Why Life Happens to Us
And how a Stage 5 Megachonker reveals the answer.
Every event in life, large or small, is meant to show us something about ourselves.
A massive grey cat yowls just outside the front door. She is partly blind, wholly deaf, and has zero awareness of how loud she is. She will not be denied. She is inevitable.
Her name is Ivy, and in cat cultural parlance, she is quite the Chonker. Easily a Stage Five MEGACHONKER, dangerously close to an OH LAWD (S)HE COMIN.
Her extraordinary size is matched only by the extraordinary volume at which a deaf cat can meow.
Actual sound above for the not yet hearing impaired
When Ivy is inside the house, she yowls for food. When she is outside the house, she yowls for access back into the house.
It isn’t personal, except for the fact that right now, I am trying to write my very first post on the internet, and I am the only one here with the power to facilitate those desires.
It isn’t her fault. None of this is her fault.
But that doesn’t stop me from hating her.
My wife has a heart damn near the size of Ivy. Over a year ago she adopted this pitiful feline monstrosity from a family member who was downsizing into a smaller apartment space.
I was 100% vehement in my opposition.
From past experience I knew exactly what happened when we provided “temporary” safe harbor for any animal. The results to that point spoke for themselves: we already had three rescue cats, plus a giant 80 pound Great Pyrenees mix whose genetic responsibility it is to bark at anything that moves, plus multiple Nigerian dwarf goats and a small army of chickens. All victims of my wife’s massive heart.
My vehemence did not stop her. I said no, and she still said yes. My options from there became pretty limited: 1) request a trial separation, 2) take matters into my own hands and bring Ivy to an animal shelter, 3) deal with it, while throwing constant mini-fits to outlet my frustration. Option 3 brings us to where we are currently.
In truth, all Ivy seems to want is attention and affection. My daughter soon nicknamed her “Lovey” because the moment she is shown any attention she responds with so much panicked affection it’s heartrending, if not a little unsettling.
But she’s aging, and her wheezing breath reeks of decay, and her fur sheds little flecks of dandruff everywhere, and at the slightest whiff of attention she edges closer and closer, with the ultimate goal of licking human skin with her sandpaper tongue. The sandpaper tongue transfers the scent of her breath, and it cannot be washed off.
She, like my wife, is inevitable.
As expected, no one else ever stepped up to adopt or rehome Ivy, nor would I ever consider subjecting another human being to that, knowing what I know. Over time, the novelty of a “new” cat wore off, and even the kids mostly keep their distance now.
One thing my wife’s massive heart wasn’t counting on was Ivy’s patent disregard for her litterbox. Despite every effort to make her box private, clean and comfortable, she became more and more adept at missing it altogether. A trip to the vet assured us this was “nothing serious health-wise - just advancing dementia.”
Perfect.
When we came home one day to see Ivy had demolished my wife’s formal dining room carpet, her formerly free-range world was soon downsized to her own upscale 55+ apartment:
All things considered, it’s probably one of the best outcomes possible for her - to live out the rest of her days in peace and safety. A small, tidy living area with all the essentials, safe and warm, and a two way cat door to go out and see the world.
She never does.
Instead, she meows away at me now, every ear-assaulting yowl a personal dagger, a relentless reminder of my wife’s complete disregard and disrespect for my wishes. The feeling of resentment doesn’t readily translate into words, but if it did, it would say something like:
It’s HER fault
SHE did this to me
God I HATE this f-ing cat
Always blaming something external, rather than looking inwards toward the real source of the bitterness. Toward the feeling itself.
“My life and my experience is my responsibility,” I remind myself a bit tritely, gamely trying to honor the topic of this post.
It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the face, or meowed at incessantly by an obese cat they never asked for. Mike Tyson’s articulation hits hard.
I scoop Ivy up and over the gate barrier, her assembled limbs and lard overflowing my hands, and gently place her out on the front porch once more. At the very least, I’ll get a respite from her yowling, and she might get some much-needed exercise and sunshine in the great outdoors.
She caterwauls at the door for several minutes, and there is a brief blessed lull as she slowly picks her way down the walkway into the garage and back to the cat door entrance to her living arrangement. I hear the strain of Ivy’s labored breathing as she struggles to squeeze herself through, as well the strain of the cat door expanding to accommodate her.
Ivy announces her successful return with a triumphant greeting.
Then she commences her panicked yowling again.
This lovely game repeats. Once, twice, thrice, five times… I continue to escort her outside with less ceremony and more urgency, desperate for space and sanity to write, and Ivy returns within a shortening timeframe each trip, meowing louder with each homecoming. My rare, sacred creative window - no kids, no wife, no immediate obligations - is being treated exactly like Ivy treats her litterbox now.
She ignores it altogether, and just goes wherever she is.
“What are you showing me right now?” I ask of my life, somehow still hanging onto the spirit of the topic at hand, then close my eyes, shut up, and resolve to listen to whatever it might say. I’ve found that life always answers an honest question, and the more sincere the question, the more obvious the response.
My eyes open back up. They’re aimed at a bright red Christmas throw blanket with two stags stepping away from a central heart in between them. It’s absolutely no help; the only red I’m seeing is my inability to get anything done due to this ridiculous cat situation. I must not be sincere enough.
I work hard to channel this frustration, to stoke the fire of creativity but I CAN’T EVEN THINK BECAUSE THIS F-ING CAT WILL NOT SHUT UP
Imagine the above six seconds stretching out into sixty minutes.
Because it does.
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After an hour of writing a heaping trash pile of uninspired philosophical clichés, I can’t take it anymore. And I just let myself lose it.
Seething red hot anger pours through, all of it, all at once. In a flash I find myself looming over the edge of Ivy’s gate barrier, eyes blazing with the desire to pulverize this poor hapless creature into a quivering mess.
And I’m now screaming myself hoarse at a cat who cannot even hear me.
My towering size and threatening posture is enough for even a deaf cat with cataracts to take notice. All at once Ivy registers my aggressive intent and begins to tremble, cowering in the far corner on the cold tile.
The seething rage that has taken over me evaporates, and I am empty. Cold.
I’m here, but I can’t feel. Chest hollow. Jaw clenched. Wired shut.
She doesn’t understand, I know she doesn’t. She can’t. How easily I fall into a gross caricature of the rational, upstanding, spiritually oriented person I imagine myself to be... A grown “man,” taking out his impotent frustration on a completely hapless, defenseless creature.
I finally feel something.
It’s shame.
Shame doesn’t point anywhere but away from itself. So I don’t turn away. I keep looking at her, to feel as much as I can stand.
I ask again “Show me what I am meant to see here” and as Ivy’s trembling, cowering frame continues to dominate my vision, something finally stirs in me.
A heart splits wide open, and the world goes archetypal. No more thoughts, no more questions, only pure feeling. Senses and emotions blending together. Waves of movement pulsing in and out, up and through. Her pitiful image brings up ancient memories, primordial shards of childhood sprouting from the deep like weeds cracking concrete:
A little boy huddles in the corner of a crib, soaked in his own cold urine in the pitch darkI am abandoned all alone no one hears meand i am the same.A clenched jaw rips open, screaming into the voidI cannot express myself no one wants to hear meand i am the same.A father figure looms over the edge of a cribI can feel his anger, his terrible rageand i am the same.
I grieve for that boy, I grieve for that father, and I grieve for the innocent creature in front of me now.
I see myself in every corner of the moment, and with that, I become the moment. There is no more me, and there is no one left to blame.
Without me, all that remains is what is already happening anyway. There is no more pressure for it to be anything else.
The heart bursts wide open now, the floodgates of grief felt and honored and released, and all that remains… is joy. It’s a curious sort of joy - a natural spontaneous merriment that sprouts within the very essence of life itself. That is the essence of life itself. A sacred irreverence, an irrepressible playfulness.
And I know Ivy just wants to be on the other side of the gate barrier, free to explore and free to be. I know because I can feel it. It isn’t food she wants. It isn’t even affection.
It’s freedom.
Hands lift the gate up, curiosity imbuing the moment. Wherever she chooses to go will not be by chance - it cannot help but reflect the inner shift that has just occurred. The outer always reveals the inner, for they were never separable to begin with.
Ivy promptly shuffles over and plops down under the family Christmas tree, licking herself with unabashed satisfaction, not a care in the world. Her left paw rests on a curious word that somehow fits the moment perfectly.
After enjoying a few more moments of hygienic merriment under the tree, Ivy scoots her way over to a white chair in the far corner of the living room, padded paws and tapping claws clicking rhythmically across the floor. She yawps herself up, arranges herself in a perfect spiral of fluff, metes out a lively purr toward no one in particular, and fully relaxes.
I sit down, finally ready to write.
With a deep sigh, she becomes still, and in the ensuing space of blessed silence - the interminable gap between sleeping and waking, between outbreath and inbreath - creation begins.
She is inevitable.
Oh dear, a quick word of advice from a cat owner and another poor unfortunate soul who had expounded words very similar to yours and paid the price.
You must not compose a story in front of or even think bad thoughts in close proximity of the cat . And do be careful of negative expressions towards cat.
Ivy will know.
She will retaliate.
What can she possibly do you say?
True story, the aforementioned poor unfortunate soul who did the very same;
Let me just put it this way, check the inside of your shoes before you slip them on in the morning.
It is called a spite pee, and that’s a fact.
Beautiful, engaging, surprising and brutally painful, all at once. Keep writing, keep going, and also relax if you can. What wants to come out will make its way out in due time. Thanks for taking the risk. I look forward to enjoying the next piece. Ripeness is all.