Case in point: Last week, I had a young man with schizophrenia request me to come see what he "does" as a volunteer at a local shelter. As he speaks about the cats at the place of which he volunteers non-stop (it is his one true pleasure in life), I could not turn down such a genuine request.
Please note: I am EXTREMELY allergic to cats. We're talking hives and swollen eyes and itching and eventual difficulty breathing. Oh, I can deal with one cat at a time, but only when armed with allergy medication AND an immediate washing of the hand if said hand actually touched the cat. Two cats I can take if I have allergy medication AND I don't touch either of the cats AND I change my clothes after being in a house with two cats. More than two cats: count me out. I will sit on the front stoop and wait for the party to end.
If you think I am kidding about that last sentence, I am not. One time, during a party at a friend's house, I actually had to sit outside on the front stoop while the party raged on inside. The hostess owned 6+ cats. I was wheezing within minutes of being in that house. I watched the festivities through the picture window.
To be clear, I really like cats but I can't have a cat. I am way too allergic. (That and the fact that the wife is most definitely a cat fan. Now, now--don't be hating on the wife. She is just not a cat person. After all, she doesn't let me walk on the counters. You think she's gonna let a cat walk on the counters?)
Back to the cat-loving client. I explained to him numerous times that I couldn't come visit due to my severe allergy. He was not going to take "no" for my answer. I'm telling ya, that guy wore me down. No matter what I said, he had an answer. He promised me I wouldn't have to touch any of the cats and that he would only expect me to stay a few minutes. I knew he was lying (to himself--I saw right through it). I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of there in a few minutes, but, he wore me down.....
....I went to the shelter and hoped for the best.
I had no idea how many cats (or volunteers) there would be. There were cats and volunteers everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I teetered on anaphylactic shock just waling in the door. (From the cats, not the volunteers.) The cats looked mighty happy and relaxed, almost as if they were looking over their kingdom and reigning over their minions--er, I mean volunteers.
Mr. Cat, as I shall call him, was very excited to see me and immediately started dragging me around to meet the cats. Every.Single.Cat. Not just the cat, mind you. He read every cage door tag aloud to me. He made sure I knew the cat's name. He talked about their demeanor. I knew I could live through up to 30 minutes of being in the building, so I decided to do my best and enjoy his oozing of pride.
[Because Mr. Cat has schizophrenia, he has what is known as a very flat affect--that is, he shows little emotion and has a very monotonous tone when speaking. I tell you this only so you can envision the interaction in a more realistic manner. No smile, no warmth to the voice. Very matter of fact and direct. Envision this.]It's when he opened each and every cage that I knew I was in trouble. Not only did he open each cage, he demanded--in his flat, loud, no-nonsense voice--I pet the cat.
Mr. Cat [points to open cage of first cat]: Aren't you going to pet the cat?
Me [shaking head no]: You know I'm allergic to cats.
Mr. Cat [with an unusual amount of emotion, most definitely aimed at me]: You mean you are not going to pet this cat?
Me: No, I really can't pet that cat. I'm really allergic.
Mr. Cat [louder, firmer]: You are not even going to touch it on the back? You have to pet this cat.
Me: Seriously, I can't pet the cat. I honestly can't.
Guess who petted the cat?
I have to say, the cats were very happy to have affection pointed their way. Lots of purring, lots of rubbing faces on my arm...one cat was even licking me. Of course, each cat needed attention, per his explanation. Thus, I petted every cat. One hand only. No holding the cat. Just petting its head or back.
Mr. Cat: Do you want to hold this cat?
Me [in a hopefully stern but compassionate voice]: No, I don't want to hold the cat.
Mr. Cat: C'mon. Just hold the cat.
Me [backing away slowly]: I can't hold the cat.
Mr. Cat: At least pet the cat.
Me [not a fool]: No, I'm not petting that cat. You'll just hand it to me.
Mr. Cat smiled. It was then I realized his day had been made. Mr. Cat was very much enjoying my visit.
I did not have to hold the cat. I had to do something MUCH worse: I had to go meet the dogs.
Mr. Cat knew Freckles and Lucy. He is always talking about Freckles and Lucy being in heaven. He wanted me to see the dogs so I might miss Freckles and Lucy less. That was a kind and loving act on his part. For me, it was torture.
Mr. Cat: Do you want to see the dogs?
Me: No, no I really don't want to see the dogs.
Mr. Cat: C'mon, come see the dogs. They're really nice. Look, there is one like Freckles and Lucy.
Me: No, no, no! Do not make me look at the dogs. I can't look at the dogs!
Guess who looked at the dogs?
It was awful. I am still having flashbacks. I don't go to shelters for a reason. I'll give money but I'm not going in the door.
First up: a tiny little shih tzu-ish mutt, super old, mostly deaf and decidedly limited in sight. The guessed age was between 10 and 13. There was no way that dog was less than 13. I know an old dog when I see one, having just survived the passing of a crusty old dog. I was heart broken that the dog was there and it gave a little howl suggesting he knew of my ability to spoil older dogs. Now praying for more cats, ready to kiss cats on the head and rub them all over my arms and face in order to escape this torture, I turned to leave. That's when Mr. Cat shoved me toward the next cage, housing a sausage of a three year old dog, own surrender due to owner health issues. She gave me a pitiful take me home look. Oh, how I wanted to take that dog home....
I am going to send Mr. Cat my therapy bill.
Please know that the dogs were very well cared for, with volunteers loving each of them--sitting with them, talking to them, petting them, feeding them, playing with them. If you had to be a dog at a shelter, I'd pick this place. Lots of food, lots of love, lots of very clean cages. Still, I can't bear it. I tried everything but knocking Mr. Cat on his ass to get out of that room.
Suffice it to say, I left without a dog. Just scars. No dogs. By the end of the tour, I was ready to go home, roll into a little fetal ball and call it a day.Mr. Cat thanked me for coming to see his cats. He asked me if I wanted to take a cat home. He even offered advice about what cat I should choose. For once during this whole ordeal, I stood firm. I did NOT come home with a cat. I returned to my office with hives on my forearms and very itchy eyes but nothing more.
As I was leaving, Mr. Cat promised me we can look at photos of cats on the shelter's webpage when he next comes to see me in my office. Although I adore Mr. Cat and honor his dedication to the cats of which he serves....
....I think my computer shall be broken that day.
No, I KNOW it will be very "broken" and nowhere to be found. It'll be in the trunk of my car, avoiding cats and dogs, hidden right next to my supply of Benadryl. The computer and I will be avoiding photos and stories of the animals like there is no tomorrow.
hell. Who am I kidding? I'll look at the web page when he next visits. Pray that crusty teacup elder of a dog is gone by the time he makes me look at that website.
*******************************************************************
No comments:
Post a Comment