I should be packing. And cleaning. And doing laundry (oh dear lord, the laundry) because thanks my ridiculously generous Casey I’m headed to Nashville. And the sheer amount of energy I’ve already spent on freaking out over the fact that I’m going to spend four days surrounded by smart, talented, like-minded women (and Chris Mann! and apparently a Jonas, although I wasn’t aware they could be separated for extended periods of time) a fair amount of whom I’ve spent that last few years getting to know out here on the wild interwebs. Which is not to say that there isn’t more energy to be spent on freaking the hell out, because I assure you, there is. So much more.
Instead I’m watching my Facebook newsfeed like a hawk. Normally I try to limit my time spent on Facebook. Mostly because 99.9% of the time the statuses (statusi? stati?) consists of either: engagement, marriage, pregnancy, birth, or some combination of the above. The baby engagements can get really obnoxious.
But today there was a news story that someone I went to high school with was arrested for throwing her boyfriend’s dog off a second story balcony and killing it when they got into a fight.
I graduated with 444 people. I knew every single person that walked across the (then) Deer Creek stage in 2001. We may not have been good friends, but I could name every face up there. It’s something I always liked about my graduating class. We were, for the time, a relatively large group but it never felt like that. The majority of us started in elementary school together. Sure some moved away, some moved in, but I’d be willing to bet that 300+ of that 444 had been in our school system since middle school. That’s a lot of young, impressionable years spent together. There’s a sort of camaraderie and unspoken connection that comes from spending your days walking the same halls, going to the same classes, dealing with the same bullshit with the same people for years at a time. And as someone who has always felt like she was on the fringe, trying to find her people, I loved that.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably still avoid you if we run into each other at the store because oh god, really do we need to have this awkward conversation in the middle of Target while I’m wearing a pair of fur covered yoga pants because dear, sweet Jesus my poor cat looks like a puffer fish who was yanked out of the water mid puff. All confused and puffed up with a winter undercoat while it’s sixty fucking degrees in January in INDIANA. Shedding and growing the coat all at the same time looking at me like, Dear God woman, what is going on?! And yes, yes those are kitty pee pads in my cart next to that pint of ice cream and the Breaking Dawn dvd. WHAT OF IT?
There is no excuse for animal abuse. None. It quite literally makes me see red. I’m one of those terrible, horrible people who is more likely to get worked up over a horse getting shot in a movie than I am a human. As I read the news piece about this girl I went to school with, who for a brief time I shared a swim lane with, this girl who I didn’t know that well then and I certainly don’t know at all now, I could feel the horror and anger building up. And then I saw what people’s reactions were, both on Facebook and the local new site itself. I expected the horror and the anger. I didn’t expect the cruelty. And it really threw me. I found myself, if not wanting to defend her exactly just kind of wanting to say, Wait. No, this isn’t right either. Her actions aren’t defensible. They aren’t anything anyone would condone. Bringing a helpless animal into what are clearly your own anger issues is not excusable. But doesn’t that at least highlight part of the issue. To do this, to do something like this just screams for help, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it just shout that something here is wrong and won’t you please, please help me? I have a hard time not feeling a small amount of empathy for that.
And I don’t know where this whole, zen-like enlightened attitude is coming from because please believe I cursed at someone who honked at me in an aggressive manner yesterday in no less than two languages with an attempt for a third which just turned into gibberish much like the dad’s cursing on A Christmas Story. Also, I may or may not have wished him low sperm motility lest THE AGGRESSIVE HONKING GENE BE PASSED ALONG. What I’m saying is, I get it. I so do, and usually I’m right there in the middle of it. But calling this girl names and wishing unspeakable things on her doesn’t make that dog any less dead. And it doesn’t make me feel any better about what she did.
I have no real point or end, but this was just something that struck me and so there you have it. End scene.