“My mind doesn’t seem to work the way it used to. I swear, when I was younger I thought of things, I had ideas. Now it seems like a fog, just enough brain activity to be considered a functioning member of society. Rituals so ingrained that they require little to no effort; wake, shave, eat, work, home, martini, sleep and repeat; what is the point of this Mike?”
“I don’t know man. I suppose they say that you’ve gotta make your own meaning, your own point.”
“What if my point is that there is no point? What then? It’s like I have to lie to myself to find some meaning when there is none. It’s cold out there. I don’t see good things in the future; only more greed, corruption, inequality, endless wars and environmental degradation until everything crumbles and society fails as it always has. So I see that and fail to find the reason. It’s just a fucked up crooked rotten world. And yes, I know there’s good people and good things but they are so over powered that even “happy people” say “you gotta find the good in the world”. You shouldn’t have to seek it out, it should just fucking be there man, the world should be fucking good by default.”
Mike laughed a little, great speech he said adding, “Well look at this cat, it’s good, you don’t have to seek it out, it wants you to love it.”
The cat he was referring to was Fred, I had gotten him as a kitten from the shelter almost 7 years ago and regretted it for the past 6 years and at least 9 months. It didn’t take long to realize that this animal was severely mentally ill. I don’t know if he was schizophrenic or just amazingly neurotic and in need of a large dose of Xanax.
Whatever the case he was miserable. I probably should have had him put down out of compassion but I didn’t think the vet would be understanding of my request to kill a seemingly healthy cat. So the cat walks over and stops just out of arms reach and starts meowing; long drawn out mews and stares at me like I know what the fuck a mentally disturbed cat wants.
While I don’t know what this cat wants I do know what’s going to happen as we’ve been through this at least once a day for years. I lean forward to pet his head and he likes it; all happy, eyes closed. He moves forward and presses his head into my hand and then he fucking bites me. Dragging his little fangs across my hand he leaves two perfectly spaced red lines running down the back of my hand. There’s always multiple sets of these marks on my hands and always make me feel self-conscious at work. Rather than clean finger nails and welcoming skin it looks like, well, I’m constantly attacked by a wild animal.
“Fucker!”, I holler at him and he runs half way up the stairs then resumes his deranged wailing again. “I don’t know what the fuck man, I hate that cat.”
And while I did hate that cat I felt sorry for him too. Here he was, stuck for life, repeating his days with no point and clinically insane. He lived for 2 more years before he started freaking out and shitting blood everywhere one night. It was then, with no hesitation that I took him to the vet and said put him down. I didn’t feel bad in the slightest, I knew that he was happier dead.