Almost Not a Cat Person

When I think of “close calls,” I tend to think less of what could have been, and more of what could almost have not been.  So, rather than thinking, “What if that car accident had been worse and I was paralyzed,” I tend to think more like, “What if I hadn’t walked into the store that day and met that person?”

Perhaps the most prominent example of this presently in my life is my second cat, Shadow.  (I suck at picking cat names — this was picked by a little girl who took care of the cat before me.)

Let me back up and say that I am NOT a cat person.  At least, I wasn’t one before.  My partner wanted a cat to keep him company since he works at home all day, and since I was the anti-cat person, it fell to me to pick a cat for us.  I avoided it as long as I could, but if I ever found myself in or near a pet store, I would inevitably wander by the cats.

Whisky, Day One

There was one cat that finally got my attention.  He came with the name Whisky and he was a humane society cat from a small town.  I walked by the windows of the cat display and Whisky immediately got up and rubbed his face and body against the glass, desperate to connect with me.  I asked to meet the cat and instantly fell in love.  I got my partner to drop everything and join me at the pet store.  Two hours later, my partner was stunned that he was going home with a cat on his lap.

The three of us lived happily.  Whisky loved exploring his new house and getting to know his new family.  I immediately became a cat person, something I never thought would happen.  (This was the first “close call” with cats.  If I’d not wandered into that specific store and if Whisky hadn’t made a deliberate attempt to connect with me, I might still be cat-less today, and our house would still feel empty.)

A couple months after Whisky settled into his new life with us, a friend of my partner told us about a homeless cat that was looking for a family.  Since this person knew we were new cat owners, he thought Whisky might need some company in the form of a small, black kitten named Shadow.  The friend knew a family that lived on a rural farm property and a kitten, who had obviously been an indoor cat until very recently, had wandered onto the property.  They suspect someone drove out to the country, opened the car door, dropped the kitten at the side of the road, and drove off.  (It sounds horrible, but last year I saw someone do just that downtown.)  The kitten desperately needed a new home, as it had been living in the woods around the farm for a few weeks and the barn cats were beating him up and not letting him on the farm.

Shadow, Day One

A couple weeks passed after the friend made that request.  We never heard about the cat again, so we figured it had gone to someone else and that was probably a good thing—we were in no position to adopt another cat.  When we finally decided firmly that, no, we would not accept the cat if the question came up again, my partner got a phone call from this friend.  “I’m coming back to the city and I’ve got the cat with me.  Meet me at my place because I can’t take him inside because my cats will be mad at it.”  The decision had apparently been made for us.  There was no question of if we could take the cat; we were being told to come pick it up.

My partner went and met his friend and took the cat.  He was a mangy little thing—stinky, scrawny, and crying nonstop.  The first night with him was a nightmare; to prevent transmission of worms or fleas or anything, we had to keep him alone in a small room and we heard his desperate plaintive cries through the whole house.  The next day we took him to the vet and he screamed the whole way there, with a yowl that sounded distinctly like “Hhheeelllppp…”

We told the vet that we had decided we couldn’t keep the kitten, but we would make sure that he was healthy before we re-homed him.  (I didn’t feel right not taking care of this kitten’s health when I had the means to do so.)  And since he was living in the woods for a few weeks and, we believe, neglected by his first home, there were a few medical issues to take care of.

We took Shadow home and put him in his private room again.  He had to be kept separate for several days until we were certain there was nothing he could transmit to Whisky.  Whisky would spend his days on the other side of the door, hissing and snarling.

As the weeks passed as we took care of Shadow’s health issues and we got him fixed, we began the slow introduction of bringing him and Whisky together.  It was a disaster.  Whisky was horribly mean and attacked Shadow regularly.  The stress and tension of all four of us—humans and cats—was incredibly high.  (Also, at the time, my grandmother was in hospital and nearing the end, only adding to the negativity in my environment.)

We had to get rid of Shadow.  That was the only solution to all of this.  If we could go back to being a one-cat house, then the stress would be gone and I could deal with the other issues in my life.

Just when we were at our breaking point with Shadow, everything suddenly changed.  Whisky stopped attacking him and Shadow stopped his non-stop full-throated whining.  (Coincidentally, this was the day before my grandmother passed away.  She was worried about us and the cats, so I was able to tell her that everything seemed to suddenly be going okay and we could make this work.)  We had no understanding of why everything had magically changed, but it did.  All of the problems just seemed to have evaporated overnight.

Now Best of Friends

Shadow was still a very timid kitten.  We’re pretty sure that in his first home, not only was he neglected, but he was likely locked in a small room, ignored, and given no stimulation.  Over the months since then, Shadow has grown increasingly confident and continues to learn how to be a cat.  (It’s only a few months ago, after he turned about a year old, that he discovered that it’s fun to go under blankets.  Until that point, it absolutely terrified him.  I literally had to teach this cat how to be petted, as he was so desperate for human contact that he would squirm so much when anyone petted him, that petting soon became impossible.  I also had to teach him how to sit on my lap and how to play with toys.)

Shadow and Whisky now get along very well.  Whisky still picks on Shadow now and then — but Shadow also encourages it.  Quite regularly, I’ll see Shadow hit Whisky on the head several times and then flop on the floor in front of him, waiting to be attacked.  But after their playtime, they're often found snuggled together in their cat bed, or grooming each other in the kitchen.

Shadow was the bigger “close call” of the two cats.  We were determined to give him up.  We told everyone that Shadow was not staying and that he would need to find a new home—for his safety and our sanity.  He needed to live with someone who was prepared to give him the attention he so desperately needed.  He got very close to being moved into a new house with a new family.

But by waiting as long as we did, because of those medical issues, we accidentally gave him the time to adjust to his new life and settle in.  If we had moved quicker, he would be somewhere else.  It's really because of a persistent ear infection (which has since cleared) that he stayed long enough to carve out his place in our home.

Shadow is now an integral part of the family.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Erotic Love & Carnal Sins: Confessions of a Priest (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

The Bright Side of Rejection

by Giselle Renarde

It always bugs me when I rant to a friend and they tell me to "look on the bright side." I don't want to think about silver linings when I'm ranting. I just want to rant.

But after a few weeks or months or years go by, I can usually look back on whatever I found rant-worthy and realize I learned something from the experience. That's especially true of business affairs.

Like most writers, I've been on the receiving end of quite a few rejection letters. I've never been one to rant about rejection. When you're a creative, rejection's part of the profession. But it used to make me sad. Of course it did. Doesn't anymore, by the way. If you're just starting out in the writing business and you're wondering if the sting of rejection ever lessens, well, yeah, it does.  At least, it has for me.

That said, I don't send manuscripts out to publishers as much as I used to.  I was browsing through a calendar from a few years ago, and I found there was a period when I was sending out one manuscript per day. These weren't all novels, obviously. There were lots of websites that published erotica back then. And I submitted short stories to erotic anthologies, when I tend not to do much anymore.

Now I self-publish most of my work. Why, you ask? Not because I can't get published. My work has appeared in nearly 200 short story anthologies. I've been published by 2 of the Big 5, plus Oxford University Press. I'm nothing special, but I have accomplished that much.  Did it pay the bills?

Not so much.

Does self-publishing pay the bills?  Well, actually, it does. It isn't easy. In fact it's a lot of work. I've had to acquire a multitude of new skills. So the money aspect is a big one, but you know which other factor is up there with money?

Trust.

I just don't trust most publishers anymore. I've been shafted too many times, by presses large and small.

When I started writing, I submitted work to every call for submissions I saw. I've had poetry published, and an academic paper, and a touching anecdote in Chicken Soup for the Soul. If they were offering money, I could whip up a story. (Although I never was paid for that academic paper, come to think of it.)

Over the past decade I've been published by... you know, I've lost track. Probably a dozen websites, more than 20 small presses, the aforementioned big wigs, Hustler Fantasies. One of the biggest reasons I publish my work myself instead of taking my writing to publishers is that... well, first of all, most of the small presses I used to work with went out of business. Almost ALL the websites closed down.

Of the few publishers who do still hold rights to some of my books, three no longer pay me. And not because my books don't sell! Deadbeat publishers come up with all sorts of reasons for falling behind on author payments. "Oh, I'm so disorganized! I don't have time to keep track of these things! I'm terrible with spreadsheets!"

Alternately, there's: "What are you talking about? I don't owe you money."

Or my personal favourite: simply failing to respond to any email I send over the course of YEARS.

I won't name names because the funny thing about deadbeat publishers is they can always seem to find money for lawyers. And there's one publisher in particular that has been incredibly litigious and very much a deadbeat press, and I can't help remembering being so disappointed, many years ago, when I submitted a book to them... and it was rejected.

A close call indeed.
~~~~~

Giselle Renarde is an award-winning queer Canadian writer. Nominated Toronto’s Best Author in NOW Magazine’s 2015 Readers’ Choice Awards, her fiction has appeared in well over 100 short story anthologies. Giselle's juicy novels include Anonymous, Cherry, In Shadow, and The Other Side of Ruth.

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Avoiding Close Calls (#deadlines #stress #dreams)

By Lisabet Sarai

I dream about missing deadlines. My plane has already boarded, while I’m not even finished packing. I’ve got to teach a class in ten minutes, starting with the quiz I use to make sure everyone arrives on time, but I’m still half an hour from the university. Then there’s the classic anxiety dream where I realize I have an exam scheduled today, yet somehow haven’t studied or attended class for a full term —astonishing given how long it’s been since I graduated!

While these aren’t exactly nightmares, their regular recurrence testifies to my concern about the issue. In the real world, I work hard to avoid this sort of close call.

My DH and I are the kind of people who arrive at the airport more than the recommended two or three hours prior to departure, just in case we encounter some unexpected obstacles. I’ve spent a lot of time hanging around in airport restaurants, gates and lounges. On the other hand, in four decades traveling around the world, I’ve never missed a plane (though we almost didn’t make a connecting flight on a recent trip to China, due to poor planning on the part of the airline).

I spent sixteen years in school and university. In that entire period, I don’t remember ever turning in a late assignment—or “pulling an all-nighter”, as we used to call it. I’d start tackling homework or term papers the very day I learned about them. Now, when I have a commitment to produce some sort of work, I plan my schedule way ahead of time in order to make sure I can fulfill my promise. Occasionally I’ll experience problems and discover my effort estimates were too optimistic. I don’t react well to that sort of stress, as my long-suffering DH will attest. And when I have a challenging deadline, one I fear I can’t meet, I seriously suffer.

Not everyone is like me. (My students, in particular, seem to feel little distress about upcoming deadlines.) I’ve met people who seem to get a thrill out of living on the edge, cutting their margins to the absolute minimum, gleefully living one day at a time without concern for tomorrow’s looming responsibilities. I’d like to say that I envy them their lack of tension, but honestly, the prospect of being like that fills me with horror!

Our topic this fortnight is “Close Calls”. Some readers might argue that almost missing a deadline, or a plane flight, doesn’t capture the real meaning of the term. A close call, they’ll say, is a near-disaster that could not have been anticipated or avoided. My experience with the landslide in Peru, the subject of my post here when our topic was “Near-Death Experiences”, might qualify. Almost being discovered in flagrante by a parent or authority figure could be an equally good, though less severe, example. Having the condom break the day before you ovulated would definitely fit the topic. If you have any control, though, it’s not really a close call.

I’m not completely convinced. Obviously external circumstances cannot be predicted. The drunk driver who almost but not quite totals your car may be beyond your control. The earthquake that levels the town while you happen to be away on business; the fanatic who barges into the movie theater to mow down a dozen people, after you decide at the last minute to see a different film; the brick tumbling off a building that lands on the sidewalk two feet ahead of you; these all represent lucky escapes from dire events that could easily have impacted you. No deliberate action on your part could have prevented the terrible outcomes you barely avoided.

However, I think that some “close calls” are the direct result of the choices people make. People take risks, choosing to ignore the potential consequences. Indeed, risk can add to the excitement. I considered writing a quickie for this topic about having sex in a public place and nearly being caught. (I refrained, figuring Daddy X could do a much better job.) Without the danger of discovery, public sex wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

Some people prefer to push things to the limit. They don’t start on assigned work until the night before it’s due. They show up at the exit gate five minutes before it closes. They enjoy tempting fate.

Not me. I’m a pussy when it comes to stress. I recognized that I can’t control the universe, but I’ll do whatever I can to avoid close calls in situations where my actions make some difference.

Then I’ll write stories about those of you who dare to thumb their nose at danger. You’re much more interesting.