Sprout:Outside :: Katie:Love

The infrared dog door is not ideal. Chienne is afraid of the clicking sound it makes when the device on her collar unlocks it for her. I had to convince her to use it this morning with much early-morning excitement and happiness so she knew it was a good thing to use the dog door! Yay for the dog door! Five minutes later I responded to her pitiful whining and helped her come inside despite the scary clicking. Silly dog.

It is, however, effective at keeping Sprout inside. I was less than OK when forced to deal with ick. I was afraid he’d bring in something live and I would be driven over the edge into insanity. I also worried he’d get hit by a car or fight with another animal on one of his adventures. It’s best that he stays inside. I believe this to be true.

Sprout disagrees with my assessment.

I was awakened at 7 this morning by the sound of breaking glass. He’d knocked my diploma off the mantle, shattering the glass in the frame as it hit the hearth. He comes to my room, cuddles close to my ear, then meows demandingly throughout the night. He’s awake and bored and exacting revenge. Chienne will eventually growl at him as he disturbs her sleep once again. He squeaks the plush squirrel he stole from Chienne’s toy box. He pounces and leaps and runs. He breaks stuff.

When I get up in the morning – or before I go to bed at night – he will go to the dog door and look out the clear plastic. Then he will yowl at the top of his little lungs, so desperate to find freedom once again that the frustration and irritation overwhelm his tiny soul and must find some release. He liked it outside! There were new scents and sights! He could run as fast as he wanted, climb fences, hunt prey. He was a cat in all his glory.

“You know,” I told him after refusing to allow him outside yet again, “it’s not so bad for you. There are toys in your basket, 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms for you to play in. I give you kibble and clean your litter. You can play with your canine companion unless she’s trying to sleep and do I not pet you when you interrupt my working on my laptop? I hold you and you purr and those are nice times, yes? Try to focus on that.”

I worked from home today – not out of a depressive episode but because it really made more sense to stay here and work on my histograms. Instead of driving for 2 hours, I took a nap in the afternoon. And I steadily worked through datasets that are actually looking very good. I continue to bask in the glow that each of my three graduate publications has found a home. I think the dread that the old work meant nothing and wasn’t good enough for publication drained any motivation I had to create new results. It appears that circumstances have now coalesced in a way that mean work is good. I’m happy and productive. It’s weirding me out a bit, but in a pleasant way.

As I sat on the loveseat, transferring data and running Matlab code, Sprout sprinted down from the hall and landed on the cushion next to me.

“What’s up, pretty kitten?” I asked him. Instead of offering his head to be petted, he rolled to his back and presented me with his fluffy tummy. Then he stared at me expectantly. So I rubbed his tummy.

Only to have my hand grabbed with two front paws, claws kindly sheathed, as he attempted to play. I consented, warning him against biting me, and batted at his paws with my fingers.

“You’re bored.” I said as I tapped his nose and pulled back as he opened his mouth. “I’m sorry. But it’s for the best, I think.”

I got email from Mom this afternoon and wandered down the hall away from the computer, torn between irritation and pain and happiness. I decided to join Sprout in his room as he stared out his window, perhaps remembering how it felt to be out there in the cold. How his fur would get wet in the rain or smell of smoke when neighbors were using their fireplaces. How life was new and exciting and full. It was fine now, of course, but it wasn’t all it could be.

I stared out the window too – looking past my brown picket fence into the neighbor’s kitchen. Julie is married and has a son. She works and is in love and has a baby to care for. And while I don’t begrudge her that happiness, it’s hard not to miss what I don’t have.

I miss being in love. In any form, actually. The safe stability I had with Ryan – knowing he’d call or email, that we’d see each other for dinner or movies. That I kept soda he liked for when we’d hang out at my place. I knew his food preferences, though he was always kind enough to sample my cooking experiments. I miss remembering his travel dates and getting long distance calls. Knowing that there was someone out there paired with me, even if unofficially. As more time passes, I wonder if I made the right choice in walking away. I miss him. How he’d listen so carefully and think about what to say. His moderate interest in politics and genuine concentration on church. He traveled with youth groups on mission trips and was being rapidly promoted at work. I wonder if he threw out the plant I gave him one Valentine’s Day – it was a gorgeous schefflera in a handsome piece of pottery. His brother’s wife was pregnant when I left graduate school and his other niece should be starting school soon.

Then there was the intensity that was more recent. The simultaneous desire to stay in this moment forever because it’s so good and the eagerness to see what is yet to come because it might be even better. The sparkling hope that I found the one I was going to keep. That I’d have someone to live with, sleep with, play with. I could cheer his successes and encourage after he faltered. Make sure he ate properly and didn’t slip into a withdrawn sulk. Read books he recommended and cuddle on the couch as we watched movies. Develop a more sophisticated palate with regard to wine. See who I was in a relationship that matched affection with passion.

I found myself closing my eyes against the pain – the thought that maybe I won’t find that. Perhaps this is it. I blinked and looked at Sprout as he regarded me sleepily, content with sharing his bed but vaguely concerned about the arrival of a large, friendly dog.

“Brother is having another baby.” I told him. “I’m not ready to have a baby yet, but I wish I was in love. I miss being in love. Yearn for it like you do the outside. Though the howling at the door is a bit undignified. I’m not going to do that.”

I smoothed the fur on his side, then rubbed under his chin. Maybe the danger and ick outside is worth it. Perhaps a short life happily lived is better than a long one wishing for what isn’t. Either way, I empathize with the poor cat.

I wonder if he thinks he’ll get out again. If he prowls the house each night, plotting his escape and dreaming of what’s outside these walls. Mice and birds and other cats. Territory left unexplored and the freedom to go where he likes. The feeling that you’re just one step away from ecstasy or despair, but knowing that the latter is worthwhile because you got to feel so amazing at least for a time.

Brother can’t really afford another baby right now. I thought they were going to wait since my parents contribute so much financially already. Little One stays with my folks at least 3 nights a week – wouldn’t it make sense to care for your current child before adding to the family? And it just feels like there’s more distance between me and the rest of the family. That Brother’s stock continues to rise as he produces delightful children and I’m left to joke that if I die alone, at least I’ll be able to stave off boredom by watching my train from Grandpa. At the same time, I’m happy for him – they love Little One very much. They’re good parents. I love Brother very much and if this is what makes him happy, then I will be suitably thrilled for him.

But I still feel a bit like Sprout, standing at a dog door that he inexplicably can’t get to open, seeing what’s outside but unable to get there.