Prisoner of my own conscience

I want to call my mom. She'll tell me what to do. She loves doing that.

It's Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day here in Quebec - a day of celebration and beer drinking, of hooplah and yahoos, the human kind---and I am trapped in my house, a prisoner of my own conscience.

I'd love to go on a nice bike ride throughout the city, but it's almost Moving Day. Now, it's not me who's moving, but I'm still affected.

Montreal is a city of pet owners and beautiful apartments. Sometimes, the two don't go together. And, when that happens, often pets are left to find their own new residences. One such creature was dropped off outside my livingroom window yesterday. It's currently mewing at me, perched atop my printer.

I thought it was the kitten who lives upstairs that was making all the noise. She's done it before. I'm not sure if her pothead owners believe in spaying/neutering cats. I'm not sure I can tolerate a yowling cat in heat. Regardless, I've become accustomed to ignoring that cat's confused pleas. It wasn't until my downstairs neighbor called and said she'd retrieved a kitten from her yard that I realized who was doing all the cat-calling.

And now, my boyfriend is pumped up on allergy meds and I am caring for this furry infant while the neighbor selflessly searches for its new and permanent home.

A note to the people who abandoned it: May you be neutered.