It’s all about Pussy
Even before fully formed, the jumbled words tumbled off of my lips. Futility I kept trying to suck them back in or dam up the uncontained flow, but word after word pushed it’s stubborn way out of my mouth, and a raging river of unedited thoughts was surrounding me, drowning me.
I didn’t want to be here – in a two hour instructional class on “welcome to the program,” aka. a painful two-hour rehash of a pamphlet that any reasonable person could’ve / would’ve read on his/her own – but someone down the line spoiled it for the bunch because he or she was ill prepared. So now everyone has to suffer. A 10 minute read turns into a two hour lecture, and I bristle at the lazy masses. But I am here so I can take the class that I (think I) need.
He walks in late; a jolly bubble of a man, with an ill-fitting brown tweed jacket and George Costanza hairline. He proceeds to ramble an apology to the three of us about how his usually spirited class will be less than spirited. You see, his beloved cat has had an attack. Last night he was confronted with hairballs and vomit, so this morning kitty took a trip to animal E.R. An I.V. and a few pills later, and his beloved pet will be just fine.
So I think, fine, ok, now let’s onto the lecture – but oh no, not before sharing a 4 x 6 glossy of said kitty-cat. Its head overtook the frame in an extreme close-up, and the moment caught was of pussy in a screaming yawn. And the picture is not just shown, but passed around like a precious trophy before it is finally put away.
To hurry the moment along, now that we’ve lost 20 minutes of 120, I state with empathy and closure, “Well, I’m glad that the Doctors have said he’ll be fine, cats do throw-up, that is what they do.” Foolish me! I opened a door I thought I was shutting! “Oh no,” quoth our non-lecturing lecturer, “This was more than that; they had to use an I.V.!” Then piped right in, one of my fellow classmates; “I know! I have six cats and one of them was so sick once, I thought she would die!” And on and on we go, feline babble between him and her, with a polite girl and impolite me caught in the line of fire.
As we finally wrap up cat chat, two late newcomers arrive, and he feels (for some ungodly reason) that he must whip out the 4 x 6 glossy and again explain his harried morning, which no one wants to hear, but they are still sucking up (even though he has no power to get them what they want), and allowing him his hairball speech.
With less tact this time and more “let’s wrap it up,” I say, “Well, that’s great that cats have nine-lives. So, what’s in the folder?’ The door to hell was opened. Anything I said, he was led to believe that I had a bit of interest in his uninteresting pet. “No, he’s lost more than a few lives; he’s a mischievous one, ha ha!” And painful story after story about the mischievous one is told, and minute after minute is ticked away on the clock.
30 minutes are lost, never to be gotten back, and the basic level of restraint I was holding onto was quickly losing its strength. A few bits of words tumbled here and tumbled there, and Costanza got the picture and we finally opened our folders. Now I knew there would be nothing I would learn whether it was told quickly or slowly, I just had to make it through so I could take the class on the other side. However, the impatient in me was pressing to get out (and tear up that damn 4 x 6 glossy).
Every tangent he took (and he took so many), several more thoughts tumbled out of my mouth before they went through the editing process. His face would register my growing disdain, and back on track we’d go for a moment. And every time, I would tell my mouth, “Don’t open! Swallow it down!” but my mouth had a mind of its own. So passive-aggressive me and cat-distracted him battled it out in the classroom.
From the beginning it was to be for me a losing battle: the four other students in the room were morally on my side, but politically on his, and politics always beat out morals. The minutes finally catch up with the hours and we are with pleasure, released. Two hours of cat-killing thoughts and impatient words have wrecked havoc on my brain, and regret seeps in through the cracks.
I tried to control an uncontrollable situation; I was a passenger on the Special Bus, and rather than enjoying the bumpy ride, I kept telling the left-of-center driver how to drive. Will I learn my lesson? Will I be able to hold up the dam? Can I allow the driver to drive? Count on it…unless I have to hear about someone’s damn cat.
