This is blog fiction: a blog kept by a fictional character named Paige. Paige is an animal control officer, single . . . for now :-)

Paige’s fictional world begins in March 2005 when she started her blog. So to read her posts in chronological order, start here, scroll down to the bottom of the screen and “read up.”

Every few days, Paige publishes a new post.

As Paige’s creator, I could have published dozens of posts all at once, but I decided to publish them one at a time. I thought that would be easier to read, and would help convey the illusion that Paige is a real person.

So enjoy — come back often — and feel free to post your feedback (to me or to Paige) in the comments!

Technorati Tags: blog fiction, blogfic

Most of the time cats really will find their way back down again. But that doesn’t stop their owners from freaking.

And the tricky part isn’t even climbing the tree. It’s getting the cat to A. let go of the tree and B. not claw me to bits during step A. Kittens, fortunately, are both weaker and a bit more accepting of strangers.

So we got through it yesterday without my losing too much blood.

It was a white kitten with patches of gray tiger stripes. The lady who owned it was in tears when I got there. In smiles when I left.

No problem, ma’am. All in a day’s work, ma’am.

In fact, in retrospect, I didn’t really “get” a lot of what I was reading at the time. I know now, for example, that at least some of them were more animal rights tracts than novels. Black Beauty isn’t really about a horse, but about how people treat horses. And Terhune wasn’t above some serious preaching in his books, like Lad, A Dog, and for that matter, neither was Jack London.

It wasn’t only my naiveté as a reader that made me oblivious to this messaging, although that was part of it. But mostly it was because I was in complete agreement. Of course, we should be kind to animals.
Nowadays, of course, a lot of the practices that these novels cried out against are illegal. But not all of them, and even making them illegal doesn’t always stop them. Which makes you wonder, sometimes, whether other people are living in a kind of ethical past—they haven’t been through the Black Beauty stage yet. Or maybe it’s something even darker than that.

Fortunately I don’t have to deal with it much, in my job. But I do, sometimes. And it’s never very easy . . .

Ms. Deathwish, on the other hand, was apparently in a big fat hurry, and also not paying attention to the colors of the traffic lights. I didn’t see her until her hood suddenly appeared inches from the front right hand panel of the truck.

She didn’t make eye contact with me. I just waved and drove on. No harm done. But I bet she’s decided to be a bit more awake while driving in the future :-)

It was one of those things — typical for this relationship — that just kind of happened. My apartment situation had turned gradually more horrible that year. Check this out: Roommate #1. Starts dating a divorcee. He’s practically moved in with her, but get this — he manages to always “accidentally” walk into the living room or kitchen dressed in nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs. “Oh, Paige, I didn’t know you were home.” “Oh, Paige, I thought you were in bed already.” Yeah, sure ya did, ya perv.

Roommate #2. Bulimic. I’m pretty sure of that. The four of us—roommate #1, her pervy boyfriend, roommate #2 and me—would sometimes order a pizza or something, and she’d eat maybe half a slice, then excuse herself and go to the bathroom and run water in the sink on full blast. She was thin, too, although attractive in a brittle, snaps-in-two-in-a-stiff-breeze kind of way. And also one of those people who treats everyone around her like her personal therapist. I’d be studying, and she’d knock on my bedroom door and ask me something innocuous, like did I mind if she used some of my cream rinse or did I know where the remote was, and then once I was interrupted, she’d start talking to me about her problems. And whew, she had problems, too. She attracted weirdos like Polartec attracts cat hair. So one week, she’d be helping some co-ed who was pregnant, and another week she’d be playing taxi service for someone who’d wrecked his car, and then there’d be some crisis from home about that brother of hers and his drug thing.

Needless to say, this was stressing me out.

So I found out about this other apartment that was supposedly coming up available. A studio. I called my dad, and told him I really really need my own space, and I dunno. Maybe I called him more than once . . . I guess I must have, I’m sure I must have bugged him about it a bunch of times before he agreed to pay for it.

But anyway, I gave my notice to my roommates and they arranged for another student to have my room. So everything seemed to be falling into place.

Meanwhile Gil had this professor who rented out half of his house to students. And the student he was renting to got busted for writing term papers for hire, he dropped out of school or got kicked out or something, and left town. So all of a sudden this apartment is free, and Gil’s the lucky guy. So at the same time I was moving, Gil was getting this new place, and he was really excited, because it’s a half house, the upstairs is basically a studio, because this professor rents to art students. So he doesn’t care what they do upstairs. I mean, they can’t totally trash it. But they can paint or whatever and he doesn’t care. The walls were all murals. Well, some of them were mixed media. An eye theme, when Gil moved in. One wall was a mosaic of a darts target made of empty paper and plastic cups from the local bars, with a paper maché Eloise the Cow head sticking out of the bull’s eye. Guess you had to be there, lol. Another wall was painted with a spoof of the seal from a one dollar bill. Instead of saying “novus order seclorum”—new world order— underneath the pyramid, it said “novus order Ithaki.” New Ithaca order. The eye at the top was a cat’s eye. Pretty cool-looking, really. Gil’s buddy Jeremy had painted that one.

So that was Gil’s new digs.

And, as it turned out, my new digs, too. What happened was, the studio I thought I was getting fell through. Landlady decided not to rent it after all, for some reason. Or rent it to me, I’m not sure. So there I was, I couldn’t have my old room back—Roommate #2 had already promised it to one of her strays—I had nowhere to go, I was freaking, and of course Gil said I should stay with him for a couple of weeks while I get a place lined up.
And so that’s how we moved in together. Because once I got there, it just didn’t seem like a priority for me to look for a place of my own.

Don’t get me wrong. For awhile I kind of put a little effort into it. But pretty soon I didn’t even really go through the motions. And Gil never said anything one way or the other. He never said, “Paige, this was supposed to be temporary,” or “Paige, this is working out so well, there’s really no reason for you to look for your own place.”

. . . It’s funny now, having him back around. And I’m in the same situation, really. Because he is a good-looking guy. So of course other women are going to notice him. So what do I do? Assume he’s “my Gil” and work on outmaneuvering any other female who’s interested?

It would just be so much easier if I knew whether he thought that museum party last weekend was a “date.” I mean, it felt—when we were together—it felt like we were together. But he hasn’t called me since. If he wants me, how come he isn’t . . . I dunno. Outside my window right now, guitar in hand, limpid eyes cast longingly upward.

Phew. There has got to be something I can do to bring some closure to all this.

The problem is, the answer depends on the guy. So he calls you, and suggests you go somewhere together, and then walks you to the door when he drops you off. The problem is, Friends do that, too.

Why the hell didn’t he kiss me goodnight?

There can be only one reason. Hang on. Any men reading this (yeah yeah, I know it’s a stretch that ANYONE is reading this!!! but just in case, humor me, okay?) any men reading this, go away and read something else instead.
There’s probably some website with sports stuff on it, go read that.

Okay. They gone? Good. Now. Ladies. Here’s a bit of advice. The best kind of advice, meaning, it’s advice that I never took myself, and look at what a mess I’ve made of my life. IOW, this is advice that will let you sail through your most precious & steamingly hot relationships in total Peace and Bliss.
Ready?

*drumroll*

Beware male assumption creep.

Yeah, you read that right. Let me explain. Beware the guy who starts assuming little things. And then slightly bigger things . . . Better yet, beware assuming stuff yourself, too. Like with me and Gil. Did I ever, once, tell him I expected him to really commit to me? No. I just let us kind of evolve into a couple. I *assumed* we were couple. I let him *assume* I would always be there for him.

It’s my fault. I know it. I didn’t ask enough. But here’s the thing. Once you get in the habit of not asking, how do you change it? You can’t. You can’t suddenly expect him to be different.

Crap. I need a way out. I really do. But I don’t know what the “way out” is.

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/national/216274_dogfacelift17.html

Char is a romantic. So she automatically assumes I’m going to live happily ever after, even if the evidence for that is as scanty as the lace on a Victoria Secret sales rack. Case in point: when I told her that Gil called — to ask me out . . . only I don’t really know if, technically, he’d “asked me out.” It’s not like he called and said, “Paige, I really want to date you . . .”
And with our history . . . you can’t blame me for wondering. But Char seemed to think . . . how did she put it? I can’t remember exactly right now . . . something about that I should just pretend he’d asked me out, and it would all be okay, I guess.

Kinda sounds like Ithaca all over. Sigh.

I supposed I’d better go take a shower. I’ve got about an hour. Barely enough time for me to get my hair washed and dried, let alone decide whether to wear Date clothes or We’re-Just-Friends clothes.

Double sigh.

Simple. Coupledom by attrition.

Not that Gil ever seemed to mind. We’d end up making out on the couch, him knocking over the occasional empty beer bottle or full ashtray with his foot, and then we’d go to bed together, and the next morning I’d help clean up. After awhile everyone in our circle thought of us as attached. “Gil -n- Paige.”

It was like it was all settled the day he phoned me when he got into Ithaca. It was like he’d come there, to Ithaca, because I was there, and everything else after that was just working out the details.

http://www.firstamendmentcenter.org/news.aspx?id=6576

Woof!

(People “woof” at my truck sometimes when I drive by. They laugh when I woof back :-))