I can't do this again. This spring and summer, this place was so stressful, with Cricket in her rapid decline. I was watching her waste away, no matter how much I fed her, or how desperately I wanted the medications I was giving her to work. Everything went right through her, and I spent every day cleaning up after her. Every time I did it, I knew I was one day closer to letting her go, and I hated that. I wanted my young, healthy cat back. I didn't want to draw farther into my shell, but I did it anyway. I couldn't bring people into my house, because it was so hard to keep up with my own mess while I was spending all my energy on Cricket's. I hated going anywhere outside the house, partly because I was so worn out, I could feel the stress on my face, and hiding it was taxing. The worst was going out of town, knowing I had to get someone to come and feed the cats, which was a lot bigger of a favor than it should have been because of her. As much as I loved her, and as much as it completely broke me when she died, I needed the reduction in stress once the numbers of high-maintenance pets decreased.
Now things are crazy again. Zoe is incredibly cute, but she is more than a handful. The first few days she was quiet, possibly because we kept her in the spare bedroom, while she transitioned to the new house and new country. Now she has full run of the house, but she never leaves the living room or kitchen, and she is determined to destroy both of them in the cutest way possible. We introduced her to the House of Fun, the level of the cat tower where I store all the toys, and that might have been a huge mistake. She bounces around the room in her white-footed tabby pajamas, throwing everything to the floor, in pursuit of every squeaking, crinkling, or rattling mousie toy in the pile. I keep hearing things smash to the ground, but I am shell shocked and afraid to look anymore. I threatened for years to cover the potted trees that come in for the winter with chicken wire to keep cats out of them, and today the man helped me accomplish that. (Basically, I said I needed it done and had no dexterity while I was sick, so he did it.) I saw that it finally convinced Zoe not to use the lemon tree, when I saw her in the cat box 18 inches away from it. And then, five minutes later, she knocked over the pot that held the now-dead catnip plant, and the struggling-to-live lemon verbena, for the second time tonight.
Murray is a whole new level of high maintenance. Beyond the obvious problems with having a dog who can't control anything that happens from the hips down, he has behavior issues that are going to take a lot of time and attention to resolve. He thinks he is going to step in and automatically be the top dog around here. He is especially aggressive with Elsa, and he can't stand seeing her get fed or petted. He chases her around the yard, constantly nips at her neck, and makes a nuisance of himself. She learned early how to flip him upside down to slow him down, but that just means one of us has to go outside and right him. I haven't been very good about that this week. Nor have I been able to help much to clean up after him. This evening I finally accepted that we are not going to be able to move from here to our condo in Boulder, even if it does get completed by the time we wrap up operations here. The man wonders why it took me so long to reach that conclusion.
I need a farm. And a houseful of magical servants like in Beauty and the Beast, to take care of all the animals on the farm. Or maybe just fewer high-maintenance beasts.
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