misanthropy

I have felt so demoralized lately. Reeducating myself about the way humans use animals drains so much out of me--especially because I have experienced some of these texts before and have yet to solve the problems they present. It feels like stasis in an area that so obviously cries for change. Also reading de la Casa's account of the Spanish in the new world... actually, that text and what Singer presents as going on in animal factories (need we even call them farms anymore?) are pretty similar. The early Spanish conquerors didn't really consider the natives they bludgeoned to be people, just like we don't consider animals to be people, just as we don't consider gays fully human (don't humans have a right to marry--and isn't this a country of free religious choice? so why are gays subjected to Christian biases?), just as black Africans dying of AIDS aren't really people. Oh, fuck. And then someone in one of my history classes made some crack about the buying and selling of government offices in imperial Spain, and the Supreme Court ruling last week, and I laughed and then immediately felt nauseous.

Last night I kept bursting into tears. I drank some wine and listened to my cats purr and felt a little better, but today I could hardly get up. This has happened before. The more I learn, the more likely I am to start periodically losing my mind. I really regret looking at the world so critically; I'm so tired of being outraged! And I can hardly keep myself fair. It's not just that meat itself is so hard for me, but that not eating meat is not enough. There is so much guilt. Buying a ball of sock wool is wrong. Everything I consume may in some way harm another being--a person taken advantage of, an animal wounded or slaughtered. Even my favorite fucking candy has pig gelatin in it. It is so hard, it is so exhausting, to feel so helpless when there is so much bad in the world.

I'm trying really hard not to hate people. I've been trying not to blame my anger on the fact that we are inconsistently ruthless in our violence towards each other and towards Others and instead accept that periods of this rage and sadness might be par for the course when one works in advocacy.

the dangers of anthropomorphism...

run both ways, for if I attribute human characteristics to Mallow's floor-pooping then I have one seriously sociopathic cat on my hands.

galloping alpacapecia

Several years ago my father returned from a trip to central America with these slippers. They are made out of alpaca--not just the alpaca's wool, but the whole thing. I was not sure how to react to the gift. I have never liked fur, and at this point I was already deep in internal debate about my relationship to other animals and what I could justify using them for. I didn't like the idea of wearing and perpetuating the use of fur, especially for use in a cheaply-made pair of slippers, but they were already purchased. Uncomfortable, I accepted them, thanked my father, and then informed him that I had moral problems with fur products and asked him to keep this in mind in the future. He's since accommodated this; I think he honestly hadn't thought that giving fur to an animal lover would be a problem.

But since then I have had this quandary: I have these damn alpaca fur slippers that I don't know what to do with. I feel guilty wearing them, but I can't bring myself to throw them out. Something--some one--died, after all, to make those slippers, and wouldn't it be a greater travesty for that sacrifice to go unacknowledged? But I also don't feel comfortable giving them away, as I don't want to somehow encourage the use and wearing of fur, one of the most unconscionable of all animal products. So? Do I wear the slippers? Ignore them? Do I dispose of them in some ritualistic and alpaca-honoring way?

man cat

Citizens Mildly Concerned About Mallow

Mallow is one huge problem of a cat.

I knew this when I got him. At a point in my life when I was most fervently committed to doing some kind of good for the deprived animal population that lives largely ignored around us, I also came into a place where I felt I had room for another animal in my life. I would not go out and get a kitten; I was determined not to participate in the system that perpetuates the idea of companion animals as disposable commodities. Kittens are desirable, they find homes easily. People see them in cages, look at those big eyes and unsteady paws and fat bellies, and impulsively buy them. Later, when it is not as convenient or amusing to have a cat, they are abandoned.

I had decided I wanted a cat that nobody else would want. I wanted the cat that had been continuously rehomed and abandoned. I wanted to give a chance to an animal that might not otherwise get that chance.

At the same time, I started obsessing over Winston. He's a minor internet celebrity, championed only because he is so very, very strange. An exotic shorthair, Winnie is both adorable and vaguely alien. I felt my elitist (breedist?) tendencies surfacing. I'm always drawn to purebred animals; I like the distinctions between appearances and the "characteristic" traits of the animals that may or may not surface. Breeds stand out as individuals in a categorizing mind, and though I recognize the hypocrisy in claiming to eschew categories while letting them determine my desires, I was so much more attracted to purebred cats than the admittedly more needy, less flashy barn cats. That narrowed it down: I wanted a desperate cat, but one both desperate and pretty.

When the breed rescue coordinator sent me photos of Mal, I was not impressed. I went to meet him mostly to meet the rescue lady, as I was impressed by how committed she was to finding me the right cat. But Mallow was young and healthy and very friendly, and it seemed like he wouldn't have any problems finding a new home.

Of course, when I met him, things changed. I was immediately attached. Mal--at the time he went by the name Cinnamon--had a contradictory history. He had three different birth dates on various papers, which portrayed him as four, six, and seven months old, respectively. I was sure all three of these dates were impossible, as he was already huge and seemed fully mature. When the rescue lady told me he'd already been abandoned twice due to "questionable litterbox habits", I thought: bingo! That bad cat ismine.

I didn't really think about what his "questionable litterbox habits" might entail for me and my hardwood floors.

Needless to say, there have been problems. A year and some odd months later (and yes, he was actually six or seven months old, as he roughly doubled in size after I got him and I now have a nearly twenty-pound cat with questionable litterbox habits) I twice have gotten to a place where I did not know if I could stand finding one more poop on my couch. But these moments are always just that--moments. They've encouraged me to try to understand why he does what he does (namely: poop on the couch) and what I can do to combat that. The scarce details I have from his original surrender papers and what the rescue pieced together point towards a very social animal denied enough attention and dumped off in shelters twice within a few months. From my own experience of his neuroses I've diagnosed him with something I've never heard referred to in cats but is extremely common in dogs: I think he has separation anxiety.

And why wouldn't he? Cats are, contrary to popular conception, actually very social creatures, and Mal exceptionally so. He is curious and brave and never gets tired of human attention. He prefers constant companionship to quiet alone time. He has a great desire to communicate, and has very clear signals for when he is bored and when he needs his box cleaned. He is a distant cry from the standard idea of a housecat, reserved, enigmatic, dignified, quiet. He's loud and clumsy and wants to interact with people all day long. He's terribly sensitive himself and seems concerned when someone--especially Monster--is in distress. I think in a lot of circumstances he would be misunderstood, and his bizarre poop habits would be seen as stupidity instead of a result of complex emotional circumstances. Sometimes, usually when I am scrubbing a mess off of the floor or sofa, I revert to a snarling belief in the former. But the anger dissolves. He's just so strange and unique. I feel like I'm particularly lucky to have happened across him.

Monster is less confident in my choice.