Megan's Head

A place where Megan gets off her head.

Tag: home

Mr P (is a girl) and other tiny miracles in a rescued kitten

532784_10151342041945824_101132115_nWhen the kids called Big Friendly on Friday evening and he called me to help I saw two teeny faces sticking out of his fists. He is known in our street as a soft touch when it comes to animals in need. “Uncle, doesn’t your cat need a cat?” they asked. They had found the two in an abandoned lot in our road. We put them in the spare room, shut the door and I went back to cooking; we had people coming for dinner.

Later that night I went to see them (Big Friendly had gone to get cat sand and we had given them some wet cat food that we had for Chassie in case of emergencies) and they were curled up in the back of the gas heater. That’s where they were when I went to check on them the next morning. The little whiter one was feisty, the other, most beautiful one totally shy and scared. In no time my friend arrived to take possession of one of them and she went home with the beautiful and shy Finally. We flashed past the vet for a quick word, a sexing and to find out how old Finally was – 4-5 weeks!

I have been actively searching for a home for Mr P, who up until today I thought was a boy. Mr P has been holed up in the spare room and entertained with very frequent visits by me and Big Friendly, and our hearts are lost to her even though we really want her to find another home; for many reasons, one of them being this street is not good for cats, and another is that our pups are only 10 months old and still pretty demanding. Nonetheless, having her here has been entertaining, delightful and mind blowing.

Mr P is the size of my hand. She knows how to use cat sand. Her tail stands up straight when she runs to the door to greet me. Her tiny ribs are like bands of elastic in her chest, above her ever expanding round belly. Her eyes look at you and she blinks. She chats. She has a loud purr and a little, questioning meow. She chirps and whistles in pleasure and curiosity. She jumps with all legs off the ground. She rubs herself sideways along the pillow and then bliksems straight off because she has misjudged the space and length. She comes straight back for more. She holds my hand. She puts the teeniest cold paw gently on my nose. She runs when I talk. Her paws are the size of smarties. Her claws and teeth (the few she has) are like cactus thorns. She has a tiny kitty stinky bum. She is hilarious.

Reflections post New York

It’s been a crazy time since arriving home on Wednesday, mainly because I leave again this coming Wednesday for Australia for a month, and I have a ton of work to complete before I go. I sit in front of my lappie, trying to write write write up New York. And I am surprised by how much I am missing the city that I got to know, and fell in love with in just 9 days. Facebook and twitter are my distractions, and I am so saddened by local news of the Limpopo education crisis, the brutal rape and murder of children here at home, and other stories that remind me so shockingly of how we live. Granted, while I was in New York I didn’t have half a moment to scan the internet for news, and there might have been a ton of stuff there that I missed, but it felt like Maria Carey and Sarah Jessica Parker entertaining Obama on one night that we were there was the big news (and Justin Bieber on the Today show).

My sadness is the realisation of how much I carry here, on my shoulders and in my heart, when I am home. I am so drearily sad of being white. Yes, yes, I know what it means, and where it comes from, and how privileged I am and how 90% of South Africans are worse off than me and they are black. It’s not incorrect, just heavy. When the Spear issue exploded in South Africa I found myself in the truly awkward position of having such strong opinions about it (I identify with the artist, and demand the right to freedom of expression) and the overwhelming reality that my opinions were somehow unimportant in the context of where I am. I realised that my struggle history is not visible and will never be counted. I am identified in a certain way regardless.

Back home I am white. Back home I am Jewish in an anti-Zionist way. Back home I have been called “a struggling artist”.  Back home I am “of a certain age”. Back home I feel like I am stuck to the pin board of classification and definition.

Something liberating happened to me in New York, the melting pot of diversity, money and poverty, immigrants, art, commerce, power, old, new, fast food and health food, dogs more spoilt than children, and hot subways where intimate conversations about everything under the sun can be heard. I was, for the most part, just me; made up of all sorts of bits and pieces, background, quirks, ethnicity, nationality, gender, class. And all of it was true and ok and unquestioned. I was me. And, overwhelmingly, I felt huge pangs of jealousy that I was not born there, or had moved there to live years ago.

Don’t get me wrong. I have no doubt that NYC can be depressingly lonely, and hard, and cold in winter, and scary if you have no job and money. It’s not that. It’s that you aren’t being pre-judged, pre-decided on. It’s ok to admit that you are obsessed by money, or are passionate about theatre or want to study for the rest of your life. It’s ok to be a waiter, or a tour guide, or an actor-in-waiting who is a waiter or tour guide.

In NYC everybody except the biggest celeb is anonymous. Everybody is getting on with it. Everybody is doing stuff. I’m not suggesting for one moment that there isn’t injustice, or crime, or ugliness, or corruption, or racial profiling, it’s just that I’m not walking around overwhelmed by it all. And the truth is, at home I am.

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