Vegetarian Chickens, Tears, and Literate Cats

I had already cried a few tears this morning, so when my daughter called this afternoon, I could detect the stress in her voice and though she was trying to be noncommittal at first: “Mom, I'm so tired...I want to quit my job...I just want to be an artist. And a beauty queen.”, She was going for humor, but I could tell she needed some motherly comfort and goodwill. We can pretty much laugh and cry at the same time...horrendous work hours with no days off—she'd just about had it. We tried to focus on the weeks ahead; I shared that I'd had tears all week on and off and apparently so had she... Hers due to nonstop fieldwork, paperwork, government regulations, and virtually no time with her fiance; mine—well, it seems whenever I drive anywhere this week the tears just stream. 'I was only driving across town,' I told her, 'and the thought struck me that grandpa wouldn't see my little Bailey get married.' She was his special little girl and they were so close...he would have been so proud. She shares that she 'wanted all the men to wear a certain lei during the ceremony...and grandpa wouldn't be there to place it about his neck.' (This was about the time of year when we learned that he was going to die. That my dad, the health nut, the marathon runner, the reader, the worker, the man that could fix anything, the patient man, the quiet man, the dependable man, the man that just retired and was finally, finally going to do all the things he wanted to do...was really going to die, and worse, it would be the most painful thing he could endure.) So naturally we choked up for a while (though I didn't include the other thoughts from days ago...that he didn't get to go to Tegan's college graduation, nor hear the exciting submarine stories that occurred on the Pacific Tour—he would have loved that and again, would have been so proud. That I often thought of how painful it was for him, the first week of May, to attend one of Brigham's trackmeets on a good day and hear his name called as he broke 4 records, gripping his stopwatch; his legs crossed in agony; proud nonetheless. And I bawl as I type this, thinking of my mom and how much she dearly misses him—her loss and longing is inconsolable).
But we weave our conversation in and out among other things...a new gorgeous fishing spot, seeing a naked man on the beach...etc.
She talks of darling Arthur, the tiny fluffball chick and how he, the runt of the litter, was her special little guy..teenier than the rest of the bunch, she only cared about him because he refused the little insects and mealy worms, preferring to race towards her, squawking and scrambling to drive his beak into the fresh papaya and banana that she offered. I'm laughing, thinking of the other chicken that fell in love with her, when she mentions that she felt bad because they hadn't noticed that a human hair had wound itself tightly about Arthur's toes. It must have been there for a few days, cutting off his circulation as he quickly grew, because she then noticed he didn't come racing towards her—oh dear, trepidation and dismay. He willingly ate his fresh fruit, but the next day couldn't move at all and was lying over. They'd tried antiseptic ointment after the hair removal (yes, I was giggling), but alas, it did no good. Nate took Arthur away today to end his misery. 'Mom! It was one of MY HAIRS that killed him! My favorite chick!' I was extremely compassionate but had to keep apologizing for laughing, but I couldn't stop—some mother I am!
I told her I was a horrible person; that I'd asked Brig's friend to shoot the cat; I'd hire him as a hitman if he'd do it when we weren't home and not tell me afterward. 1 bullet to the head=no suffering. It's a lovely fluffy cat in winter, but has the oddest hair we've ever seen: it mats itself into 2 inch thick felted clumps which hang roughly until they tear away. It does not have mange, but seeing what looks like a zombie cat scrunching around must surely scare the neighbors! It's sheer misery and nothing helps— no brush, nor scissors--just gradually peeling back the pelt like a sheep to expose nice new hair underneath. WEIRD.
Well, after I 'hired my hitman', I didn't see the cat for days, so assuming the deed had been finalized, I felt terribly guilty when it didn't show up for food. THEN I SAW IT! Or it saw ME! That cat turned and TORE across the yard to get away from me. 'I was shocked,' I told Bail, 'I was always nice to kitty—it HAD to have heard me and understood.' It still will not come near me and races away. Now it was Bailey's turn to laugh at me (though I still swear animals instinctively KNOW) and she tells me 'that there is no way the cat knows, but if you put up a sign and the cat READS it, then I will believe you! Ha ha! So here is the sign. If kitty lets me pet it in the morning, then cats not only have 9 lives but are literate too!
I'm not even going to start on the tears from this morning, but the above phone call helped! and sorry for this blog.