Happy anniversary, Spartacus the Cat.

Today is my third anniversary with Spartacus the Cat, who came bursting (well, more like cowering, but he’s come around since then) into my life three years ago when I spontaneously decided to take him off the hands of the lady who was fostering him. She was working at the Idaho Humane Society and took him home because his prospects of survival were not good due to his social anxiety.

It was not love at first sight; when I went to meet him, he of course hid. To be perfectly honest, I was a little put off by his neurosis, and unsure what to make of the fact that he called to mind nothing so much as a furry gargoyle.

I’ve come around since then. Three years later, I can’t imagine my life without him (and Meep, who came around that summer). He’s been an unfailing source of comfort, companionship, and unconditional affection through a stretch of difficult years. Spartacus and Meep changed my life; if it weren’t for them, I’d most likely be writing this from South Korea, where I’d be teaching English.

I won’t pretend  I’m not ambivalent about my derailed career plans and impaired ability to vagabond about the globe in the long term while my darlings live out their days; truthfully, sometimes I wonder what the hell I’m thinking. But, at the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade my cat family for the world and I’m grateful for the joy, and yes, I’ll say it, because I am a crazy cat lady, and I don’t care how it sounds—love—they’ve brought into my life.

I love you guys!

Journeys, destinations, and crazy cat lady rantings.

Up bright and early, brimming with plans, prospects, and mad dashes for hope and the future. The thing about cabins is that although they may be made from trees, they do not grow on trees, at least not on the outskirts of Austin. All is not lost, however—there are some options out there, some of which, if not literally cabins, seem like they might be bearable until it makes more sense to sever myself from civilization in earnest (if this will ever make sense, that is).

Or maybe I’ll throw pragmatism out the window, hightail it to the Colorado mountains, and reenact The Shining. Again. Since this is what I more or less did in Boise, without the panoramic views or quality solitude.

We shall see.

The thing about seeking things (which I believe is the root of travel: to seek out new places, experiences, people, ways of seeing the world) is that the search puts you in touch with the Longing For Things, whether that be solitude, or love, or connection, or peace and quiet, or purpose, or, or, or…the way that the smell of food seems to make people hungry (I wouldn’t know—as Li says, my ole factory is shut down). There’s something to be said for being put in direct, visceral contact with the Longing for Things: for the process of trying to meet these needs and for the simultaneous awareness that often—almost always?—it is the Longing and corresponding search that are the pleasure and point of it all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, the journey is the destination, man.

And all of that.

In other news, Meep has become a regrettably picky eater, eschewing various flavors of wet food without any discernible pattern (on the blacklist are the chunky salmon Fancy Feast that comes in the lime green can and a certain stripe of Friskies’ seafood pate—Mariner’s Choice, I think? Or maybe it’s Mariner’s Catch). Well, she has a right to have preferences, I thought, and tried to accommodate them by whisking away the offending flavor and replacing it with a more acceptable variety.

The problem is that I only use half a can per serving and she refuses to eat leftovers, either cold or reheated to room temperature in the microwave. Plus, I still have the offending flavors to use up, which is fine, because Spartacus has absolutely no reservations about any flavor of wet food, fresh, leftover, cold, or at room temperature; his only qualms lie in the fact that there is never, ever ENOUGH of it, EVER. But, since Sparty only gets a half-can of food per meal as well, and since I have been busting out two separate flavors per meal, trying to accommodate Meep’s aversion to certain flavors AND to leftovers, half-can after half-can of wet cat food have been accruing in plastic zipper bags in my refrigerator, which is becoming cluttered and unappetizing. I finally had to put my foot down this morning; when she refused heated-to-room-temperature leftovers of a flavor that yesterday had been perfectly acceptable, I had to say “this isn’t a restaurant, Little Missy” and direct her to the kibble, my Guilty Single Mother complex burning a hole in my conscience all the while.

I think I have a better inkling now of what my poor parents went through with my own picky eating tendencies.

Also, look! Since this post has devolved into still more musings of a Crazy Cat Lady, here’s Sparty enjoying his Christmas present from his Aunt Amy! Thank you, Aunt Amy! 

The mighty hunter stalks his prey.

 At this point, Meep had become the prey (again).

I want no part o’ this apartment.

So I quit it! I gave my sixty-day notice—which technically qualifies as a lease violation—on Tuesday. Why? Because I hate it! This is a crummy, beige, noise-besotted hellhole in which beasts masquerading as neighbors bare their barracuda teeth at good behavior, sink their serpentine fangs into each peaceful moment, and gore basic human decency, etiquette, and awareness with their bloodstained tusks and angry horns. In light of the fact that if you are miserable and have any say in the matter (First World, whew!) and choose to do nothing, you are choosing to be miserable, this move (upward, downward, or lateral) makes sense.

The thing about doing something like this—taking bold and decisive action when your default mode with respect to decision-making is Mosquito Trapped in Amber—is that it tends to open the floodgates. This is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

It raises all sorts of questions, for instance: what now? Why am I here (in this case, I refer to my literal location rather than the Meaning of Life, although if you happen to know the Meaning of Life and are inclined to pass it along, then please, by all means do)? Why would I be anywhere else? What am I doing with my life? Have I allowed the Onus of Responsibility to fetter me unduly? What does responsibility mean, anyway? Responsible to whom? I’m responsible for myself, of course, and my cats. I feel a responsibility to the people who care about me not to give them evitable cause to worry. But perhaps I’ve mistaken stagnation for responsibility. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with being a roving Vagabond Gypsy Cat Lady and running, running, running like something’s on my tail (and I ain’t talking stripes).

It’s entirely possible—and even likely—I will secure something livable in Austin. But right now what sounds ideal is living in a cabin in the Colorado mountains—or in the forest somewhere rainy and chilly—with nary a neighbor in sight. Maybe just go totally Walden for a year—and hyper-document the experience of course—and see how it agrees with me. If I love it, then awesome, and if not then I return to civilization with a fresh perspective on its draws and drawbacks.

Is this the responsible thing to do? Probably not. But maybe it’s what I need right now. And, after all, my primary responsibility is to myself.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to keep my options open. I’m applying to library school, hatching some writing and self-publishing schemes (or the inklings thereof, at least), and I’ll also look into livable Austin situations too.

Should you care to sort out the bothersome mess of What I Should Do With My Life, suggestions, ultimatums, and exhortations are welcome here. You could of course also share similar experiences and struggles of your own.