Gary the Conqueror, Part II: The Mad Pooper

 You know, I've seen a lot in my years as a "cat dad." Especially the last few years where we've been adopting kittens about twice a year to rebuild the ranks in the household. 

Never have I, or my wife, had to wipe a cat's ass multiple times a day. But, here we are.

I will start this by saying Gary is doing well. He has been sequestered in our master bedroom since Saturday evening, and he has taken great pleasure in running up and down the cat tree, playing with his toy ball and mouse, and running in and out of the cat tunnel. He is also a big cuddler and wants to sleep with us, on us, and get love and attention from us. In all respects, he's a pretty normal kitten with normal kitten behavior.

However, he's not completely well.

I mentioned previously that he had been on a medical hold in the shelter for awhile for digestive/gastrointestinal issues. The shelter vets and feline welfare assistants had tried to treat alternating diarrhea/constipation in him with not a lot of success. But, the shelter is sadly not equipped with a lot of actual veterinary solutions, tests, or expertise -- it's catch as catch can there, and they cycle through so many animals that each one isn't really given extensive levels of monitoring and care. 

And, of course, I understand this and sympathize. It's a lot of work just to feed these animals, do their laundry, clean their pans and cages, etc. It's a large, constantly underfunded facility with a lot of moving parts, and I get it. This is part of the reason we wanted to get Gary -- we wanted to get him out of that environment so we could take him home and get him to heal up/recover/grow with us, and give him the care he needed so that he wouldn't just sit there in his cage indefinitely. 

When we were finally able to get him, we brought him home and locked him up in our master bedroom as the base of operations for his care -- much like we've done with every other cat we've brought in. Generally, the other cats have been released to explore and meet everyone else in the house within a few days, a week at most. I think Charlie was out and hanging with everyone by day two or three, for example.

However, we can't do that yet with Gary. We wanted to get him checked out by our vet to clear him for parasites and to see if we could find out why he was experiencing such gastrointestinal distress. We love the little guy and just want him to feel better. So, on Monday afternoon, we got him into the carrier and took him to the vet.

Turns out that he was just chill in the car when we brought him home on Saturday -- on Monday he whined and cried, shit himself in the carrier (which let us get a very fresh stool sample for his parasite test, at least) and vomited from carsickness at the end of the drive over to the vet. 

He is quite underweight for being 14 weeks old -- he's 2.02 pounds and just a tiny little thing. This is likely because of his digestive issues. Otherwise he appears to be healthy. He's too small to run blood tests at this point, but our vet isn't ready to do so yet anyhow. He examined him and his medical records, used the stool sample for a parasite test, and said we could go from there.

Yesterday morning we got the call that he is thankfully parasite free -- but, that opens up another line of questioning for treatments, because a parasite causing diarrhea and/or constipation would be an easy fix. Now we have to investigate whether he has food sensitivity/allergies, a stomach bug like Pete had last month, or something else. We got a bag of special prescription diet food for him at the vet and he's been eating that mixed with his normal food, with the goal of getting him switched completely over to it by the end of the week. He does seem to like it. In addition, we've been instructed to give him probiotic powder on said food once a day (just like we gave to Pete in broth form, and still give to him in broth form every few days) just to promote good gut health and see if it helps to rebalance him.

In the interim, he sometimes has normal poops, and sometimes he strains a little and leaks diarrhea off and on for a few hours. So, Daisy and I have been checking his ass and making sure we wipe it off with the cat version of soothing baby wipes. It could take some time for the food change and probiotics to have a meaningful effect, so we're watching him and tracking the food he eats, how many times a day he uses the pan, etc. I do think he's showing a little improvement, but it's still early.

We have our next appointment with the vet on May 20th. This is a little less than three weeks from now.

I told Daisy this morning that it's going to be very hard to keep him sequestered for another three weeks. Like, it can be done, but it is far from ideal. The other cats know he's in the room, they can't get into the room with him (so they can't play with him or sleep with us at night) and I'm sure it's stifling for the little guy as well. I know he wants to see them and play with them, and interact like a normal cat -- and it's likely low-level torture for him to not be able to.

There is a good reason for this though, aside from the butt-wipings -- if the new food and probiotics don't help his digestive issues much and he doesn't gain weight, there's likely some other underlying issue at play, and that could be something like FIV or feline leukemia, both of which would be very transmissible to the other cats. Feline leukemia is a death sentence 1-2 years after diagnosis, no way around it. FIV is less serious, and cats can live normal lives with it, but it's not something I want to pass to the other five cats in the household, of course. Neither of them are, obviously. The testing process for either disease is a six-months-or-more process with multiple tests needed to eliminate false positives or false negatives. And, until we get bloodwork done on him, we just don't know.

However, both of those are relatively rare -- they're not nonexistent of course, but they are worst-case-scenarios and not something we should be jumping to off the bat, because it's a relatively miniscule chance he has either one. Gary is young, has been in the shelter and foster environment since birth, and his stomach issues have not exactly been fully properly treated. So, our vet remains optimistic. If he's not showing much improvement in a week or so, we're likely going to try the antibiotic we gave Pete to see if it clears his guts up, and there are a few other options our vet can try too before we'd take more, shall we say, drastic steps. We still plan to do the full-on bloodwork in his next appointment to see what else can be ruled out.

Some of you may be saying this is a lot of work and money, and stress, for a little cat with a poopy butt. I told Daisy I see it as my fault for anything bad that happens with him. If he somehow does have feline leukemia or FIV, I've unwittingly brought that into the house and put our cats at risk, even if they don't interact with him (we do, though). We also couldn't keep him if either of those are the case -- he'd have to be rehomed to someone without other cats or he'd have to be returned to the Humane Society so that he could be adopted out into a household where he's the only cat. It would be a lot of money, and stress, and danger to our other cats, in the end to just to have to bring him back and be like "oh well." It would also be an immense amount of heartache...all brought on by me, who set this ball in motion by wanting to adopt the little furball with medical issues because he wanted me to love on him.

Daisy does not see it this way -- she sees it as us saving him from being locked in a cage and helping him get the medical care and love he needs, and getting him out of a stressful situation that was likely making him more sick. And yes, she is right there, but it's really easy to spiral into worst-case scenarios when you're stressed and sad about the situation.

Removing myself from it a bit though -- I mean, the cat has a little diarrhea. He doesn't have parasites, he doesn't have worms, he's super-active and playful and loving. All cats get the poops sometimes. People do too. In a sweeping sense of the word, it's generally diet and/or stress-based. He could and/or likely does have some food allergies or sensitivities, and they'll likely clear up after a bit with or without help from some low-level antibiotics, or as he ages a bit and puts on some weight. 

I have to force myself to look at the best-case scenarios in order to keep from spiraling down into the worst -- because, frankly, it is a lot of money to treat him and pay for this special food, the supplies he needs, and these vet appointments. And I do worry about him, a lot. But, I have to stay positive that this is likely something quite minor and will clear up.

It helps that he is beautiful.

Gary the Conqueror, Part I

 Okay, so.

Look, there's a lot of stuff in my life that isn't exactly planned. I wouldn't call myself a victim of circumstance, but sometimes circumstance has made me her bitch and I just sort of have to bow to her whims. 

About two weeks ago, in our volunteering at the shelter, Daisy called me back to the stray cat area because she saw a cat there that she knew I'd love. At the time, I wasn't aware that volunteers have the run of about 95% of the behind-the-scenes workings at the shelter -- but we do. There aren't many doors that are physically or even metaphorically closed to us. So, between loads of shelter laundry, I went back there to look at this little cat. He was a very pretty long-haired boy, white and gray with brown and orange mottled through his fur, and big Empress-like eyes. He was beautiful, and had a little calico sister in the cage with him. He was being prepped to hit the adoption floor, and I said something to the effect of "he's going to be adopted really fast, he's gorgeous."

I didn't think much else of him at the time other than that. There were several other kittens that Daisy was helping to care of that day that she was far more obsessed with -- a couple of snowshoe seal-points and some various others that we thought were very pretty. Over the course of several days, Daisy became very infatuated with one little seal-point snowshoe boy with bright blue eyes like Charlie, and she really wanted to take him home -- to make him our sixth (and final) cat.

I wasn't completely sold on him and I don't exactly know why. I love seal-points, and he was an absolutely gorgeous little boy. He was kind, sweet, cuddly, a loud purrer, a licker, etc. I thought he was a wonderful cat, but I also wasn't feeling it, if that makes sense. I told Daisy if she wanted him I'd be happy to bring him into our household and love him forever, but I just didn't have that pull, so to speak, that I'd had with Hank, with Charlie. 

I should probably mention here that as volunteers we do have some special privileges, and one of them is that if there's an animal we fall in love with while caring for them, we can place a hold on them so that they don't enter the adoption pool, and can adopt them directly from the "back rooms" so to speak -- all we have to do is tell them and the magic ball begins rolling. We don't get a discount on the adoption or anything, but we can ensure that nobody would be able to get said animal but us.

Daisy hemmed and hawed for a few days on the little seal-point. She wanted him but wanted to make sure it was right, that I'd have her full support, and of course there were discussions about how long Pete has left and whether we want to share what is likely his last few weeks or months with another cat taking some of our attention from him. I told her, and was clear, that it was her decision -- I thought the little boy was wonderful and would be happy to bring him into the house. She had my blessing, and I also made it clear that I wanted him if she wanted him.

We learned the hard lesson that if you don't place a hold on these kittens when you want them, they're gone -- he and his sister who looked just like him were adopted out together the next morning as the first adoptions of the day. She was too late to put the hold on him -- once they're moved to the floor, they're open season for the public to adopt.

Daisy was upset, but not absolutely heartbroken or anything. We work at the shelter, we are just now entering what they call "kitten season," and we already have five cats. Every day we're there we're both going to see cats we want to take home. 

During the week prior to the aforementioned cat's adoption, though, we made a few trips to the shelter not to work a shift, but to check on the other cats and hang out for a bit with the kitty Daisy wanted. Every time we did, we'd walk through the stray cat area and we would see that the little long-haired boy was still here. His calico sister had been adopted out, but he was still sitting there in the cage -- for a remarkably long time given how fast they process through kittens and animals in general for adoption.

 

We began reading through his paperwork, and found that he'd had a lot of medical problems as a baby-baby kitten -- including some eye problems and digestive issues that the medical staff at the shelter had been trying to stabilize. He was 14 weeks (very old for a kitten to still be in the back rooms; all of our kittens we'd been adopted were between 8 and 12 weeks old) and had been fostered, and had already been fixed -- but he was basically on a medical hold until they could get his guts under control. His paperwork specifically stated that he didn't have parasites, but would alter between bouts of diarrhea and constipation. He'd already had his rabies vaccination and tag, even. 

He was a very sweet boy though -- he purred a lot, he liked attention, and he had a tiny little low-pitched meow that sounded more like a mrrah then a mew. Daisy hated his meow, but I absolutely loved it. 

Daisy had taken to loving on the little boy a little bit every time we were there, if only in passing as we walked by. But, one night last week we were there around the time the shelter was closing up, and there were no other volunteers on shift in the back rooms, so we opened up the cage and took him out. Generally, in the stray cat area we're not really supposed to do this as most of the animals in there are fresh intakes. However, we knew this little boy's medical history and just knew that he was still there because he couldn't be adopted out yet because of them, not because he was a fresh intake. 

He was a very loud purrer and a cuddler, but Daisy got the sense that when he was cuddling it wasn't as much about being a little lover but about having a way out of the cage he was in, alone, in a room full of other very unhappy cats and kittens in cages. 

However, when I took him from Daisy to hold him, it was an absolutely, immediately different feeling. 

He very quickly settled into my arms and looked up at me with his big green eyes, and purred very hard, very happily. He did not try to get away, he did not want anything in those moments but to be held by me. He immediately relaxed and very calmly gazed back at Daisy as if to say "I like this guy better."

Fuck, I thought, It's all over. It's like Hank and Charlie all over again.

Daisy would take him back and hold him for a bit, and he would try to wiggle out of her arms to get back over to me. 

Fuuuuuuck.

This is not, by the way, a trend that has changed:

Yeah, that's him after he fell asleep in my arms this afternoon, content and fully relaxed.

Yes, you already know where this story is going, but there's more to it, so...stick around. 

There was something inside me that told me I needed this cat. And I did feel bad about it, partially because Daisy had just lost the cat that she'd wanted to adopt, partially because while I knew he would love it, Pete does likely only have a short time left with us and I really don't want to take time and attention away from him. But there was something about this little boy, something I just couldn't shake. 

Daisy asked if I wanted him -- like if we should reserve him. I immediately said yes. 

And so, we did -- we contacted the appropriate folks within the shelter, reserved him, and waited patiently for the call for when we could bring home our little Gary.

The name was Daisy's choice, not mine -- she has wanted to name a cat after her father for years, something I was always previously strongly opposed to, since...well..Dad is still alive. I just found it weird. It's also a name we'd have to call whatever cat we gave it to for many years, likely long after Dad is dead and gone. So I just found it odd. And not every male cat is a Gary. I may be weird, but I think a cat named Gary has to have a very specific look and personality, and none of the other boys we'd seen over the years really fit the name. 

Yet I looked at this cat, pointed at it and looked at Daisy, and said "that cat is a Gary." 

There was no other name for him. It was Gary. It fit him. He was and is a Gary.

So he's Gary.

Anyway.

Throughout most of the past week -- not every day, but almost every day, we'd go over to the shelter after Daisy got off work (but before I'd start my overnight shift) and check on him. Occasionally we'd talk to one of the other staffers there -- generally all of the volunteers would be gone for the day -- and they'd tell us how sweet he was when they'd interact with him too. We'd also check the updates to his medical paperwork every day, just to make sure he was progressing, because it was taking some time to get him all situated. He'd be happy to see us every night, and we'd love on him and cuddle him for a bit before we'd leave for the night. 

In the interim, I ordered a new cat bed for the corner of my desk downstairs so he or Charlie could sit/lay with me while I worked at night, ordered more wet kitten food, and Daisy pre-emptively set a vet appointment for him for Saturday morning (when we would take Pete back in for his bloodwork checkup). Given his health issues we knew we'd likely have to sequester him for longer than we'd like to -- we learned our lesson from Charlie's parasites, and while testing from over a week ago said he was parasite-free, we'd like to doubly confirm that with the vet first before letting the other children interact with him freely. Daisy also tidied up the bedroom as much as possible to keep him from getting into anything that would be a danger to him. 

When Saturday morning rolled around and we still hadn't gotten the call from the shelter for us to come pick him up, we had to cancel his vet appointment and just get Pete in instead. In the afternoon, we were scheduled to work the shelter's Youth Volunteer Day, which is something they (apparently) do on the last Saturday of every month. I thought it would be fun, so I encouraged/persuaded Daisy to sign up for it with me, and it would count as our volunteer hours for the week. 

We got there at 1:30 for a 2pm-4pm shift, and were immediately put to work with the kids in the activity rooms -- actually, the experience was quite fun for me, and the kids were all really nice, if somewhat shy. A few of them were talkative, and a few of them were very quiet. We helped give a tour of the facilities, helped clean up the activity areas, and I honestly really enjoyed it to the point where I told Daisy I'd love to do it every month. 

But, during this time, we were wholly occupied -- while we were occasionally able to stop and check the kitties on the floor while giving the tour of the facilities or as we went back and forth doing minor errands for the team, this did not leave time for us to go check on Gary. We also weren't getting any calls throughout the day either, so for all we knew, he was still there and still awaiting medical clearance.

Finally, by the end of our shift, when we were released to clock out, we went back to the stray cat area to find our little boy sitting there waiting for us -- sweet as ever. But, there had been a very clear update to his paperwork a couple of hours before: ready for adopt and available to release to interested party. Well, that was us.

Daisy promptly went to the front desk to let them know we were there and could take him today since he'd just been cleared.

After about an hour's wait (there were other adoptions in line ahead of us), and the requisite paperwork, we finally walked out of the shelter after a long volunteer shift, and a long day in general, with our little boy. We were the last adoption of the day.

As is tradition, we drove him across town to meet the parents before bringing him home. We've done this with every cat we've adopted with the exception of Empress (who Daisy had to get on her lunch hour, drop off at home, and then drive back to work -- this was when she still worked in an office). That's where the above picture of him falling asleep in my arms was taken -- it was in the parents' sun room. 

Gary is a perfect little gentleman; he is not a crier or screamer. He is very chill, very quiet, and somewhat curious and cautious. When he does meow, it is that low-toned mrrah, and judging from today's experience only, he does not mind being in the car at all, or inside the carrier. 

He is very tiny. His listed weight is 1.9 pounds, at 14 weeks. This is likely partially because he's had his stomach issues, and we're hoping that once he has more food available to him here at home, he'll get bigger quickly. His listed birthday is January 15. Charlie's birthday was December 7th, so they're only a few weeks apart in age, and Charlie was pretty small when we got him too -- he is now going on eight pounds and is a big muscular boy -- so we have hopes that Gary will get much larger. I mused this afternoon that he may end up being a really small cat, or if he really starts growing once his appetite kicks in, he could be huge. Mable is pretty small, and Emmy is huge -- and they're both primarily Maine Coons (Mable has a higher percentage of Maine Coon than Emmy, in fact). 

Daisy scanned pictures of his face and he appears to match up really closely with Norwegian Forest Cat and (of course) Maine Coon. The Norwegian Forest Cat jumps out hard as many of them I've seen have very similar -- if not exact -- coat colors that Gary has, those mixes of brown/gray/white/oranges all together. I've never seen a cat, in person, with a coat like Gary's. He looks like an Australian Shepherd or Border Collie. He's shaggy and fluffy like a wolf, is absolutely a longhair, and has side mane tufts and ear tufts like a lynx or bobcat. 

Needless to say, we're waiting for the cat DNA tests to go back on sale again on Amazon. 

When we brought him home, the other boys examined his cage and hissed. Pete was intensely curious but did not hiss -- after all, he loves kittens. Emmy did not get to see him, and Mable got to see the cage briefly but did not get to have a reaction as we swept him upstairs to be sequestered into the bedroom rather quickly, where we released him into our prepared master bedroom and took turns taking showers.

"He is so happy he's able to run," Daisy said. 

I'm sure he is; he's been cooped up in a metal cage for weeks. 

I gave him a little catnip mouse toy that he liked playing with, and once I was in there after my shower, he spent some time exploring. He climbed about halfway up the cat tree, figured out how to get on and off the bed and on and off our nightstands (remember, he is tiny -- he may be the smallest of all of the cats we've ever adopted) and got some cuddle time in. 

A little after 9, I was exhausted and knew I needed to take a nap to help reset my sleep schedule for overnights this coming week, and he was just hanging out on the other side of the bed. When I rolled over to sleep, he came over to me and curled up in my arms and with my head for a bit, but not for a really long time. 

When I awoke a few hours later, this is what I saw:

He was on top of our air purifier, silently watching me sleep.

What a sweet little boy. 

I've not been able to interact with him much yet compared to how much I did with the other cats when we first brought them home, because we got him home late in the evening after a very long day and when we were all already exhausted and tired. That interaction will come today in the daylight hours once I get up for the day. 

Currently he's still in the bedroom (of course) sleeping with Daisy for the night. I'll likely go to bed once the sun starts coming up and we'll see how much he wants to sleep with me, versus how he liked sleeping with her. 

Interesting People

 I've been told, by a rather credible source, that I should spend at least 1-2 hours a day writing. And not here, not posting some dumb bullshit on Facebook or BlueSky, but doing my actual writing.

Some of you may recall that during the pandemic, I began putting together a collection of short stories. My goal was to have it complete and on bookshelves in stores and/or other retail outlets before I turned 40.

I turn 43 this year, and as of this exact moment, I have:

1. one story that is completely finished, but needs a heavy edit
2. one story that is 80% finished
3. two stories that are about 5% written and I am not sure where the other 95% will go
4. an outline for a movie screenplay that I wrote +/-30 pages or so of a very rough draft when I was in Nova Scotia last summer
5. thirty possible book titles
6. thirty-six documented ideas for short stories, novellas, or other screenplays
7. one front cover image for the collection
8. zero time to actually work on almost any of the above mentioned things

I am motivated, but I am easily distracted. And as a human, I also need time to eat, sleep, and decompress. It is much easier to pick up my phone and scroll through Tiktok, or watch some of the channels I follow on Youtube, or pick up my Nintendo Switch than it is to sit here distraction-free and write.

But, I love to write. When I am in a groove, I feel so inspired and productive, and I can spend six hours writing or refining a single piece of my work. I remember when I was in grad school -- before I was married, when I lived alone and it was the summertime -- I sat down with a pot of coffee and two packs of cigarettes and wrote 110 pages in a single night -- actual writing, not school-based stuff, not term papers or lesson plans or anything else like that.

Yeah, I was in my twenties then. I'm in my forties now. I've been married for almost eleven years, I have a full-time job, five cats, a mortgage, diabetes, and a weekly volunteer rotation at the local animal shelter. I didn't have a smartphone when I was writing 110 pages in a single night in grad school -- I was doing it on a ten-year-old computer during a time before Netflix and when my only gaming system was an original Xbox that only worked about 60% of the time I tried to use it. 

Life situations are very different now, is what I'm saying.

There are, unfortunately, times during which I reflect on my life and realize that a lot of it has been a waste. These novelists who write all their books, publish a new one every year, etc -- they've been doing it since their twenties or before, and their successes with each book allow them to live the life they've wanted to live. If I would have been so inspired in my own teens and twenties -- and had some luck that no way was I ever going to have -- perhaps I could be in that situation too. As it stands, I just feel old and spent as I inch my way through my forties, with my health and my eyesight going downhill just a little bit more every year that passes. 

Don't get me wrong; there are, of course, success stories of people who started writing later in life who were able to garner some sort of fame or success from it -- Harper Lee is a good example of this. She wrote one blockbuster book, published a sequel to that book like fifty years later, and then immediately died. Wow, what a life there, right?

So I don't know. I have basically resigned myself to realizing that unless I become independently wealthy somehow, or otherwise no longer need to work and/or sleep on anyone's schedule but mine, I'll likely never be a real writer ever again. I can have goals and dreams all I want, but if I have no way to actualize them, then they'll never go anywhere. That's just the sad realism of it, folks. 

Am I giving up on those dreams? I think at this point, it's pretty likely. I don't foresee having the energy, the downtime, the drive to do what I actually want to do with my life anymore. Even right now I am so tired that I'm fighting dozing off while sitting here writing this. My energy levels aren't normally low, but I have to use that energy constructively 95% of the time -- otherwise shit won't get done. 

So what am I then, if I'm not going to be a writer anymore?

I've resigned myself to being an interesting person. Not a "person of interest," because that is something completely different, but an interesting person. I'm almost 43 and I have five cats (will likely have a sixth soon, but I'll talk about that later), I dye my hair interesting colors, and I have three tattoos. I'm a go-getter with a lot of ambition. I make friends everywhere I go, even when I'm not trying to (and, additionally, I dislike most people) -- to the point where Daisy has commented on how easy it appears for me to do so. I have a giant collection of interests and an equally giant collection of nerdy t-shirts and band shirts. I drink Liquid I.V. every day. I love my wife passionately and publicly. I am a car guy. I volunteer at the animal shelter. I am fiercely protective of my friends and family. My sense of humor is better than 95% of the population, and I likely should have become a stand up comedian instead of an office worker. 

I think I am an interesting person. I'm far from the best person I know, but I'm also far, far from the worst. 

Some of you are probably surprised I didn't mention my political beliefs. I've basically given up on most political beliefs at this juncture; they are pointless and mostly unhelpful. And, I'm just so tired of politics. I am so tired of everything being a fight, tired of every single piece of political news I see being bad news. I'm sick of existing in this world, so therefore I have no more patience or ear for cheap talk or inaction against bad people or whatever wars our overlords may or may not get us into. I have stopped caring because caring just creates more stress, and I am already way too stressed out every day. I'm burnt out on it. I can't let politics affect my life or they will absolutely consume me. I have to focus on myself and my own interests and just fly under the radar until the bad times are over. 

Pete's 18th Birthday

 Today is Pete's 18th birthday.

That's it. That's the post.

Eating the Wounded

 So, funny story.

Did you know that when you have a fishtank full of snails, they control the population within said tank all by themselves?

If you did know that, do you know how they do it?

No, they don't fuck less -- believe me, there is a lot of snail-fucking going on in our tank, at almost all times.

They eat their own. They eat their weaker tank residents -- the young, the old, the dead, the enfeebled -- shells and all.

We found this out in the most gruesome way this weekend, as we noticed that our very first snail, Speedy, a "mystery snail" we bought from PetSmart many months ago, did not look like he was doing too well. He was developing holes in his shell and was nowhere near as active or zoomy around the tank (which is what got him his name) as he had been in the past. He was still alive though, still kicking, still wandering around the tank every day. 

Note, we've realized that it's hard to keep this tank properly pH-balanced; the acidity is always higher than we'd like. Daisy has tried various methods of controlling this, from regular water changes and water additives/stabilizers to me adding calcium tablets every two months or to so that the snails (and shrimp, but we'll get to that) have strong and healthy shells. There's only so much we can do, though; having forty or so snails in there really strips the calcium out of the water and makes the tank more acidic than balanced. 

So, anyway, back to the story. These Ramshorn snails, which are basically "pest" snails, were stowaways on the plants we purchased for the tank -- it's the only real explanation as to how we got them, because they just randomly began showing up in the tank once we got the plants for it. And, to be fair, they are fun to watch, they don't really require a lot of maintenance, and they do keep the tank somewhat clean. But, they multiply like crazy. We went from six to twenty in the span of two or three months, and from twenty to at least forty in another two or three months. Each time Daisy cleans the tank, she pulls out a few smaller dead ones, snails who have been born, lived, and perished, all of their lifecycle spent entirely within our tank.

After the population increased to forty or so, we noticed (independently, actually) that our two blue shrimp had stopped coming out for feedings -- I feed the shrimp and snails every other day or so. For a long time, as soon as the new food was put in the tank, the shrimp would come out and be all over it along with the snails. 

Soon, we only saw one of the two shrimp on a regular basis. Then that lone shrimp disappeared over the course of a week or two.

I have not seen either shrimp in the tank in a month. And now I'm pretty sure why.

As Speedy slowed down, we watched some of the younger snails hitching a ride on his back as he zoomed across the tank. I thought this was cute, Speedy being a father-figure for snails who weren't even the same species as him. I then slowly realized the terrible truth: they were eating him.

Two mornings ago, we noticed a giant clump of snails at the bottom of the tank. This is nothing new; they pile on one another in a big ball when they're given food, and they can reduce a few algae discs (one of their primary food sources) to mere crumbs in a few hours. 

Except this time, they hadn't been fed. At the center of the clump of snails was Speedy. All of them were latched onto him, and they were all eating him. 

I don't know at this point that Speedy was dead; in fact, two days later, I am still not completely sure he's actually dead -- but I can tell you that about 60% of his shell has been eaten, and if he's not dead right now, he will be very soon. Will they eat his soft fleshy body inside the shell too? Who knows.

The Ramshorns have latched onto him, and knowing their appetite, soon there will be nothing left. Daisy feels really bad about it, but I'm much more of a "this is the circle of life" guy. 

I did feed them yesterday morning, algae discs to lure them away from Speedy so I could get a better look. Still only about half the ball of snails left him to eat the algae discs, but I was able to see that his shell was, at that point, mostly already gone. So it's possible he was alive and suffering, or it's possible he died, sank to the bottom of the tank, and became food for the other snails.

I now no longer wonder what happened to the shrimp -- they likely died and became food themselves.

I realize this is a somewhat gruesome topic to write about, but still.

Daisy did some research -- snails are opportunistic predators and scavengers of anything in the tank with them that they'd deem as edible, and most snails are known to eat other snails (and apparently, dead or dying shrimp), plants, etc. 

This also explains why their population has not gotten larger than forty or so -- the ones that are weak and/or die are likely being eaten shell and all, aside from the clearly-dead ones Daisy pulls out every few weeks when the tank gets a deep-clean and water change. 

Lucy, our betta, appears to be completely oblivious and/or unaffected; he appears healthy, he's obviously getting enough food of his own, and remains active and social with us. Daisy thinks he may also be eating the smaller/younger snails (bettas can and will do that) but I've never seen it. I've seen him try, on some of the very small babies, but he spits 'em right back out. Lucy gets betta food every day anyway, so he's not starving. 

Anyway, memorial services for Speedy will be held tomorrow at 4pm, and a celebration of life will follow at 5:30. Please bring a covered dish. 

Kidding.

Say what you will about my cats, but at least they don't eat each other.

The Grand Tomorrow, Part IV

 I am, unofficially, back on overnights at my new job.

As part of my "I will do what is necessary and be a team player" mentality -- which is a very strong, important part of my work ethic -- I volunteered to cover overnights on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday this week. This is, generally, way outside of my normal work schedule (well, somewhat), especially as I'd been working Monday through Friday dayshifts for the past month, and as such I was offered comp time for these overnights I covered -- shifts which were 8pm to 8am, three in a row. 

I took the comp time, of course -- and I don't return to work again until Sunday night (Easter).

What am I doing on the overnights?

Next to nothing, honestly.

Myself and about ten other colleagues are, essentially, rebuilding our program from scratch with this new company. Remember how I said I was working with many others who had jumped ship from my old company to the new one? Well, I am. And we're still doing the same things, the same jobs, we had at the old company -- but under a completely new leadership structure and corporate structure. We are trying to make our roles and what we do fit into that structure, and that involves a lot of rebuilding, rebranding, and redesigning our program from the bottom up. That also means we are in no way able to just jump back into owning clients and escalations yet, which is a major part of...well...what we do. At the moment we are a functioning skeleton crew of expatriates who have struck out on their own and dropped anchor in a new port. If that makes sense.

So, on overnights? I am basically sitting there and watching a chatroom on Teams, a room that has all of our corporate overlords' executive leadership in it, and am waiting for one of them to engage me on an escalation that I can pick up and run with/handle. On Saturday I worked one for about three hours, hardcore, and then it came to a stopping point. On Sunday I didn't hear a peep out of anyone, and on Monday night I was engaged on one in the early morning hours before I left, and worked it until I could pass it off to the morning shift. 

And then my comp time started, and an on-call schedule started, and I won't return until Sunday night.

So, I mean, the work is the same. Roughly. It's just very odd right now with the way it's structured. That'll all smooth itself out over the next month or two and things will get back to "normal," more or less. This next week I assume I'll return to more of a "normal" schedule for me and we'll go from there, I guess.

It is what it is. Truthfully, I have a great admiration of the new company's principles and how they do their business, and my higher-ups will always have my respect. I've told them I'm here to help smooth out any transition issues and my knowledge and experience base can only be helpful in most scenarios. So, we'll see what happens. I can tell you I am very glad my pay is much higher than it was before and I am glad to be using a brand new Lenovo Thinkpad laptop instead of the ancient desktop with two giant bulky monitors I had for the old company, so that's a plus at least. If I really wanted to, I could work from my lounge chair in my office upstairs -- and I thought about it -- but to be in more of a "work mode" I have to be downstairs at my desk. There's something about the desk that puts me in the mindset of work.

Anyway, moving on.

As I've mentioned here previously, Daisy and I are now volunteering at the humane society. We've been doing it two weeks now, and it has been an intensely rewarding experience for me. It is also an intensely tiring one. I see volunteers there much older than us who are working long, hard hours -- not staff, mind you, but other volunteers -- walking dogs, cleaning kennels, doing large amounts of laundry in different machines, etc. I myself did the equivalent of probably four wash loads and six dryer loads in my time there yesterday, for example, and when my "shift" was over there was still enough laundry to give another person work for an entire day and night. An immense amount of animals goes through the shelter system every week, both intakes and adoptions -- not to mention the ones that come in who need to be put down because they've been hit by cars (that happened yesterday, while we were there) or what have you. 

It is also a constantly busy, always-moving building -- not only with staff and other volunteers there but with the general public going in and out at almost all times. Most of the actual staff don't tend to be very pleasant or nice (there are, however, a few who are wonderful) and the public is, well, the public. Some of them are pleasant and others are oblivious or look at us like we're in their way. 

Look, I just want to help. I know a lot of it is almost certainly thankless work, and I'm certainly not getting paid for it -- I just want to do what I can. One of the older volunteer ladies a few weeks ago mentioned to us, on the way out, not to get frustrated and urged us not to quit, to rise above the "drama" of the place. We sort of found that statement odd and kind of laughed it off at the time, but it makes a lot more sense now. 

I did get to see kittens being born yesterday -- which I've never seen before -- and we got to learn how to mix food for the kitten feedings. That's likely going to be Daisy's passion project in our volunteering -- she wants to be the feline welfare assistant, the kitten feeder, and there are a lot of people in line for that particular position. I am content, as previously mentioned, being one of the people behind the scenes who takes care of the jobs (like laundry) that hold the place together, and helping out in the background where I can. I'm not in it for the glamour of it, though I will say that next weekend we are helping to run the shelter's youth volunteer day, whatever that is. Our shift is later in the afternoon and we'll be working out of the auditorium, so whatever we can do to help there I was absolutely on board for. If I need to give a presentation on how awesome the shelter is, I can do that on the fly, as I love holding the attention of an audience. We'll see, though. 

We each have three uniform shirts, and I say "uniform" loosely because they don't even appear to be required attire; I see volunteers there every week just wearing street clothes with their name badges and keycards on them. Our first shirts we bought on our first day there -- Daisy got a short-sleeve deep purple tee and I got a long-sleeve sky-blue tee. Our second shirts were free shirts, celebrating the 150th anniversary of the Humane Society this year; both are lavender. Our third shirts we purchased yesterday, both are the newest design and are a medium purple (though we had the option to get gold ones as well). 

In case you hadn't realized at this point, I am really into this. And it gives me a lot of exercise I wouldn't normally get via other means or by sitting on my ass at home on the weekends. I am sore and tired when I get home from the shelter after our shifts, but it is a good sore and tired. I've done work, I've done something that contributes to the shelter and to our community. It doesn't have to be fun, and it's not about doing something fun for me. It's for the animals, and for the wonderful institution that has given us four wonderful cats in the past two years. 

That being said, there are perks:

We got to meet these two little beauties yesterday, as well as their other siblings -- all of whom look pretty similar. All are scheduled to be fixed either today or tomorrow and then put up for adoption. We're very fond of the little one in front with the nose patterns; he is a little boy who purrs and is very lovey, just like Charlie was. Daisy is debating on whether we should "reserve" him to adopt before he's released to the adoption pool, as we can, legally, take on one more cat if we'd like. 

I'm not opposed to adopting him if Daisy wants him, but he is one of several beautiful little cats there right now as we are just now entering into kitten season. I told Daisy he's a wonderful little boy and I'd love to have him in the house, but I'm more of the mindset that I'd rather wait for Pete to pass and then have more clarity on what cat(s), if any, we want next. If we'd lost Pete two weeks ago, I told Daisy that I would've reserved this little cute-nosed boy and his more traditional-looking seal-point sister (not pictured) in a heartbeat. As it stands, we're going to see new kittens there every week, sometimes a LOT of new kittens, from now until the fall and it's going to take a very special, almost cat-of-my-dreams-level cat, to get me to be all in on adopting a new one -- but if Daisy falls in love with one she wants in the interim, I of course will not stand in her way.

I also want to give Pete all the love we can with the time he has left. While he's mostly okay, he does have his good days and bad days, just like Maggie and Sadie did during their last several months of life. Some days he's really active and wants to eat a lot and run and chase the laser pointer (which I find remarkable at his advanced age) and other days his kidney-failure scent is strong and he just wants to lounge and sleep a lot. I have a feeling we'll know when it's his time, as it will be quite evident -- as it was for the girls. 

He turns eighteen in five days. Officially, anyway, based on the day I've always marked down as his birthday. Unofficially he's likely been eighteen for several weeks, as I only have an approximate date of birth for the old man. 

Hank turns two next week. There will be photos of both boys with party hats. 

The Grand Tomorrow, Part III

 As I have been writing these entries I must admit that I realize the amount of information I've given you about my new job, about what I do, is very limited.

That is, mostly, by design. While I'm not under any sort of non-disclosure agreement or anything like that, I am forced -- for various smaller and/or legal reasons -- to not really say much at the moment. Once the proverbial dust settles (and there is a lot of said dust), I'll be able to say more. For now, just understand that I am a lot more financially secure now than I was a year or so ago, and that all of this -- all of it -- was a very long time coming. A limited number of us knew this train was coming down the line since around or before Halloween, and I was one of those people.

So, once I can share more, I will. I'm not intentionally trying to be mysterious. 

Pete still seems mostly okay. He's slower than he was before, and I think it's fair to say that he's had some rougher days than others here and there, but he's not dead yet, and honestly doesn't appear to be getting any worse than he ever has been for the past year or so. In fact, over the past week he's gotten back to pretty much normal. Of course, we do know his time is coming and that he's on, essentially, borrowed time now as it is. Not many cats live to age eighteen, which he'll hit in a little under two weeks -- barring any other health issues or nosedives in his current state. For now, he's very much enjoying being taken on walks in the cat stroller and getting as much food and treats as he could possibly want, and being able to cuddle up with me tightly, as my teddy bear, at night when I sleep.

Charlie, as he grows, has become what I would like to refer to as "the nearly perfect cat." This little white boy is so very sweet. He adores being loved on by us and the other cats; he makes time to play with each of them individually (except Pete, who doesn't really play back due to his advanced age). He makes time to play with both Daisy and me, sometimes individually and sometimes together. He will lovingly ask for attention and pets/rubs, and as of late he has taken to sleeping with me at night either on my crotch or at my hip or side. He is an explorer, he is adventurous, he is a food vacuum, and every moment he's awake he seems thrilled to be alive and in this house with all of us. He immediately adjusted to this household and made friends with everyone. I've never seen a cat with a personality like Charlie's -- he is equal parts rambunctious Hank-as-a-kitten and Pete-as-a-kitten, with the intelligence and cuddliness of both of them put together. He taught himself how to fetch from the first day we had him. He purrs like Maggie and trills and cries like Mable when he feels needy. 

There is zero Sadie or Empress in this cat. Mind you, I love those girls very much (yes, even the dead one) but he possesses none of their qualities, their aloofness, their demeanor. Charlie is almost their exact opposite in every way.

We have settled on just calling him Charlie all the time; it is rare that we use the formal Charles with him. He's not a formal cat, he's a drunken frat boy at a kegger with white fur. This is the cat who was so intent on watching me pee that he came running at a full sprint, jumped up on the rim of the toilet, and stuck his head under the stream.

Yes, this happened.

This is the cat who sits on the bathroom counter with me while I shave or brush my teeth, or while Daisy uses the very loud hair dryer, and remains unfazed. 

He's a weird one, is what I'm saying. He may be the most unique cat I've ever seen. And we love him so very much. 

Anyway.

As I'm sure you know if you've been following my page for any length of time, we're not really fans of the political climate in this country right now. I wouldn't necessarily call myself a Democrat anymore, not really; I wouldn't be able to call myself that in good conscience because I believe most Democrats these days are milquetoast and ineffectual -- something I never want to be. I'm more of a liberal independent more than anything else. I'm a big fan of actual action and justice, not just cheap talk. 

However, as I am employed full time again, as is the wife, actual action and justice is a lot harder for us to take part in than for people who have a lot of free time, who don't have five cats, who don't volunteer at the local shelter on the weekends (more on this soon too) and who actually get meaningful/restful sleep. 

That being said, we both -- along with Daisy's mother -- went to and proudly supported the protests in Omaha (which were held in pretty much every other major city too) last weekend. It was bright, it was chilly, but it was so very worth it. We saw several very powerful speakers, such as our mayoral candidate and other local government entities, got to see many, many hilarious protest signs, and wore beads (like Mardi Gras). They expected 5,000 at Omaha's Memorial Park and I'm pretty sure they got and surpassed that. I even got to meet local Tiktok star The North Omaha Cat Lady, who has a giant following both here in town and around the world -- and she was incredibly sweet to her fans who recognized and approached her. I wasn't intrusive but I did say hi, tell her how much I loved her content, and had a brief chat with her about the protest and her kids (she's a schoolteacher, when she's not making content online) before making a graceful exit when she was approached by other fans. 

I think the protest showed a lot of support for basic humanity and a longing to return to some semblance of normal in this country -- if we even know, as a society, what normal is anymore. I say this because I am not even sure what normal is. Look at the past ten years -- we saw the rise of a pseudo-dictator, a worldwide pandemic with millions dead and nationwide lockdowns, price gouging, supply chain problems, a brief return to stability but with a lame-duck president, the opportunity to elect the first progressive woman of color as a president that was soundly rejected by old, white, sexist racists who apparently make up much more of this country than I ever could have imagined, and now the return of the pseudo-dictator with more cronies igniting a giant trade war. 

Most of the world is pissed off at the United States right now, and rightly so. Do you know how bad you have to fuck up to get Canada to hate you? Canada. Let that sink in for a minute. Canada.

This hits home for us a lot harder than it does for most people. As you know, Daisy and I have very strong connections to Canada; we have a lot of family there. Daisy's entire family, aside from a few aunts and cousins on her father's side, are Canadian. Daisy herself has dual citizenship. I adore Canada, and I love our Canadian family very much -- Canadian family who immediately accepted me into their arms and homes without questions or criticisms when I married Daisy eleven years ago now. Canadian family who, since 2015, we have visited four times for long stretches of time, saving most of our vacation days every year to do so. I've written here before that I felt like an interloper, an outsider, on the first couple of visits -- I no longer feel that way. I am the American Husband, yes, but the past three times I've been there, I am a Canadian for the duration of that trip.

So, to see Canada so angry at the US is really sort of a culture shock to me. I mean, yes, I completely understand it. But it is so very different politically, socially, and culturally now than I've seen before. And yes, I understand that they are not angry at the American people, per se, just the government, our dictator-in-chief, and the tariff policies -- because they have brains and compassion and realize that the people are separate from the government and that we're suffering too, as people -- but there is not a lot of separation for many Canadians, honestly. Our family loves us because of who we are and they understand that we're not the government, we don't support the dictator-in-chief personally, but...the very fact that we are American will separate us a bit from the rest of Canadian society when we visit Canada from this point forward, and our reception will be icy in a lot of places.

And that's another question that must be asked, too -- are we going to be able to visit Canada monetarily, time-wise, or legally (I say this because honestly, with the way things are going, who knows) in the foreseeable future? I don't honestly know.

Daisy's cousin, who she's always been close with and who I have developed a closeness with as well over the years, is getting married in October. Daisy and I are but two of a very small number of friends and family who have been invited as the wedding will be a backyard one, a small event, over the weekend of Canadian Thanksgiving (read: Columbus Day for all of us Americans). Daisy's cousin is an awesome person and so is her fiance, who I got to know very quickly a few years ago. He is basically the Canadian version of me, except he went into the Navy and I went into telecom. But, they are great people, and we planned to attend the wedding.

And then the dictator-in-chief got elected to a second term and all hell broke loose diplomatically between our countries, on multiple fronts.

So...what are we going to do?

As it stands, we still plan to attend the wedding. Daisy and I should have enough PTO from our respective jobs to cover it, and we can afford the trip -- even if it's a quick in-and-out, say hi to relatives for a few days, attend the wedding, and fly back home. And it's important to us. Our passports have been renewed, our lives are relatively stable at the moment, and theoretically we should have no obstacles to stop us from making the trip. I'm even factoring Pete's health into this, as I don't think (realistically) he will live until October, but the four cats of the younger generation should be fine for us to be gone for a few days.

But, politically? When it comes to relations between our two countries between now and then? Who knows. October is six months away; anything can happen in six months. I trust approximately zero percent of what is coming out of our government right now. 

The Grand Tomorrow, Part II

 Pete is fine. Last week, we were not sure that was going to be the case.

So, to recap a little -- last Monday morning, we were convinced that his trip to the vet, as he could barely move and was so weak and sick -- would be his last one. To be fair, he is turning 18 this month and he has been in slow kidney failure for the past few years.

I've said here before that our vet is the best vet I've ever known; he knows we are very good pet parents (and told us so) and he knows Pete well at this point. He also knows Pete's history and his medical needs, and agreed with the VCA that it was very likely he had some sort of stomach bug, noted that the antibiotics were perfectly fine for us to give him, and told us that he'd run bloodwork. In the interim he prescribed an appetite stimulant gel that we would rub on the inside of Pete's ear once a day, and gave us a couple of days' worth of anti-nausea pills for the poor old man too. 

Pete was really not doing well. He was very lethargic and still refusing food. He'd drink water, and a lot of it, if we brought it to him on the couch. He would then get up a bit later and go to pee it out in the pan before returning to his exact spot on the couch. His pee seemed normal. At night, when we both went to bed, he became very clingy with us -- me especially -- and would climb up onto my shoulder/chest as if to hold onto me for dear life. It was a waiting game more than anything else. The bloodwork would tell us what we needed to know.

Early the next morning the vet called us with the results of the bloodwork, and we braced for the worst. The bloodwork confirmed our vet's thoughts -- this was not his kidneys finally shutting down, but a stomach bug. His kidney numbers actually looked better than they looked the last time we'd had him in. However, his thyroid numbers were off the charts high, which was probably contributing to how badly he felt and how actually sick/nauseous he was. We'd stopped all of Pete's medications when he began vomiting and having diarrhea because he couldn't keep his pills, or any food/water, down anyway. Based on the bloodwork it was now fine to restart them as per the usual, and keep monitoring him here at home. We were told to keep an eye on him as it may take him a few days to have a bowel movement because of the nausea medication, but the antibiotic should work to clear out his stomach bug, the probiotic powder that VCA gave us (and which we ordered more of off Amazon) would help him feel better too, and the appetite stimulant gel should get him eating again -- basically, unless he got worse or didn't get better at all, he'd be fine. The vet also said we should bring him in again in about a month, just to recheck the thyroid levels to see if they were looking more normal after he got the medicine back in his system again to see if we needed to adjust dosages or what have you.

Remarkably, and rapidly, he did get better. The appetite stimulant gel turned Pete into what I call a food vacuum -- he became aggressively hungry and ate almost everything he could. Treats, dry food, wet food that normally he would turn his nose up at, Churus, you name it. He would climb up on us while we were eating dinner and try to eat food out of our mouths. He was still a bit weak throughout the week though, and it was clear his muscles and joints were hurting him. This also seemed to fade as we entered the weekend.

For all intents and purposes now, Pete is back to normal. He's eating normally, if not a bit more than he used to, he's drinking water, he's using the pans per the usual, and once again seems like the same Pete we've always known and loved. He spends his days with me, while I'm working downstairs at my new job, on the couch next to me -- just like he did most of the time when I worked overnights. At night, he comes up to bed with us, waits for us, and snuggles in between us or on me as is his custom. Usually Charlie or Mable join him/us as well. To those ends, Daisy and I have been doing everything we can to give him some extra love and make sure he's well-fed and comfortable, and we're thankful this latest crisis now appears to be over for the time being. 

So, there's that.

The new job is at times challenging and frustrating. I have, essentially, started over at a new company as a new employee, but I have not done so alone. Multiple colleagues and peers from my old company have done the same with this new employer, and more are coming over between now and...well, basically June. The logistics of this, and the reasoning behind it, I still have to keep you all in the dark here on for at least a little while longer. Suffice it to say that myself and my colleagues are all still cogs in the telecom machine, and that machine is a very large entity with many moving parts. Some parts move slower than others.

I have adjusted now to a life of setting my alarm clock (eew, yes, I know) for 6am -- well before Daisy gets up -- making myself feel somewhat awake, logging onto my work-issued laptop sometime in the 7am hour, and then getting off work sometime between 4 and 5 every day. In the meantime, I have a lunch hour somewhere in there that is an actual lunch hour, I get to see sunlight and daylight again, and in this long transition period I spend my day on group video calls, doing trainings, and generally having a much more relaxed working experience than I ever had on overnights. 

Am I eventually going to return to overnights? Likely, but at this point...I don't know. We have to let a lot of dust settle first. I was brought on when I was due to my longevity, expertise in the job, and my overall reliability. I am, as my executive director has told me many times over the years, "abundantly competent" at my job. I have that reputation with multiple client executives as well, and I must do what I can to keep that reputation. 

But, I mean, there are pain points in all of this too -- the onboarding process for this new job was positively asinine and incredibly personally intrusive, and even though I've been working there for almost a month (yesterday started my fourth week) it is still not completely done. My W4, for example, is broken and I can't update it in their systems (there's a helpdesk ticket open for this, of course). Our client phone systems don't work for most of us yet. I just got access to client tools four days ago. I was finally able to sign up for health insurance last week, and last I checked, my 401k was still glitching when I accessed the site. Etc. It's a long process. Myself and two other managers were brought over early to become the "test bed" for these systems in order to streamline the process for all other new hires, and while our experiences do tend to help with that, it does mean that we'll experience more pain points than most as we try to get our feet on the ground.

I will say though -- it is not bad at all. I am still working with people I've known for a decade. It's a completely different environment, yes, but essentially it's the same people in the same baseline job -- again, I'll be able to elaborate more on this as time goes by. And, in case I didn't mention it (even if I did, I'm going to say it again), I got a 20% raise. The insurance benefits are great and are inexpensive. And I still don't have to go to an office -- my cats surround me every day while I work, and I can dick around on my phone or listen to a podcast in-between tasks. 

I don't know if I mentioned it here before, but Daisy and I are also working to better ourselves outside of any work environment too -- she and I have become volunteers at the Humane Society here in town. We went through orientation two weeks ago, received our badges and shirts, and we start our first official shifts on Saturday morning -- doing laundry for the shelter.

Now, mind you, Daisy doesn't always want to be the laundryperson for the shelter; she's more adventurous than I am and eventually wants to be one of the kitten feeders, cat welfare assistants, etc. -- but, honestly I don't mind it. My time is very valuable and important to me, but with volunteering I know that every little bit helps. And that's all I want to do -- I want to help, I want to give back. Not everything is glamorous. I'll do laundry for the shelter, I'll organize the food stores and donations, I'll do paperwork or clean litter pans or run the front desk or run the cash register in the pet supply store onsite -- I absolutely don't care for the most part. I just want to help. I want to give back to this wonderful shelter who, in the past two years, has provided us with four cats to love -- four cats who have brought so much happiness and love into our home. 

So, as laundry shifts are what's available at the moment...laundry it is. 

Not too much different than any other Saturday for me, I guess -- the bulk of my weekends are spent doing our own laundry for free, might as well do it while wearing a uniform and help out some animals at the same time.

Being a volunteer gives special access and a few perks/privileges that kick in after awhile. For one, as volunteers we get first pick of the new animals that come in, so if our dream cat does eventually come along, we can attempt to snag it first before it hits the general public. For two, Daisy's job will give the charity of her choice something like $500 a year once she completes so many hours of volunteer work there (and it's a ridiculously low number too, something like eight hours). Plus I guess we get discounts in the on-site store, after a predetermined number of hours (I think 100) we can get $100 off an adoption fee, etc. Just stuff like that. Obviously that's not why we're doing it, of course, but still. I plan to ignore most of the perks until there's something we can actively use, because I just want to help the animals and give something back to the community. 

On the wall outside the small volunteers' office, there's a plaque with a long list of brass engraved plates with names and years for "volunteer of the year." Sometimes it's a single person, sometimes it's a couple, and at least one year it was "all volunteers." I told Daisy that there's a primal need in me to have my name on that plaque. She can have whatever goals she wants in volunteering there when it comes to helping out the animals, and I have those goals too, but overall, that's mine -- I just desperately want someone to care and to recognize that yes, I am doing something good. Nobody has to know who I am. I can just be another face in the crowd, but I can't tell you how much I want my name on that plaque.