Hey, there!

Did you get my other message? Are you there? Hello?

I got your postcard from Chapel Hill about the day I left Hartford to move here. That's right, after all the talking I did about it, I actually packed up a U-Haul, hitched my car on the back and got the hell out of there. WHEW!

In case I forget later, here's my address:

John McQuiston
Rt. 3
396 Cedar Village Road
Chapel Hill, NC 27516

The "Rt. 3" part is needed because I'm actually about 5 miles south of the actual town of Chapel Hill and the postman (postperson?) needs to know that my address is a rural route. It's a southern boondocks thing.

You'll also notice there's no apartment number in my address. That's because there are no apartments in my house. Just me. And Annie. And my big TV. It's a small house that looks beaten up and run down on the outside (which I hope will make it a less attractive target to thieves) but cozy and comfortable inside.

If I had any doubts I was back down south, they vanished when I saw the flag hanging outside my next door neighbor's house. They're loyal and patriotic down here... to their favorite stock car driver! The flag features the number and sponsor's logo of NASCAR driver Dale Earnhardt's car (which would be the number 3 GM Goodwrench Chevrolet, of course). That's another southern boondocks thing.

Annie's doing fine. She's been spayed. What a day that was. (Hey, can I write a sentence with more than five words?). They told me she would be groggy when I brought her home after the surgery, they didn't tell me that she would look like she was closer to death than Bob Dole and Lloyd Bentsen put together. She would try to lift her head and her strength and consciousness would fade as her head drifted back down to the floor as if the very life were draining from her. It was scary. It didn't help that her upper respiratory sickness had returned and it seemed to take more energy than she had just to breathe.

But she did, as the Eagles advise, "Get Over It".

The Little Pretty Kitty

The next day she was up and around but I was afraid to touch her because she had to be extremely sore -- as I'm sure you would be if someone removed your ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, cervix and most of your vagina. (By the way, I believe that is the first occasion I have had to write the word "vagina" and, I must tell you, it's quite exciting.)

Annie did her best to save the vet the trouble of removing her stitches by taking out all but one of them by herself. Yes, "Ouch!" is what I thought, too. Still, she was doomed to another visit to the vet which to Annie must rank right up there on the pleasure scale with removing her own stitches. "All those smelly animals. Isn't the one I have to live with bad enough?" she must wonder.

A salty talking woman named Carole Stemkowski who works as a veterinarian when she's not busy cussing like a sailor showed me how to "pill the cat". That is, jam the anti-biotic tablet that’s supposed to cure her snotty nose far enough down her throat that she has no choice but to swallow it. The vet warned me that, "you don't have a lot of d*ck around time" before the cat figures out what your up to and gets other ideas. Even if I can successfully get Annie to take her anti-biotic, it may not be a bacteria that's causing the problem which means "we're just p-ing in the wind" with the pills anyway.

"Thanks a [blank] load for that happy thought," I said, and left. No, not really. You know I don't talk like that, don't you? I just think like that. I also think that paying $18.50 just for her words of wisdom (and of urinating into air currents) plus the $12.50 for the pills (which might be just an exercise of said urinating) was a pretty crappy deal.

I visited the Orange County Animal Shelter yesterday. Annie is approaching her first birthday which will make her a full-fledged adult cat – a less than whopping six and a quarter pound adult cat – but an adult cat nevertheless. As much as I appreciate her entrance into adulthood (which can be measured as much by the fact that she has finally learned to scratch her scratch post instead of my couch as it can by any calendar), I miss seeing her as a kitten. Since she's not having any of her own – at least not without a certain veterinarian getting slapped with a big fat lawsuit – I thought I'd go visit some at the shelter. There's never any shortage. They get kittens there faster than college students get in line for free beer. One of the volunteers told me about one person she knew whose cat had had two litters of kittens the owner couldn't get rid of but who STILL wouldn't have the cat spayed.

What really broke my heart were the older cats, the ones I knew were never going home. While I had come to see the kittens, I quickly saw that everybody else there had the same idea so I decided I was going to stop at the other cages and pet every older cat that asked for attention. Believe me, they do. They cry for it. They look like they’re angry, mean and wish you would go away when they really wish you wouldn't. One all white cat mewed like a cheap car alarm whenever someone came near her. After I opened her cage and started petting her, there was no sound except her purring. And it wasn't long before she was trying to figure out how she could jump into my lap even though I was standing.

There were labels on each cage with information about the animals inside. After the parts that list the cat's age, gender and things like that, comes the sentence that chills you: "This animal can be taken home or euthanized after the available date." There is a box under that in which the date is written. In some of the boxes it said, "now." That meant I was looking at an animal who might – that very day – be convicted and executed for the simple crime of being born.

Some were lucky. They had little green labels on their cages announcing that they were going home. I didn’t feel foolish at all when I congratulated them, said to them, "you’re being sprung!" and told them how lucky they were.

I left wishing I could save the rest and saddened knowing I couldn’t. But I had saved one. I had saved Annie. And I had saved many more by having her spayed so she would never bring any kittens into the world who might die just for being born.

Yeah, I know what your thinking. "Thanks a boatload for that happy thought."

I haven’t found a job yet but I figure that’s going to take a lot of time so while I have to work to find things to do until I find a job, I don’t yet need to work just to make money. Knock on wood. Or whatever plastic veneered particle board this desk is.

Again, my e-mail address is: johnmcq@hotmail.com but you’re welcome to use "snail mail" to reply.

Take care,

John

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