Processing 2: It Never Rains…

This has been a terrible week for me. I try so hard to cope with things whilst dealing with the huge vacuum inside of me that nothing will ever fill no matter how I try. I don’t make good decisions either for example: a few months ago a female acquaintance advised me that a dog would help. Something to come home to, something that would appreciate me and show me some affection. An excellent idea I agreed, especially when I saw the amazing relationship she had with her dog, a cockapoo.  The perfect dog for me, a bundle of fun who would show me unconditional and unstinting affection.

So I went on the net and linked up with Claudette who was selling her cockapoo, Cleo who was only four months old. Her circumstances had changed which was her reason for selling the dog. This breed normally sell for around £500. But she wanted a quick sale so she was prepared to sell for £250. The same day I went to see little Cleo and Claudette.

Claudette was a nervous lady in obvious emotional distress and spoke of her deep conflict in choosing between her husband and lover. She had decided on her lover and was planning to leave for France in a matter of days. We swapped heartaches and I fell in love with Cleo.

That Sunday Claudette brought Cleo to me and I was overjoyed. Cleo was not house-trained and tore through the house with such exuberance and joy that I could not keep up with her. She left her calling cards all over the place and the stench was appalling. I went to bed and Cleo slept in my room, fitfully, desperate for my attention at all hours. Next morning I awoke to the most terrible panicked condition realising I was in no state emotionally to care for a puppy.

I got back on the phone to Claudette. She was in tears as was I. She said she had something to do and would ring me back later. She duly rang. She had abandoned her plans to leave her husband and had cancelled her trip to France; she felt the whole situation with Cleo was a sign, fate lending her a hand to undo a bad decision. She wanted her dog back and would stay with her husband.

I took Cleo back the next day. Both Claudette and I were in tears and emotional stress we generated could have been measured on the Richter scale.

A few days ago I adopted a mature cat from a rescue centre, the cat is traumatised and has been hiding under the sideboard for four days now, he won’t eat or drink and the rescue centre say it will take some time. But again I feel I have called the wrong shots. I feel fate really has it in for me; determined to undo any little plan I might hatch to lessen my grief.

As things stand, five days in, the cat will not emerge from his hiding place. The plan now is to return him on Sunday.

So another dreadfully ill-advised decision.

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