I have a feeling this is one of those entries that I’m not going to want to reread in a few months.
D’s cat, Ollie, took years to warm up to me. We moved in together, he didn’t like me. Then, he tolerated me. And then, he loved me. We snuggled. He cried when I wasn’t home. When D would go to work he’d jump up on the bed and we’d have “Bear Snuggle Time” (I was the one who nicknamed him “Bear”, because he weighed 24 lbs.), and everything was…perfect.
Then I moved out.
And now Ollie won’t look at me.
I never thought that would be this hard. I never thought that only three weeks would undo three years of work. It’s as if it all never happened. Ollie sees right through me, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want me to pet him, he doesn’t snuggle, doesn’t want his belly rubbed.
After a year of detached attention from my husband, who has made his disdain for my affection known, somehow, it hurts like fresh pain all over again, to have the same response from Ollie. And yeah, I’ve always been really emotional about my pets. I physically hurt when something goes wrong with them, when they’re hurting or sick, when they die. And yes, this is hurting. A lot.
I’ll get over it. I know I will But still, it sucks.
I can’t wait until I’m completely over all of this crap and it loses its ability to hurt me anymore.