Posted on by Fred · 4 Comments

Refuse Boxes

Trigger Warning

I’m surprised to need a trigger warning in this piece because I didn’t think it was powerful enough to warrant one.  The story you’re about to hear, however, is the only story I’ve ever written that actually made my best friend angry with me.  When I write my normally calm, rational arguments against the existence of homelessness, she has little reaction.  “It’s okay, Fred, but I’ve heard it all before.  It’s just not very moving.  I’m sorry.”

That wasn’t the case this time.  She was angry that the story existed.  I sent it to her right after I finished it because I was proud of it.  She wrote me back promptly.  “I hate it!  Never again.  Please!  God!  WTF Dude?”

So… you are hereby warned.  Animals are injured offscreen in this story.  If that’s going to bother you more than you can tolerate, you’ll want to skip this.  I’ll read you the story, and then I’ll return to explain to you what an allegory is, and how this parallels what we’re doing to human beings, right now, in Arizona and California.  This is called “Refuse Boxes.”

Refuse Boxes

Karen Adamson walked into the parking lot behind the condos, and she rolled her eyes and sighed with disgust.  She took out her pen and began to write feverishly on her clipboard.  She took pictures of the rain-soaked boxes behind 616.  The Homeowner’s Association was never going to allow this.  She was already quoting the rule in her head: 

No Lot shall be used or maintained as a dumping ground for rubbish.  All trash shall be regularly removed from each Lot and shall not be allowed to accumulate thereon.  Trash, garbage, or other waste shall be kept in sanitary, covered containers.  All equipment for the storage or disposal of such materials shall be kept in a clean and sanitary condition.  In no event shall such equipment and/or containers be visible from the Common Area streets, from neighboring Property, or within property contained in the Plat, except for a reasonable time immediately prior to and after scheduled trash collection, and in all events in compliance with Fairvale County Code.

She was looking forward to talking to Mr. Singleman.  She was going to show him who was in charge.  “Wretched refuse.  People just live like pigs.  This is a fine of $100 a day, per day, up to $1000.  He’ll take me seriously when I present him with this violation.”

A kitten stepped out of one of the boxes, looked up at her, and then scurried back inside.  Karen knelt and looked in the box.  Cat food?  What could this guy be thinking?  Encouraging feral cats?  That’s a violation, too.  That’s another $25.00. 

A black and white puppy waddled out of another box.  He saw Adamson and began jumping around her ankles, yipping excitedly.    “What kind of place is this?”  She kicked him away.  The dog yelped and limped into another box.  In a moment its mother poked her head out and growled.  Karen gave the dog a glare, and it went back inside.

The boxes were piled 4 or 5 high, and from the box at the top she heard an obnoxious squealing sound.  A moment later, a finch dropped from the sky and entered the box.  When she looked inside, Mrs. Adamson saw the bird feeding its babies. 

She stood staring at the disgusting mess that was the back of Condo 616, and then she thought.  None of these horrid things is a pet.  They’re not registered.  They’re not licensed.  They don’t count.  They don’t matter at all. 

She took out a cigarette and lit it.  She blew the smoke toward the animal tenement.  These things are a menace.  And these boxes… they’re dangerous.  They’re a… yes… yes.  She took a long drag from her cigarette.  She grinned.  They’re a fire hazard.  She flipped the cigarette into the box with the birds’ nest and nodded.  As the smoke began to waft out, she thought, “I’ll show them who’s in charge.”  As the smoke grew thicker, she chuckled softly and walked away enjoying the sound of the burning birds. 

***

Allegory, as defined by Merriam-Webster:  the expression by means of symbolic fictional figures and actions of truths or generalizations about human existence

“Refuse Boxes” is an allegory for the homeless.  Its hidden meaning is, I think, completely clear, but in the event I am wrong, the animals are people.  The boxes are homeless encampments. 

When this happens to humans, we dismiss it.  If it makes the news at all, we’re likely to scroll past it without much thought.  It doesn’t strike close enough to our emotions for it to matter much to us. 

It’s a general rule among humans that we can’t tolerate hurting animals, at least not cute and harmless ones.  Everyone cries at the end of “Old Yeller,” but we can, for the most part, dismiss the earthquake in Tukey which has, as of this writing, taken the lives of more than 28,000 living, breathing people.  Among those who have survived, homelessness has skyrocketed.  Their dwellings were destroyed.  But it didn’t happen in America.  We don’t know any of these folks.  Sorry that happened.  Bummer.  Does anyone know who won the Super Bowl?  Oh, and did you hear about the twenty-million-dollar Jesus ad?

Our priorities are misplaced.  This is not to say that animals don’t matter.  If anything ever happened to Speedy Shine (my dog for those who are new here), I would be devastated.  My love for him is off the scale.  He’s infinitely closer to me than anyone in Turkey.  But the fact is every one of those people matters more than he does.  Not to me, perhaps, since I never met them, but certainly to those who have.  All of them have mothers and fathers, and most of those people have people who love them as much as I love Speedy Shine.

Of course, we can’t feel empathy for every human death.  We would be unable to function.  We’d spend our lives in a fetal position as we drowned in a river of tears.  But we can recognize their significance.

We can certainly try to change things.  As much as you’re hurt by the deaths of the birds, the dogs, and the cats in the Refuse Boxes, we need to be at least as concerned about the plight of those who live in such places in the homo sapiens world. 

Here in Arizona, police conduct regular sweeps at homeless encampments to rid the neighborhood of the pests.  But these aren’t rats.  They aren’t even dogs or cats.  They’re people.  I’m perilously close to joining them.  And, unless you’re a billionaire, you’re much closer to them than you would probably like to imagine.  (And if you are a billionaire, what are you doing about homelessness?  I promise you have the money to end it, all by yourself, and please don’t talk to me about liquid assets versus investment assets.  That’s a half-ass excuse.) 

The American Civil Liberties Union is suing to stop the destruction.  I won’t go into the details here, but they can be found in the article below.

https://apnews.com/article/arizona-homelessness-3fed4cf117ef8f48d2538e127600f109

Why don’t we mind so much about people?  I think it’s because we find a way to blame them for their situations.  Some of us use The Bible to justify our contempt. 

Thessalonians 3:10, KJV: For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.

I don’t pretend to be wise enough to know what caused people to be homeless.  Certainly those in Turkey whose homes were destroyed by an earthquake did nothing to “deserve” homelessness.  I don’t feel comfortable making judgments about others.  I know that people make decisions I might not make, but I don’t know what caused them to make those choices. 

We also hide behind The Law, as though it were carved into sapphire, immutable and unchangeable.  Laws can be, and frequently are, changed.  As the world changes, so must its laws.  I promise you that it’s not that being homeless is against the law that keeps me from joining an encampment.  It’s that I don’t want to be in one.  I will do all I can to continue to live here in my little home.  (A quick thank you to The People On The Porch and my Unofficial Patron Saints who continue to help me to accomplish that goal.)

I’m working on a 5-part story about that, even now, called “Why?”  I’m hoping to illustrate that people who are easy to condemn might have been forced into choices we wish they hadn’t made by circumstances beyond their control.  I’m currently stuck trying to make Part 2 work, but I know I’ll get it right eventually.

It’s easier for us to understand that animals are not in control of much of their existence.  We don’t seem to want to believe we share that powerlessness.  The truth is, however, that we do.  It’s easy to convince ourselves that if we work hard enough, we can take care of ourselves. 

There is a myth that America is founded on rugged individualism.  That could not be further from the truth.  From the “founding of America” we worked together to create this country.  One Pilgrim didn’t build The Mayflower.  No one set up Plymouth Colony alone.  The Declaration of Independence was a statement we had the courage to make only because we could depend on one another.  We didn’t decide who was worthy or unworthy.  We worked together, each in our own ways.

I don’t know what caused John or Jane Doe to become homeless.  Neither do you.  What I know is that the situation is even more horrible than in the allegory I constructed that upset so many people.  Let’s do what we can to help them, instead of ridding ourselves of them as though they were cockroaches.  People matter more than money.  They also matter even more than the cutest and most lovable of animals.  They matter even more than Speedy Shine, who matters more to me than nearly any other part of my life. 

Posted on by Fred · 3 Comments

Becoming a Cat Person

“…the person that had took a bull by the tail once had learnt sixty or seventy times as much as a person that hadn’t, and said a person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was getting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn’t ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”

Mark Twain

I never liked cats. I found them arrogant, rude, and dangerous. The first one with whom I ever dealt scratched my hand deeply enough to draw blood. I hated him. He never said I wasn’t allowed to pick him up. I learned… the hard way.

After that experience, I gave all felines a wide berth. My parents inherited a cat from my brother. I don’t actually recall the details of the transaction, but every time I would visit, there would be Jamie, or as he was called by my father, “Stupid Cat of No Possible Value or Worth,” wandering around enslaving my parents. Up and down my father would get whenever Stupid Cat wanted to go in or out. Yes, he was an outdoor cat. Mom required Dad to stand at the door and call him every night before they went to bed. And Dad might be there for half an hour at a time before His Highness would deign to return. I wanted no part of any such ritual. I never understood why my father did, except that he loved my mother, and my mother loved everything with a heartbeat.

Cats had no time for me, and I had none for them. I refused to believe all the Cat People who told me that their cats were sweet and kind and loving. That described no cat I had ever encountered. I was too arrogant to deal with the Arrogance of Cats.

Dogs, on the other hand, I have always loved. There is nothing so wonderful as being jumped by four-legged fur when you come through the door. Her tail is wagging and she’s covering you with kisses as though you were the most important and wonderful being that cells ever combined to form. I have two ex-wives. Neither of them was ever in the league of a dog for making me feel loved. However, neither Missy nor Darilyn ever pooped on my floor, so perhaps it evens out a bit.

In July of 2017, I was in the hospital, and when I got out, I was going to have nowhere to go. My nephew had gotten me a motel room for a couple of weeks to keep me from being homeless. That ran out, though, while I was suffering from extreme Diabetic Ketoacidosis.

I had just recently begun a horrible job selling DirecTV to unsuspecting old women. I made little money, and to make any amount that would give me any chance to sustain my existence, I had to be successful at getting people to trade their little pieces of green paper for something that is mostly worthless. When I made a sale, I was both ecstatic and wracked with guilt. But it was in this horrible place that I met Hilary.

When I was in the hospital, she called me every day. I have almost no memory of that because the entire experience is a blur in my mind. I was heavily drugged, and I was almost entirely incoherent almost all the time. But, Hilary told me that when I got out of the hospital, I could stay with her, and her wife, Rebecca, and their three cats, Cynna, Buster, and Oliver until I could get back on my feet. And my dog, Melanie, whom I feared I was going to have to give away to anyone I believed would take good care of her before I dragged her into homelessness with me, would be welcomed there, too. She would have died on the streets, and my former roommates were about to be evicted from my old house, which is where Melanie had to stay while I tried to find shelter for us both. It was an offer that saved my life, and Melanie’s, and, subsequently, made me a Cat Person.

When I arrived, Rebecca showed me my bedroom, and I collapsed onto the blowup mattress and passed out. I slept for more than 30 hours. I think it was closer to two full days. And when I finally came back into the world, Oliver had to find out who I was. He kept looking at me, and I thought it was a little creepy. What the hell did he even want from me?

It was a couple of weeks before I moved in and Oliver decided I was acceptable. The cats seemed willing enough to tolerate Melanie after their initial meeting. Buster and Cynna, however, wanted nothing to do with me. See why I hate cats?

Oliver came and got in my lap for the first time almost a month to the day after I began occupying his space full time. I was surprised, but it was a nice surprise. He stayed nearly an entire minute, and he let me pet him. And you know what else? He didn’t even scratch me.

Over time, he began to visit me any time I was in the bathroom. Closing the door meant only that Oliver’s little paw would appear underneath it, letting me know he needed to come in. And, being the basically lonely guy I’ve always been, I’d let him in. It wasn’t long before Oliver was following me around, laying in my lap, and doing the things Melanie had gotten too old to do anymore. Melanie could barely make it onto her own personal couch. She couldn’t get on the bed anymore, and Oliver started visiting me there. He wouldn’t stay long, but he would swing by to check on me. When I got sick, as I did with alarming frequency, he would come and lie on my chest. I think it was his way of telling the girls something was wrong. They would look for him, find him, and see whether I was dead, dead tired, or in need of hospitalization.

Oliver stayed close to me all the time we lived in Mesa.

In July of 2018, we all moved to our nice 3 bedroom house in Phoenix. We had a backyard so Melanie could go out and relieve herself without the need for a leash and a trip up and down a set of stairs that would, given time, certainly have killed me. And it was in the new house that Buster decided to adopt me.

For reasons passing understanding, he decided my bedroom was actually his. If I laid down, Buster would join me within less than ten minutes. And he wouldn’t just sit there. He insisted that I be petting him. Having my phone in my hand was simply not allowed. That was giving my attention to something other than him. When he’s not chewing on the tube that goes from my tummy to my insulin pump, we do very well together. He’s become an expert cuddler. He lies with his back to my chest, and he purrs contentedly so long as we’re together. When I leave, he becomes visibly depressed. If I ever meet a woman like that… well… no… never mind. I would rather just have Buster. He takes up much less space on the bed.

Oliver has to be with me at the computer now. He frequently feels the need to add to whatever I’m writing, and if I stop petting him when he’s in my lap, he will hop up to the desk, stroll across the keyboard, and jump to the window above me to see what’s happening in the backyard. He’s managed to obscure 2/3 of the characters now, and I have to try to remember where they all are. I’m hoping to get a new one soon. (A keyboard, not a cat… three is plenty, I swear.)

Cynna continues to be royalty. When the girls went to Las Vegas for some sort of convention a couple of months ago, His Majesty began to take notice of my existence. He made sure I knew when he needed to be fed. And, he assured me, no matter what his Mothers had said, when he needed to be fed was simply constantly. Since their return he has visited me twice, for a total of nearly 90 seconds. I expect that in another year or two he’ll come to see me without the expectation of food. Maybe he’ll let me pet him more than twice. One can only hope.

I will always love Melanie with all my heart. The fact that she is getting too old to walk anymore scares me more than my own death. There is little to be done, but I can still give her loves and kisses while she’s lying on her couch. She simply isn’t capable of giving me all she once did. I know her love is still there. She just can’t express it physically any longer.

The cats can. They’ve taught me there are ways of expressing their love without jumping on me. I’m told that when Buster or Oliver looks me in the eye, and they close their eyes for a moment, they’re saying, “I love you.” I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know, they’ve made me love them because they simply won’t allow my heart any other choice. The cats have become a part of me. I’m a Cat Person.