the art's out there, getting seen. I'll talk more about what's up with the future of Donna Inc.™, but for now, let me share the rest of the weekend thus far.
Some of you will understand; some of you will think this is stupid.
Mom has this really old Siamese cat named Spice, who she adopted from David a while ago. She started out as a highway kitty, moved into a house of dogs where she was terrorized, moved in with David for a few years, where she gradually learned to let us pet her (somewhat) without biting us, then moved in with Mom, where she turned into a sweet sweet kitty who'd hug your neck and drool while hiding her nose in your ear. We've never really known how old she is; we've estimated anywhere from 14 to 20 years-old. She got especially attached to me and Mom. Her eyesight's been gone for a year and she can barely hear. She hasn't been able to retract her claws for a couple of years now. Jumping's been impossible. For the last few weeks, she's been off her food, dropped to about 3 lbs., has had more and more trouble walking and hasn't been willing to socialize or had interest in cleaning herself. We've tried stinky food, coddling her like a baby, cleaning her for herself, being super-snuggly and attentive and we were moving towards the idea that she wasn't going to get any better.
So instead of going to Iowa this morning from the lake house, where Mom spent the night, we decided to go back to Mom's house and check on Spice, because we both felt too guilty to leave without knowing if she was still alive or not, or lying in her own waste, or in pain. And when we got there she had more urine-soaked kitty litter matted between her paws and stuck to her face and couldn't get up and when she let me pick her up and hold her and she was just dry sticks. She purred.
My Mom and I were sobbing when we took Spice to the vet to be put down, my first pet euthanasia. Mom waited in the lobby and the vet and tech were SO KIND and I cradled her head in my hand and rubbed her forehead with my thumb while the vet shaved her stick-like leg looking for a vein and he put a tourniquet on and pierced her tiny vein and we all laid hands on her and rubbed her when she gurgled and let out a little mewl and her eyes turned black and she went away. And I'm so fucking sad. I've driven her to the lake house to be in my big freezer until the spring, when I can bury her beneath the tomato bushes and we'll put a little marker that has a painting of her face and says, "Spice. She was a good kitty." And I'll make one for Scooter that has a little painting of his clown face and that says, "Scooter. a/k/a Chirper Cat."
For those of you counting, that's three cats lost for me this year. I'm tempted to open the front door and just tell Max and Spoogie to run for their lives.
I'm not abundantly fond of this weekend. I'm going to make tiny things in Sculpey clay today. I feel an overpowering urge to be in control of a miniature world, where nothing dies.
Show itself: Great
Hangings: Great
Attendance: Flaming Spectacle of Suck (for which I blame)
Planning: Fucktacular
Thank you those of you who came out, and those of you who supported me from elsewhere. You know who you are. It's appreciated. At least the art's out there, getting seen. I'll talk more about what's up with the future of Donna Inc.™, but for now, let me share the rest of the weekend thus far.
Some of you will understand; some of you will think this is stupid.
Mom has this really old Siamese cat named Spice, who she adopted from David a while ago. She started out as a highway kitty, moved into a house of dogs where she was terrorized, moved in with David for a few years, where she gradually learned to let us pet her (somewhat) without biting us, then moved in with Mom, where she turned into a sweet sweet kitty who'd hug your neck and drool while hiding her nose in your ear. We've never really known how old she is; we've estimated anywhere from 14 to 20 years-old. She got especially attached to me and Mom. Her eyesight's been gone for a year and she can barely hear. She hasn't been able to retract her claws for a couple of years now. Jumping's been impossible. For the last few weeks, she's been off her food, dropped to about 3 lbs., has had more and more trouble walking and hasn't been willing to socialize or had interest in cleaning herself. We've tried stinky food, coddling her like a baby, cleaning her for herself, being super-snuggly and attentive and we were moving towards the idea that she wasn't going to get any better.
So instead of going to Iowa this morning from the lake house, where Mom spent the night, we decided to go back to Mom's house and check on Spice, because we both felt too guilty to leave without knowing if she was still alive or not, or lying in her own waste, or in pain. And when we got there she had more urine-soaked kitty litter matted between her paws and stuck to her face and couldn't get up and when she let me pick her up and hold her and she was just dry sticks. She purred.
My Mom and I were sobbing when we took Spice to the vet to be put down, my first pet euthanasia. Mom waited in the lobby and the vet and tech were SO KIND and I cradled her head in my hand and rubbed her forehead with my thumb while the vet shaved her stick-like leg looking for a vein and he put a tourniquet on and pierced her tiny vein and we all laid hands on her and rubbed her when she gurgled and let out a little mewl and her eyes turned black and she went away. And I'm so fucking sad. I've driven her to the lake house to be in my big freezer until the spring, when I can bury her beneath the tomato bushes and we'll put a little marker that has a painting of her face and says, "Spice. She was a good kitty." And I'll make one for Scooter that has a little painting of his clown face and that says, "Scooter. a/k/a Chirper Cat."
For those of you counting, that's three cats lost for me this year. I'm tempted to open the front door and just tell Max and Spoogie to run for their lives.
I'm not abundantly fond of this weekend. I'm going to make tiny things in Sculpey clay today. I feel an overpowering urge to be in control of a miniature world, where nothing dies.
