On Books and Balls

Last week, I was calmly reading Larry's copy of After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography, when my bedfellow Meta leapt onto the mattress, marched to my pillow, and crouched as if about to pee. In the few seconds that it took me to react and lift him, he had already relieved himself. Groaning, I peeled off the pillowcase and saw that the liquid had seeped into the foam. Possessed by the kiddie (or bayaw?) instinct to sniff at bodily excretions, I put my nose to it, and discovered that it wasn't the amonnia-ey smell of pee, but a stronger, muskier odor that reeked of male-ness.

As if it wasn't enough that I had CAT SPERM on my pillow, the next day Meta also sprayed on a few books on my bed (including Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water and Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, which is Elmo's copy, uh-oh).

So yesterday I had Meta neutered.

I got to the vet at 7:10 (and no, I didn't sleep, as I've been sleeping at 5 a.m. every day now), wanting to take advantage of the free neutering services offered to the first 10 pets every first Saturday of the month. But there were already around 14 dogs and cats in cages and carriers lined up, and NO OWNERS. Either the pets were left there overnight, or people dropped them off on the way to work. I waited for the vet, trying to ignoring the overpowering smell of animal poop and fear. I placed Meta in a basket beside other cats. He arched his back and miaowed, not having seen that many cats in his adult life.

The vet arrived, wearing a loose polo with an orange cat and fish print. How obvious, I thought. Now if he'd been wearing a shirt with a dinosaur or Greek temple print maybe I'd have liked him better. I swear he tried to overcharge me; if I hadn't corrected him he'd have made me pay P1200 instead of the P800 fee for neutering male cats.

First he injected Meta's rump with anaesthesia, then plucked the tiny hairs off his (I mean Meta's) balls. He tied Meta's legs to the edges of the operating table (by this time poor Meta had stiffened, eyes wide with fear) then turned to me and said, Do you really want to see this.

I chickened out, stepping out of the room for 10 minutes. There was a muffled screech, then the vet came out carrying the basket with Meta slumped in it.

Will he be ok, I asked. He'll be fine by noon, the vet said, though he'll act a little drunk, bobbing his head like those dog figurines they sell on the street.

Sure enough, by 10 a.m. Meta's head was bobbing up and down, side to side. He climbed out of the basket and tried to walk, but his hind legs would not cooperate. He teetered and stumbled like an inebriated war veteran coming home at 2 a.m. I had to let him sleep on my (freshly washed) pillow.

His balls left tiny traces of blood in the morning. Otherwise, he's ok, sweet and lethargic as ever, less of a male but loved no less.

* * *

I'm taking a break from poetry, which has been letting me down. Lately I've been on a fiction binge, fascinated by narratives and motivations and how characters make or are trapped by their stories.

I've just finished reading:

- Like Life by Lorrie Moore, whose sad and tired characters remind me of Raymond Carver's, though they're wittier and more urban. I love her. I can't wait to read Birds of America.
- The Body Artist by Don De Lillo, which, uhm, bored me. Maybe I should try White Noise or Underworld?
- Bluebeard's Egg and Other Stories by Margaret Atwood, an old favorite
- The Lover by Marguerite Duras, which I reread before returning to Ron
- The Gospel According to Jesus Christ by Jose Saramago, a witty and intelligent take on that old story

I'm currently reading:

- Karl Iagnemma, On the Nature of Human Romantic Interaction
- Cees Nooteboom, The Following Story

Lined up next are:
- J.M. Coetzee, Disgrace
- David Foster Wallace, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
- Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
- Jose Saramago, Blindness

The following are novels and short story collections I want to read (gathered from the Salon.com Reader's Guide to Contemporary Authors that B left me 3 years ago) but have yet to borrow/buy. If you have a copy and are willing to lend me, please tell me!

- Paul Auster, The Music of Chance and The Invention of Solitude
- Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina
- A.S. Byatt, The Matisse Stories
- Penelope Fitzgerald, The Beginning of Spring and The Blue Flower
- John Fowles, The French Lieutenant's Woman
- David Grossman, The Book of Intimate Grammar (I'd read this if only for the title)
- Jonathan Lethem, As She Climbed Across the Table and Girl in Landscape
- Ian McEwan, The Child in Time and Amsterdam
- Lorrie Moore, Birds of America and Self-Help
- Alice Munro, Open Secrets
- E. Annie Proulx, Postcards
- Anne Tyler, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant
- Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Breakfast of Champions
- David Foster Wallace, Girl with Curious Hair

Any other suggestions? =)