Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Archive for the tag “hsp”

The Pound

(10th March, 2016)

The pound.  Just the words makes dread spread through my body. Red, Blondi, Naranga and Albina are missing from the neighborhood, as well as less frequent cat visitors I have not named in my head. The neighbourhood cats are my friends; we hang out and chat, which is what friends do, right?
I don’t know if they have been rounded up and caught, poisoned or what.
Apparently there is a “pound” in town. Noone I’ve asked knows where. There’s no way of knowing how long they hold onto the furfolk they bring there to give humans a chance to reclaim their furry family members. Or if they are “destroyed” straight away. I don’t want to dwell on it or think about it. To me it is equal to murder, and I want to scream someone is murdering my friends!!!

So many thoughts and feelings running through my head. They’re my friends – what you are doing is a feline holocaust. I’m anthropomorphising I know, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m wondering what they will think of me for not coming to look for them. I feel I have failed my feline brethren even though it is not my obligation for lack of a better word. I can’t keep the whole world safe.

“You should have run, been even more careful!” I cry. ‘Everything is a co-creation’ I tell myself but it is scant comfort. If you want to be a creator you have got to let everyone else be one too. In this instance it’s no comfort at all.

What if we did find out where it is and went there, and were greeted by fifty – a hundred – hopeful or despairing furry faces? And only could bring home one or two? Could my heart bear to walk away from all the others, knowing their fate? Knowing they’ll be murdered? It would feel like it is my fault, I’ve been found lacking when it comes to being able to help our feline and canine sisters and brothers out of their predicament.

I tell our two to be careful every time they step out of the house and not eat anything suspect, to stay out of reach of humans. I make sure there’s always food in the bowl. “It’s not you I don’t trust” I whisper in their ears, “it’s other people I don’t trust any more.”
I detest how so many common people have no respect for other forms of life, unless it is a darned chihuahua.
Who teach their offspring cats are dirty and vermin. Cat’s aren’t dirty! They keep rats, mice and snakes population under control, and Tabita is very talented at killing any cockroach she sees. They are far too small to remove a bag of rubbish from a bin. Here it is the dogs who drag garbage bags into the street and rips them open, but it’s not out of malice, they are just hungry.

Why are there so many? Because people here seem to inherently dislike having their pets fixed, even with free spay and neuter clinics. And because in low season a family may not have enough to feed that dog so let it out in the street to forage for itself as best it can. It’s not a cute little puppy for the kids to play with any more, and thus it joins the feral’s.

I miss our orange boys, their sweet faces greeting me at the door in the morning. They only want a safe place to hang out, a place to sleep and rest, some food and love. Just like you. Just like me. I miss them a lot but probably less than Milou and Tabita.

I can’t get away from feeling I have failed in my self appointed role as their guardian, even though they are their own responsibility and not really mine at all. That my love and softness somehow set them up for perhaps letting their guard down with others. It makes me once more ashamed to be associated with the human race.

I pray whatever did or will befall them, it was/is quick and painfree.
“I’m so sorry, so so sorry” I whisper to the night air and tears run down my already wet cheeks. Forgive me for letting you down, please forgive me for not trying hard enough to find out.  Forgive me for not going to look for you.  I just cant do it.

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(I hate) Being sensitive

IS peace and quiet in your own home a privilege reserved only for the moneyed?
Why? Does not people from all walks of life have the right to a have that choice also?
Do you really think HSP (high sensitivity) is something that only happens when affluent? It’s no blessing, it’s a curse, unless you can afford a secluded cabin when the world around you gets too much.
With a baby howling out back in the neighbours courtyard (and has done for over an hour now), three soundsystems pounding out techno, rap-reggeton and something else I have no name for, the feeling of panic in my body is steadily rising and the impossible need to get away is threatening to suffocate me from within.

Last night I was so sure I could write that last missing chapter in the morning, but waking up to this? How am I supposed to even stay sane with this? How am I supposed to work in this constant bombardment? I’m not a successful author so there’s no money for an office, let alone a soundproof one. I work at the kitchen table. I like working from home because I like the love of our cats around and the comic relief they provide. When I get stuck I can wash up or do the laundry.

Now every nerve feels frayed, my heart is pounding a tattoo in a RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!! and I can’t stop it. I can’t think.  I seriously can’t think.
All my ideas have fled and are out of reach, every last one scrubbed away by the auditory torture and I don’t even know what I was going to do. My hands are shaking and the rest of my body trembling. All I want to do is lock myself in the bathroom and cry. Cover my ears with pillows and and blankets, and rock back and forth in catatonia. So that’s what I’m going to do.
loud people
I’ve come to hate Cancun. I hate how no one gives a shit about being considerate. I hate being sensitive, it’s a fucking curse and I’d happily swap it for being more hardy and be able to live and be more at ease in this loud world that to me feels more like assault every day.
Who the hell wants to be sensitive and feel deeply?
I can’t get away from it because there’s nowhere to go. Everywhere is full of people, and where there’s people there’s always someone who thinks it’s their duty to make as much noise and pump out muzak as loud as the speakers will go. Unless you have a car and can drive and park up in the jungle somewhere.

Now it’s finally stopped – after 3 hours+ for this time. Every muscle in my body is still tense, tighter than a piano string. Every idea I had is gone, Every single idea, every nuance I had to guide the word magic to weave together a story is gone without even leaving as much as a trace. The word notes on the paper from last night means nothing any more. And that makes me cry even more. Now all I feel is empty and crushingly depressed.  12742607_1028001063927972_7883913622580101030_n

The unexpected melancholy of others

Summer is at it’s end. I feel the sadness and melancholy of others, in other places. I feel it and it’s not even mine – and yet it is me – in earlier years.
The children have gone back to school
autumn is drawing close in the northern hemisphere
the end of august,
still a few warm, sunny days to be enjoyed
but the days are getting shorter again, the evenings darker.
Soon the trees will break into the finale and launch natures own fireworks
the announcement that summer is indeed over for this year.

I feel it, even tho where I live it’s perpetual summer according to some.
It isn’t; but the seasons aren’t as pronounced this close to the equator.  Peculiarly enough
it is the winter I treasure the most here, even tho the vibrancy of autumn is still my favorite.

On my inner screen, years and geographical distances is no obstacle;
one aspect of me is driving down a lane in France in an old split screen Citroen
the weather blustery and the road covered in fallen leaves turning brown.
And I want to be there in body too
feel the crispness in the air and the light rain on my face
as I get out of the car and pull my jacket tighter, hands in pockets
delighting in the bursts of colour of my new scarf.

Or in the garden where my parents once lived.
I am walking around in this no-time land like a ghost
the sound of the silos drying the harvest in the far distance ever present this time of year.
The bright red garden furniture my mother restored all those years ago
the droning of the drowsy bumblebees, enjoying the last of the Nasturtium.
A younger version of me, new notepad on her lap, pen poised
waiting for inspiration that won’t come
before giving up and reading someone else’s prose instead.
Transported instantly to another place and time
where something worth writing about actually happens.
She dreams about cities where there is music to be heard and others like her to make friends with;
who reads books, likes art, go to the theater and to see a live ballet,
far from immature teens with their cigarettes and beer-cans, smelly locker-rooms and spots.
Where the people with dreams and aspirations live…
For a minute I too want to red wooden garden furniture
in a fruitless attempt to somehow connect with mother in a way we, me and I, never could.

Picture blurs, and clears once more
New school, new books, new jeans
the promise of new, hope of new friends
maybe even a fanciable boy…
Sitting at a desk
when I’d rather enjoy the last days of summer, cycling to the lake and going for one last swim.

The brochures of evening and hobby classes drops through the letterbox
see what tempting things we have on offer this autumn!
All in the name of trying new things and exciting adventures and the hope of meeting kindred souls.
Special offer Sunday lunch with friends after a brazing walk, lazy late afternoon drinking tea or wine.

It is the quiet exuberance time of the year
the enrich the soil of my mind – nourish my spirit time of year.
Not the loud jump up and down and dance of spring and summer.
It’s the tgi the weekend of my school-years
not to go out or partying
but to be allowed to spend time as I choose, with whom I want, well – to a degree…
A break away from the noisy crowds of competing children,
school corridors, playgrounds and gym-class.

All while the cats snooze in the midday heat
a gentle breeze keeping the mosquitoes at bay
just dregs left of my coffee.
The far side neighbor is on his lunch-break; Mexican popular music is pounding for all to hear.
I briefly wish our trusty bike would miraculously transform into a truck
where everything was ready and packed including the cats
and we could just jump in and take off onto our next adventure…
It’s time to go inside.

Pic from the web, I can't quite make out what the watermark says.  If this is your property and you want me to remove it please drop me a line.

Nasturtiums.  Pic from the web, I can’t quite make out what the watermark says. If this is your property and you want me to remove it please drop me a line.

 

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