Buster, you fucker.
Nov. 2nd, 2005 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chavvahSo I had a long day, and I'm tired, and the fucking cat died.
He wasn't, in the strictest sense (or any sense, really), my cat. His name was Buster, and his stomping ground was the historic site where I work. He'd been a historic interpreter far longer than me, which is saying something.
Don't get me wrong, mind you. I hated the little bastard. In fact, the last time I saw him, he tried to turn a cask full of sawdust that was part of our display into his personal litter box, and I tried to chuck him down the root cellar because he was being pissy and weird and I wasn't in the mood. Buster, you fucker. I wonder if he knew he was going to die, the way they say cats do.
Buster wasn't an easy cat to get along with. He'd bite you as soon as look at you, which is a great attribute in a cute furry animal that patrols a site teeming with schoolchildren. I have personally administered first aid to more than one first-grader for Buster-related injuries. And when he wasn't attacking you, he was drooling all over you. So gross. He had the foulest breath of any animal I have ever met. And I'm allergic, which made him doubly detestable as far as I'm concerned. And I hate cats (no offense to all the cat-lovers out there).
In the springtime, I was giving a tour and he jumped up on the saleshop counter and from there climbed onto my head, digging in with his claws when I tried to remove him. I had to do half the fucking tour with the goddamn cat on my head. The last time I saw him, he wouldn't stop cuddling up to me until I petted him, and not even then. And we were not friends--in point of fact, we were barely civil to one another. He got hair and drool all over my uniform. I was sneezing all afternoon, and by the time I got home my eyes had started to swell shut.
Buster, you fucker.
The last time I saw him, I noticed he had worms, for like the third time this season. De-worming pills don't work when a steady diet of mice is readily available. Not that he was a hot shit mouser, either--I'm sure I killed more of them than he did this year. My supervisor, M., was worried about him, wanted me to take him to the vet's. No way. Not unless I get hazard pay. Buster knew the sight of that crate, and he could hide for weeks. Months. Buster, you fucker.
M. was rooting in the trunk of her car when I told her the news. It wasn't until she straightened up and asked me to repeat it that I saw she'd been reaching for a 5 lb bag of cat food. She had tears in her eyes. Not me. I couldn't stand him.
He survived some of the harshest winters the fort has seen, not to mention a twister that ripped hundred-year-old oak trees right out of the ground. Every spring, when no one had seen him for a while, I had this sense of relief, mingled with a heavy forboding that I was going to have to minister to the sobbing 19-year-old who found him curled up in a trunk, nicely preserved over the winter.
Maintenance found him. I didn't ask where, or how.
Buster, you fucker.
Goddammit.
You were supposed to live forever.
I hated him. Really.
So why the hell can't I stop crying?
He wasn't, in the strictest sense (or any sense, really), my cat. His name was Buster, and his stomping ground was the historic site where I work. He'd been a historic interpreter far longer than me, which is saying something.
Don't get me wrong, mind you. I hated the little bastard. In fact, the last time I saw him, he tried to turn a cask full of sawdust that was part of our display into his personal litter box, and I tried to chuck him down the root cellar because he was being pissy and weird and I wasn't in the mood. Buster, you fucker. I wonder if he knew he was going to die, the way they say cats do.
Buster wasn't an easy cat to get along with. He'd bite you as soon as look at you, which is a great attribute in a cute furry animal that patrols a site teeming with schoolchildren. I have personally administered first aid to more than one first-grader for Buster-related injuries. And when he wasn't attacking you, he was drooling all over you. So gross. He had the foulest breath of any animal I have ever met. And I'm allergic, which made him doubly detestable as far as I'm concerned. And I hate cats (no offense to all the cat-lovers out there).
In the springtime, I was giving a tour and he jumped up on the saleshop counter and from there climbed onto my head, digging in with his claws when I tried to remove him. I had to do half the fucking tour with the goddamn cat on my head. The last time I saw him, he wouldn't stop cuddling up to me until I petted him, and not even then. And we were not friends--in point of fact, we were barely civil to one another. He got hair and drool all over my uniform. I was sneezing all afternoon, and by the time I got home my eyes had started to swell shut.
Buster, you fucker.
The last time I saw him, I noticed he had worms, for like the third time this season. De-worming pills don't work when a steady diet of mice is readily available. Not that he was a hot shit mouser, either--I'm sure I killed more of them than he did this year. My supervisor, M., was worried about him, wanted me to take him to the vet's. No way. Not unless I get hazard pay. Buster knew the sight of that crate, and he could hide for weeks. Months. Buster, you fucker.
M. was rooting in the trunk of her car when I told her the news. It wasn't until she straightened up and asked me to repeat it that I saw she'd been reaching for a 5 lb bag of cat food. She had tears in her eyes. Not me. I couldn't stand him.
He survived some of the harshest winters the fort has seen, not to mention a twister that ripped hundred-year-old oak trees right out of the ground. Every spring, when no one had seen him for a while, I had this sense of relief, mingled with a heavy forboding that I was going to have to minister to the sobbing 19-year-old who found him curled up in a trunk, nicely preserved over the winter.
Maintenance found him. I didn't ask where, or how.
Buster, you fucker.
Goddammit.
You were supposed to live forever.
I hated him. Really.
So why the hell can't I stop crying?
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 04:16 am (UTC)Buster finally died? And someone actually found him?
I hate cats too, but Buster always held a special place in my heart, even though he scratched me several times last summer.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 04:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 05:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 02:26 pm (UTC)Reminds me a bit of an early That 70's Show, where Donna's cat died, and they asked Red to say something, and he hated the cat but he said, 'He'd come into my yard, I'd spray him with the hose, he'd do it again, I'd spray him again. I guess you could say we had a thing.' then he got thoughtful and said, 'huh.' and looked teary-eyed. It was funny.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 04:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 02:59 am (UTC)poor cat...
no subject
Date: 2005-11-04 02:57 pm (UTC)There's talk around the fort of us getting another cat. Buster had a good run--he lived to the ripe old age of sixteen. His predecessor, Kaylie, lived to be eighteen. So we do well with cats in these parts.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 03:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 05:14 am (UTC)really nice post, hon.