My body must loathe me. Aside from the eighteen pounds of chocolate and caramel that I’ve consumed this weekend in the traditional Hallowe’en way, I’ve been getting lazier than usual with feeding myself.
This is a delicate way of saying that I’ve sunk to the lowest of the low: worse than K-D, faster than a PBJ, more unhealthy than KFC, and generally surpassing in badness any other foodstuff exclusively referred to by capital-letter abbreviations. Yes, it has come to this. Powdered instant foods.
Instant tea. Soluble protein. Easy-Mac microwaveable mac & cheese. Ramen noodle soup in a bowl. ‘Just add water’ is my catchphrase of the week. Put away your conventional ideas of self-abuse, and welcome to the new world of intestinal harm.
Oh my God! Speaking of malnutrition!!! WESLEY!!! I have just now, JUST NOW, mid-entry, found our cat. She has been missing since September 20th. That’s seven weeks of terror, angst, despair, and finally resignation at her loss. And now she’s sleeping contentedly wrapped up in a ball on my pillow, purring as though nothing had happened. It’s bizarre.
The tale of Wesley’s mysterious return:
Today, on my way out to get dinner with Darcy, we paused in the hallway because there was an ungodly howling coming from the stairwell. I couldn’t tell if it was one of Art’s cats having a fit on the second floor, but it sounded desperate enough to need attention, so I told Darcy to hang on and went to find the source of the noise.
As I got closer to the stairs, I could tell it was coming from below them, not above them, so I asked Darcy to come with me to investigate. We crept downstairs into my Texas Chainsaw Massacre-style stone and dirt basement, and I discovered that someone had installed a new and frightening door down there since the last time I’d paid the cellar a visit. Which was, naturally, during the Great Wesley Hunt of a month ago. The meows were coming from behind this new second door, with frantic scratching now and soft thuds of a tiny body throwing itself forwards.
I cautiously reached out to turn the handle, worried I was about to be attacked by a feral cat who had climbed in through one of the basement window wells and trapped itself. But no! A familiar black and white streak shot by me on the steps back to the first floor, and Darcy and I took off after her.
She fled all the way up to the door to my apartment, and once I’d opened the door, up and into my bedroom. Once I got a good look at her I could see she was skin and bones, and dirty as all hell to boot. I went into shock, my body temperature dropping and knees shaking and heart palpitating. My poor, poor kitten has been starving and alone for over a month and a half. Never mind the searching and the worrying, and the fact that she’s miraculously bright eyed and active still: I was responsible for her and I failed to keep her safe.
I don’t know what became of her in the seven weeks she’s been missing, but she’s only been keeping body and soul together with mice and rainwater by the looks of it. Maybe she ran outside and then crept back in by the window well and couldn’t find her way out of the basement. Maybe the workmen who were installing the new door down there shut her in by accident. Maybe she just wanted some time to herself, or went on some sort of kitty vision quest. Who knows? I’m just happy she’s back, drinking milk and ravenously eating her carefully-rationed-to-avoid-regurgitation nosh.
The truly spooky thing is that I was on the phone with Chrissy earlier this evening, making plans to meet Tuesday with the not-so-hidden agenda of me spending some quality time with her kitty, Cleo, who was caterwauling while we were talking on the phone. We discussed my sad lack of feline companionship around the house, and I spoke Wesley’s name aloud for the first time in weeks. Perhaps she heard me from all the way downstairs and decided to make her presence known.
Mari thinks it was the ritual Samhain spell, calling on lost souls to return home, that summoned her back to us. Anything’s possible, I guess. Strong magic, indeed. Lastly, I got strongarmed into opening a LiveJournal page so that I can read the “locked” or hidden entries of my friends who write there. The upshot of this is, now anyone who wants to leave comments about what they read here (or there, if I actually start writing in the darned thing — O, the solipsism!) may do so. Woot, here it is…
http://www.livejournal.com/~pipesdreams/