Poor Kitty

Last weekend, my parents' cat, Socrates ("Socks" for short), got in a fight with a neighborhood cat. She walked away from the tussle with a pair on incisor-shaped punctures in her hind quarter, which, according to the vet, threatened to fester. In order to prevent infection, she was prescribed ten days' worth of antibiotics, the fur around the wound was shaved off, and she was fitted with a heavy-duty plastic cone around her neck. Poor kitty.

So, until the wound heals, this mostly outdoor pet and top-notch mouser is confined to life as a house cat. I watch her meander meaninglessly down the hallway. She stops in the living room and stares straight ahead for ten minutes. She stands up and walks around again. Restrained. Uncomfortable. Helpless. And I feel a pang of sympathy.

She is me.

For the last twelve days my life has been less than thrilling. I returned home from a great two weeks on the road, seeing new places and visiting old friends, and now I'm back to the drudgery of living with my mom and dad and having no job, no friends, nothing to look forward to. Like my feline invalid friend, I spend a considerable portion of the day walking aimlessly around the house. I check facebook obsessively. I make dinner for my parents. I watch shows on Netflix until I fall asleep. This can't go on much longer.

Soon, Socks' wounds will heal and she will be allowed to go outside and live her life as usual. As bad as I feel for her, her situation gives me hope: it reminds me that we all have "blah" moments in life, but that these moments inevitably must pass. Though I may feel anxious and unsatisfied now, I know I won't always be unemployed and living with my parents. Things change. Eventually, the cone comes off and it's back to pooping in the garden, killing birds, and breathing the sweet air of freedom.