Around the subject of the cat
March 16, 2009
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I never set out to be the Mad Cat Woman. Yes, I like cats; they're brilliant creatures and there is no happier sound in the world than a cat's purr. And if El Mog were in any way vaguely approaching normal I'm sure his presence in my life would be (almost) restricted to home and the occasional blog Conversation. But he's weird. And poorly. And impinging on my overall life in a way I don't actually resent – I'm ridiculously anally retentive anyway; injection timing merely gives me an excuse to demand plans in advance.
But I'm starting to get oh-so-bored with it being my only topic of conversation. It's partly my own fault for having a habit of overexplaining (perhaps I should adopt the tactic of "never apologise, never explain"? For everything?) and you can't blame people for having the 'wtf?!' reaction. It's completely understandable and I don't resent them for it. What I resent – childishly, petulantly, regrettably – is that I am now The Woman With The Diabetic Cat. This is my main defining characteristic. I know the half hour before I leave the pub (for a late injection) or the half hour after I've arrived late at the pub (for an early injection) will revolve around the cat (because I feel the need to explain why I'm leaving / why I'm there two hours after everyone else. See? My own fault. I suck). There's a thing possibly happening in a couple of weeks that I really want to get confirmed or not, because I may or may not need to book a catsitter. But, dear lord, I don't want to subject people again to the stuck record of "please give me answers / injections / yawn". It's boring for me and frankly, it must be boring the crap out of everyone else.
Unfortunately it's a fact of my life, and one that I can't get away from. I also don't want people to think I'm some dullard loser who can't handle boozing until closing time. So I end up having them think I'm a cat obsessed dullard loser instead. Neither is quite what I have in mind for my self image.
To clarify: I love the little fuzzball dearly. There's precious little else on this Earth I'd do so much for. But. Is it OK if I stop talking about it now? If we tacitly accept that I'm going to be a finicky arse-pain about when we're meeting up so I can stop mentioning it? Please? I want to be normal again…