Insomnia can be cruel. Multiple sleepless nights are even crueler, as one finds oneself thinking certain things sound really great, only to finally get some sleep, wake up, and, to quote the Talking Heads, “You may say to yourself, ‘My God! What have I done?’”
Thus it was that I found myself awake at 5 in the morning, on my third night of no sleep, reading random items that happened to pop up on my newsfeed, when behold! I came across a fascinating article about a cat sanctuary in Greece.
Located on one of the Greek islands, with a gorgeous view of the Aegean Sea, it seems the sanctuary was looking for a caretaker (cat-taker?), a part-time job that pays little, but does give free room and board. All I would have to do is live there (on a Greek island!) and feed the cats and perhaps love on them a bit. (I’d cross the whole trap-the-feral-cats bridge when I came to it — I was stuck on the whole love-on-the-cats thing.)
I followed the link, and with the exception of having no vet-tech experience, and a couple of other (probably important) things, I was absolutely sure I fit the bill.
After all, I do love cats, I am honest and trustworthy, I am good with cats, I am single, I do love cats, I am responsible, and I do love cats (did I mention that I love cats?) … This job should be mine.
The problem: no link for an application. So, ignoring the fact the original article had quoted her as saying she had already received over 700 responses, with one to three more coming in every minute, I wrote an email (eh, mini-novel) extolling my virtues as a lover of all things cat and why I would be perfect (purrfect?) for the job over every other applicant.
And I attached a bazillion photos (she said she wanted a photo attached, but I had plenty — it’s good to share) to the novelette, ready to send it.
And then two of my brain cells woke up, rubbed together, and tried to have a coherent conversation with me.
Two mean brain cells: Stephanie, you have two cats of your own.
Me: I’ll bring them with me. What’s two more cats on an island sanctuary full of them?
Brain cells: Stephanie, you have a home you’ve established here.
Me: That’s why God made rental agencies.
Brain cells: Stephanie, you’re not thinking this through.
Me: Yes, I am. There are CATS.
Two (getting meaner by the second) brain cells: Stephanie …
Me, interrupting said cells: There are CATS. ’nuff said.
And I pushed “SEND.”
And sure enough, the Talking Heads played that refrain not an hour later: “My God!
What have I done?” Stupid brain cells.
My mother thinks I’ve finally cracked, I’m sure. I’m not sure the conversation went over well, as there was hidden laughter in her voice when I told her about this and there were a lot of repeated phrases like, “Whatever you think is best for you, dear.” (I personally believe this is the Ohioan equivalent to “Bless your heart.”)
She didn’t argue with me when I joked I was voted “Most likely to become a crazy cat lady” by my family, either. Not a good sign.
It has only been three or four days since I sent the email, and if the sanctuary woman has to wade through 700-plus emails, it might take her a bit to get to mine; I live in hope that once she does read it, she will shout “Eureka! I have found the Chosen One!” and I shall live amongst my people (er, cats) for eternity.
No, I still haven’t had any real sleep. ... Is it evident?
I’ll keep you posted.