The SPCA and Me

I finally got around to applying to be a volunteer at the SF SPCA a few months ago. I attended an introduction to the agency, filled out an application to volunteer, took the first two classes to be a cat volunteer, and promptly came down with a tenacious cold that lasted nearly four weeks.

Then I got well and started working a weekly shift of three hours socializing cats at Maddie's Adoption Center. I bought a short footstool after struggling to get down to the floor and back up while visiting a cat whose condo did not have suitable human seating. By making every possible mistake, I am gradually getting the hang of relating to cats with different dispositions.

Also, I've started taking additional classes to add to my skills. My first class was beginning feline bahavior, which qualified me for the "Green Team," volunteers who are allowed to visit cats with behavior problems. After another week or two, I took the course in Shelter Medicine. That makes me part of the "Purr Posse," volunteers who have learned the protocols of wearing gloves, gowns, and booties to visit kittens and cats who are in quarantine, ill, or waiting for space in the adoption center. So now I'm qualified to visit any cat in Maddie's and most cats in the hospital wing (another class is needed if I want to visit the poor souls with ringworm).

So now I can visit cats at Maddie's or in the hospital wing, or both (but only in that order). But I also noted on my volunteer application that I might be available for office and other types of work as well. So I get periodic emails about particularly pressing needs.

I got one email last week outlining some special tasks in the office, including one that required an "extremely detail oriented person." That sounded a lot like me, so I replied and volunteered. Wound up going at my usual shift time yesterday, but went to the administrative offices instead of Maddie's. There, instead of donning an apron, locking up my purse, and sitting with cats, I  went to an actual office. My task was to page through about 60 years' worth of the SFSPCA's monthly magazine for pictures of the hospital building as it existed during a certain period of time. I'd imagined using Post It notes to mark the pages with pictures, and they did indeed provide me with a new pack of multi-colored Post Its.

At the time, I really enjoyed the task because I got to look through so many issues of the magazine and to glimpse what they thought worth recording at that time. The SFSPCA cared for horses that drew streetcars and fire engines, for dogs that were used for racing, and for countless cats who climbed up trees or telephone poles. The magazine also serialized the novel "Black Beauty," reviewed films for their treatment of animals, and awarded an annual prize to the best animal actor in a film. I liked the praise I got for finding a half dozen good exterior shots, pictures of various parts of the building, and a few articles about the various waves of renovation.

The contents of the magazine were fascinating, but, in retrospect, I also enjoyed being back in an office of my own, with a swivel chair, good lighting, and an enjoyable task to perform.

La Boheme writings

I finally managed to track down the organizers and join in last Friday's session. We each wrote down two prompts, each of us drew one from a hat, and we had three writing sessions (since there were three of us). Here are the prompts and what I wrote.

Rainy Day in S.F.

I live in a home that's more than a century old, and it's had plenty of leakks since Ive owned it, so the first thing tht comes to my mind when I realize that it's raining is to hope that there's no leak this time.

Then I may think about the plants slaking their thirst, and water accumulating in reservoirs for human uses. Then I might anticipate the luscious aromas of wet foliage when I next go outside.

If there are gaps in the clouds, I wonder about the possibilty of a rainbow and consider where in the sky it would appear.

Then I sit back and appreciate bein inside out of the rain, dry and warm. And grateful that I don't have to go outside in it. In fact, the last day it rained, I used it and a recent cold as my excuse to avoid going on a walk that probably would have lasted several hours and done me in. Let's hear it for rain, source of many good things.
______________

"They're not very good," he said, chewing the french fries with mild disdain. "Too salty, too greasy, and not crisp."

She appropriated one fry from his plate, bit off a tiny piece, chewed it doubtfully, and agreed. "Not good at all," she said. "Not that my salad's any better."

They had come into the greasy spoon diner to get out of the rain,
and had felt obliged to order something to pay for their shelter.

But they had been grumpy and out-of-sorts before the heavens had opened upon them. They had been driving south to visit her family when the car suddenly overheated and plumes of smoke shot into the cabin and oozed through the edges of the hood, and he had taken the first exit and driven to the first garage, hoping every instant that the car would neither grind to a halt nor burst into flame. They had been lucky enough to find an open service station, but the car was 20 years old, and diagnosing its ailment and getting replacement parts would take some time.

So they were stuck in this one-horse town and already feeling sorry for themselves when, just to complete their joy, the clouds dumped a downpour on them and they had dashed, soaked  to the skin, into the first open business they saw.

"Looks like we may need to stay here for a night or two," she said. "Maybe we can borrow a phone book or get some recommendations from the waitress."

"I'm not ready to think about that yet," he said. "Let me just enjoy my misery in peace."
_________________

So should I tell her? She has to know how I feel about her. She knows that I'm a dyke. She knows how much I rejoiced when she received her call and could finally bbe ordained. She knows how hard I worked to perfect the Mozart solo cantata that I sang for her ordination. She knows how eagerly I aggreed to meet her in Anaheim when she came to California for a convention. She knows how little I could afford to fly to Virginia to visit her. She knows that I was unable to eat a bite whenever we shared a meal in Virginia. And most especially she knows that first night of the visit, when we sat together on her sofa, that I could neither fall asleep along with  her, nor make the first move. She already knows how I feel about her, and that nothing will ever come of it.

Favorite Color?!

I finally connected with someone at the Cafe La Boheme Friday writing practice group. I've wanted to go for several years, but only tried it once and didn't find anyone else who was there to write. After it  became a Meetup group, though, with RSVPs and pictures of attendees, I thought it would be more regular. Not so. I went there today and, even though the organizer and 5 other folks RSVPed, only one other person was there. Fortunately, there was a fairly good picture of her on her profile and we recognized each other. After it became clear that we were the only ones, I took over and got us writing to the prompt that I had come up with last night. I wrote as follows:

I was listening to a podcast last night about "drunk tank pink." Apparently research has shown that drunk, angry, aggressive people become calmer and behave better in a room with walls that are painted the color of PeptoBismol. Moreover, sometimes professional athletes are not able to perform their best when confronted by a piece of cardboard that is pink. They do, however, regain their abilities when shown a blue or green  color to cleanse their visual palate.

These ideas came to me last night while I was trying to think about my favorite color. I used to say that my favorite color was blue, the boys' color, the color of sky and sea and strength. But the fact is that I have made very little effort to increase the amount of blue in my life, except for the blue jeans that I usually wear and the blue jackets that I wear outside. Most of my blouses and tops are purple or raspberry.

Anyway, what is a favorite color, really? Maybe the question should be what is your favorite color to wear, to have on the walls of your house, to dominate in your artwork or garden? What color soothes you, or excites you, just by looking at it? What color do you identify with?

Many years ago, I had my colors done. The consultant looked at my skin, eyes, and hair, and composed a set of muted colors that she felt would look very good on me as clothes or cosmetics. I didn't like any of the colors, and have never bought anything using them.

Politically, I'm a lavender sort of gal, being a lesbian, and I really enjoy looking at purple flowers - lilacs, lavender, wistaria, Mexican sage. The last one I especially like for its fuzzy, pettable texture - but don't get me started on textures. Yum.

Anyway, the matter of one's favorite color depends on where the color will be - flowers, walls, clothes, paintings. It is by no means a simple question.