A soft and steady rain fell well into the afternoon yesterday. I had to take a jaunt into town to do my laundry. The laundromat was busy. I’d waited too long. I got a crowd where I’d expected quiet and room to move. I still had room to move. It was simply less room than I prefer. And the quiet I had to achieve by making it an inward thing rather than an external thing. Not so bad. I’m usually not that flexible. Inner quiet is probably healthier anyway.
Today’s opening photo is of Zach, a sweet tomcat who came into the animal shelter just a few weeks ago. He was at first one of those guys that huddled into the corner of his cage, there in the intake room, obviously depressed, obviously afraid, and pretty much resistant to food. We worked with him, got his medical stuff done, culminating with a blood test to rule out any nasty diseases, then carted him over to the cattery, where we worked with him further, and now he is a socially well-adjusted cat. When I say we worked with him I am referring to a practice that entails significantly more personal attention than cats usually get, something we don’t always have time for since there are more cats than time allows when it comes to anymore than attention given while cleaning their cages. I talk to them while I clean their cages. They like that. They like whatever we can give them but I believe that a loving voice is the best. So Zach came around. He is no longer depressed. Depressed cats need the extra attention, and if you tell them to snap out of it they remain depressed. There’s no sense in offering them stupid advice when what they need to pull out of their depression is calming supportive vocalization, not some snarky display of patronization. They are just like people. They can sense the intentions behind words. They know that being told things, things that are of little use, is a red herring in that logic would suggest being supportive rather than authoritative. Authoritative folks tell instead of listening. What good is that?
I discuss depression here because I suffer from it as a chronic condition. It’s not because I wan to. What’s the sense in that? Avoidance of responsibility? As a shield against injustice? A hoax contrived to fool people into believing that disease actually exists? I don’t know. I fool myself at times as well, except when the fooling comes around I believe that the disease doesn’t exist. That makes no sense either. I once managed to believe that my feet didn’t exist, even though they obviously did. Subsequently, when I went to take a step I fell right over. Belief does a poor job of trumping actuality. That’s what I’m sayin’.
Odd mood today. Think I’ll leave it at that. I’ll enjoy being with the cats, especially since odd moods are very good when working with cats. Cats are friggin weird animals anyway. Oddness becomes them. And they are very good at getting in the way. I gotta admire that kind of talent. Oddly enough depression does not really get in the way. It is the way. All that matters is where you go, not how you get there – psychologically speaking, that is. But depression isn’t really a psychological condition so much as it is a condition that has psychological components. In this way it is very much like anybody’s life. The only way you can snap out of it is to end it, which is not a very productive way of achieving productivity.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.