Responsibility Part 1

“Summer don’t know me
He just let me love in my sea
‘Cause I do know, love
From you that, just dying”

-Gorillaz (El Manana)

Growing up, I loved the rain.  Southern California rarely gets any, so it was a novelty when the clouds grew gray and the liquid pellets started barraging the windows.  Moving to the northwest was even better.  Nine months out of the year you could expect rain a few times a month.  There was nothing better than playing soccer in 60 degree weather for a couple of hours and then coming home damp and just a little cold.  Jump in the shower to warm up a bit and then throw on some comfortable clothes to watch TV, read a book, or play videogames.  Anything, as long as it included sliding under crisply cool sheets.  Fucking heaven.

My love of the rain has evolved into a mild distaste since the move to an urban rainforest.  I still like listening to the rain and pressing the air conditioner’s setting down to an unreasonably low level.  If you avoid the bed for long enough, the sheets will get coolly crisp.  The problem is away from home.  The clouds will be gray and rain will sprinkle pleasantly (or horrifically depending on the time of day), but the atmosphere is a sauna fully-clothed: fucking miserable.

So The Wife and I decided to take advantage of one of the few dry days during this current rainy season to go to the beach.  As we were getting in the car, I heard a faint “meow.”  That sounds like our cat, but she’s inside, most likely on the counter where I’ve yelled at her to “stop being such an asshole and get down” three times a day since she grew tall enough to climb shelves like a monkey.  I looked towards the sounds and saw a tiny kitten that I doubt weighed more than two pounds.  I’ll just walk towards it and it’ll run away like all the other outdoor cats around here, I thought.  Wrong.  This tiny, dirty creature walked right towards me.

By this time, The Wife had gotten out of the car to see what I was doing.  “Oh,” she said looking at the cat that should’ve been white, but was more of a grayish color because of all of the dirt and soot.

“Can you go grab him some food and I’ll see if he’ll follow me,” I asked.

I turned back to the helpless little animal and said, “C’mere kitty” and he followed.

Later, as he crunched through the cat food, The Wife turned her gaze from him to me with big pleading eyes.  I knew exactly what she was asking.  Sentiment isn’t something I have much tolerance for, but at that moment I couldn’t say, “No, we’re not keeping some random feral cat, fuck him,” but the logical side knew there was no way we could keep him either.  We already have two.  ‘Fox in the henhouse’ came to mind when considering the consequence of introducing an animal with no shots that was dirty and possibly had multiple parasites.  All I could think to say is, “We could probably keep him as an outdoor cat, but maybe taking him to a shelter is better.”

The Wife was keener on the shelter idea and it was her turn to drive, which meant I was holding “Bino” as we called him (since he’s white).  That whole day would’ve been much easier if he’d run away when I approached.  Or didn’t follow me when I called to him.  Or didn’t sleep comfortably in the little towel we wrapped him in for our trip.  He’d meow, look me in the eyes, and then stretch out to sleep; dammit you rule.

The first shelter we went to said they couldn’t take him because they were full.  We’ve been there numerous times looking for The Wife’s ‘birthday cat,’ this place is 85% full of fat, lazy, ugly cats that just stare from their stupid perches 23 ½ hours a day.  What do you mean you have no room?  I’ll fucking euthanize half your population right now.  Get me a hammer.  Who the fuck’s going to adopt a 110-pound cat?  Look at this little motherfucker we’re bringing in; who wouldn’t want to adopt this asskicker?

They directed us to a second place, which was not close to anywhere we wanted to be, but looking at the little guy, we agreed, there’s no way we can’t get Bino some help. The second shelter was simple: fill out a form, wait your turn, and leave.  While I was waiting in line to turn in our paperwork, The Wife held Bino.  Even with the barking dogs and utter chaos around him, Bino fell asleep in her lap after quietly nursing on the blanket.  After half an hour or so, it was our turn and The Wife had to wake Bino up as she put him into a shitty, rusted cage that only had old newspaper as a covering.

Even now, the temptation to go back to that shelter and seek out Bino’s strong and I’d spent a total of like two hours around the fucker and would really prefer he was hanging out with us…but such is life.  I’d like to think that by now he’s cleaned up and received his shots.  That soon a loving family will come by, see this awesome, friendly little dude, and adopt him on the spot.  But who really knows?  Through no fault of their own, places like these shelters are fucked up.  The need to service such large quantities of animals is bound to cripple any quality of treatment.

That experience helped me realize what the band Brand New meant by “The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me” because when I see parents come into court bitching about their own flesh and blood, an actual human being that’s far more developed than any other creature on this planet, a flash of red clouds my vision for a bit.  I don’t say anything because it’s being recorded, but the urge is there.  This is your kid.  The one you’re supposed to raise and nurture into a respectable human being.  Now that he or she can’t be threatened with violence or yelling and TV’s no longer a sufficient distraction for them, you want to dump them on the government?  Fuck you, take some responsibility for this young person You created.

To be continued…