The Second Entry

I woke up to the sound of Mary slamming the front door. I looked at the Light-Brite red of my digital clock and shut my eyes. The flashing 6:34am stayed behind my eyelids and tried to tell me something. I wondered vaguely what day it was. Then I realized that I should have opened the coffee shop almost an hour ago. Sitting up, I remembered the cats. Fuck. I should have checked on them last night. I should have stayed with them last night. Oh God. The edges of my vision got gray and fuzzy in that special way that is only caused my gut-rot red wine.

Peeling off my clothes and scrambling into new ones, I checked for pillowcase creases on my face. Nothing that wouldn't’t fade in the time it took me to get to work. I crammed a stick of gum in my mouth, grabbed my keys, and bolted for the car.

My mind was a sickening blend of hang-over and the realization that I was a horse’s ass. I mean, what kind of person acts like I did? Don’t answer that. I vowed to never drink again, a promise I made every day that would last until about 6 that evening, when I was released from job #2 waiting tables at the elegant Papa Hayden. All the other cool server-types would sit around in the bar, counting their tips and chain smoking, flirting with the bartender for free drinks. I was no different. It was part of the lifestyle of working in the food industry. You could try to fight it, but you wouldn't last long. I certainly didn’t.

I screeched to a halt and double-parked in front of the apartment the cats lived in. I ran up the stairs and flung open the door.

"I will never drink again. I will be nicer to my friends. I will apologize to Mary and let her have that vintage dress of mine that she’s always liked. I will never-" and I stopped short, the dialogue in my head cut off like a head injury. One of the kittens was in the dining room. The only rule of the house was that the animals were to remain in the sun room at all times. They had everything they needed in there, and weren't supposed to be out in the house at large. Too much stuff to get into. Too much trouble to be caused. The day before I had refilled their water dish and securely fastened to door to the sunroom, started to walk away, and then returned to double check. When I left, it had been shut tight and the kittens had been batting at each other’s tails in the fading sunlight. Now, here was the smaller one, sitting perfectly still, tail wrapped regally around its feet, looking at me as if to say, "Asshole."

I broke out of my trance and scooped her up. "Where is your brother?" I asked her, not expecting an answer, but with a feeling of unease starting to spin tight in my stomach. She meowed.

I deposited her in the sunroom and looked around for her sibling. No sign of him. I looked under the couch and spotted it: a hole that had been masking taped over, the tape now in shreds and moving with the breeze from the air conditioner. She meowed again.

A faint meow echoed back at us, and my panic blossomed fully. I followed the sound of the tiny cry into the bathroom and nearly passed out.

Now I know that people say that a lot. It’s a cliché, in fact. No matter what little curveball gets thrown, people are always ‘almost passing out.’ But I shit you not.

Look: here we have a tiny seven month old Russian Blue kitten hanging by the mangled shreds of what used to be his left hind leg from the toilet seat he had crawled up on and batted at, which had then fallen on him, pinning him in his current predicament. There was surprisingly little blood. He looked at me and let out a feeble meow, front paws waving. My heart fell and shattered against the cold stone floor of my absolute horror. I had never ever felt anything like this and would have done anything to have never been there in the first place. I dove for the toilet and lifted the lid, cradling the unfortunate kitty as he came unstuck from the porcelain. Then he did start to bleed, and I noticed he was shaking, and really not looking very good at all. He was probably thinking the same thing about me.

I ran out into the kitchen and stood over the sink, hoping to find an answer in the drain. None came.

I was seriously fucked. I was late for work for the second day in a row, bordering on being fired, Mary hated my guts, and now I had what amounted to a mutilated cat in my arms in a stranger’s house that I was supposed to be in charge of. I should have never taken the job. I needed the money, but I couldn’t take care of someone else’s pets. I couldn’t take care of myself. And now look what happened.

I started to cry. For myself, yes, I was that self-pitying, but also for the kitten, who was still shaking and whose leg was not spontaneously regenerating as I had hoped. I rushed out the front door; cat bundled close, and thought about what I was going to do. I had no friends in Portland; all I did was work and drink. My boss at the coffee shop had been royally pissed when I was late the day before, costing her hundreds of dollars in missed sales. I wanted to get in my car and drive to the emergency animal clinic, but realistically, I needed job #1.

I got to the car and turned around, eyes wild, and ran for the nearest door and banged on it with my free hand.

“Someone please help me! I’ve got this cat here and this leg and oh! Help! Please!” My sobbing and pounding brought a bleary woman to the door in her robe. “I never wanted this to happen! I’m not a bad person!” I screamed at her. She was clearly seasoned in dealing with nut jobs, because she opened the door and let me show her the cat.

“Where did you find him?” she asked.

“He was hanging from the toilet upstairs and I have to get to work or I’ll get fired and please help me..." I was seriously losing it.

She got her husband to join her. She took the kitten, who kept crying, but weaker now, and we all agreed that I should just go to work and they would take time off from their adult jobs to deal with this and that they would be by the coffee shop to tell me what was going on. They would also be expecting to have “a talk” with me later. The woman made me give her the number of the cat’s owners, which I surrendered humbly, and knew that I was entering a realm of irresponsibility previously unknown to me. The kind of thing I read about in the tragic novels I hunched over at the coffee shop when it was slow.

If it was possible to be something worse than a horse’s ass, then I had just become it.


I slunk into work feeling like the blood had been drained out of my body and replaced with maple syrup.

It was almost 8am, and there were people milling around outside the front door, checking their watches and putting their hands up to the fingerprint smeared glass, trying to peak inside. I started a pot of coffee, turned on the espresso machine, and opened the front door.

“Well, it’s about time you got here. Where have you been? I’m going to be late for work because you weren’t here on time.” I had seen this lady around. I could have had her drink and favorite pastry ready to go before she asked for it, and not charged her a penny and she still would have given me the third degree. This made her diatribe a little easier to swallow. Other people behind her were in general agreement, but softened up when I told them about the cat.

“Is he going to be alright?” the nurses from the hospital across the street asked, and took up a collection to help pay for the vet bill, which was going to be big. This gesture touched me, in a place I thought I had been denied eternal access to, and I broke down crying all over again when they handed me the envelope stuffed with ones and fives. Some of that money was probably meant for people’s lunches.