I was trying to convince a stiffly smiling girl in a ponytail to take a jar of cat poop from me. It had a little plastic spoon in it, like an ice cream sample. Yes, it's fresh. Yes, I was told to come here with the poop. Sure, go call and ask them. Oh good, I'm glad I pre-paid. I had an existential moment, standing there looking at the poop with the little pink spoon in it. What is happening? How did I arrive here?
I haven't had any bolts of precognitive woo in a while. Most of them, when they happened, were so long-term that they haven't even had time to elapse so I'll know if I'm full of shit or not. I had that one when I was 17, looking at the feet splayed beside me and realizing they were attached to my husband in the manner of someone realizing they will have to assemble a dresser with instructions in the wrong language, and that turned out to be a thing that happened. But it hasn't done me a damn bit of good in predicting any of the things that actually took a hammer to my peace of mind over the years, so I don't hold my imaginary psychic abilities in high regard. "Don't believe everything you think," I always yell at my kids and people on the Internet.
Then driving home yesterday, the thought suddenly arrived, in all-caps like the voice of Death in a Pratchett novel, I'LL HAVE TO CALL GAVIN HOME FROM HIS GRANDMA'S HOUSE BECAUSE SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED TO ASTRID. I clenched up with dread when we pulled into the driveway, but there was no dead cat run down in the road. Well, that's good, then. I got my shopping and trotted Zenny up to the front door and the cat came flopping out of the bushes with both her hind legs busted, like a really unhappy trout.
Three hours later, I was handing over my debit card and taking home my broken cat with $430 of diagnostic exams and no diagnosis. "She wasn't poisoned, she's not diseased, there is no infection, and X-rays are going to be another $300, so come back if she looks like she's going to die and we'll get those done. She probably got clipped by a car or kicked by a neighbor." GREAT. Whenever I feel pissy about the cost of medical care, I console myself by asking, "Would I want to bring the cat to Jiffy Lube and see if they can figure out how to spay her? Would that root canal look any better if it was my bank teller with the drill?" You pay for expertise and peace of mind. Even if they give you a plastic spoon and tell you to shovel up some poop in a jar as homework.
So the boy was called home from his grandmother's house because something happened to his cat. And the grandmother followed, because these are times in which you want your mom to come fix everything. The cat is doped up and convalescing, but she's not dying. Am side-eyeing my neighbors to see which one looks like a cat kicker.
Next time I get a bolt of intuition, I am going to shut everyone in the house and hide under blankets. Unless it's about the house going up in a blanket fire.
Then driving home yesterday, the thought suddenly arrived, in all-caps like the voice of Death in a Pratchett novel, I'LL HAVE TO CALL GAVIN HOME FROM HIS GRANDMA'S HOUSE BECAUSE SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED TO ASTRID. I clenched up with dread when we pulled into the driveway, but there was no dead cat run down in the road. Well, that's good, then. I got my shopping and trotted Zenny up to the front door and the cat came flopping out of the bushes with both her hind legs busted, like a really unhappy trout.
Three hours later, I was handing over my debit card and taking home my broken cat with $430 of diagnostic exams and no diagnosis. "She wasn't poisoned, she's not diseased, there is no infection, and X-rays are going to be another $300, so come back if she looks like she's going to die and we'll get those done. She probably got clipped by a car or kicked by a neighbor." GREAT. Whenever I feel pissy about the cost of medical care, I console myself by asking, "Would I want to bring the cat to Jiffy Lube and see if they can figure out how to spay her? Would that root canal look any better if it was my bank teller with the drill?" You pay for expertise and peace of mind. Even if they give you a plastic spoon and tell you to shovel up some poop in a jar as homework.
So the boy was called home from his grandmother's house because something happened to his cat. And the grandmother followed, because these are times in which you want your mom to come fix everything. The cat is doped up and convalescing, but she's not dying. Am side-eyeing my neighbors to see which one looks like a cat kicker.
Next time I get a bolt of intuition, I am going to shut everyone in the house and hide under blankets. Unless it's about the house going up in a blanket fire.
Edited to add: while I was driving home from the poop delivery, my phone buzzed with the first rejection for my book. HUZZAH.
It has been a spectacularly crap week. I'm going to go re-post my shmoopy song from last week, because THAT'S RIGHT, I'M GOING TO WALLOW.
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