I Hope I've Been of Some Help
flash fiction by Kimberly Sailor
My rescue cat is on two prayer chains: with St. Bernadette Holy Catholic Church, and Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church of the New Order. Because you’ll press: I don’t know how the New Order differs from the Old Order, but I was so touched when I received the handwritten announcement card (plus a 2-pack of raspberry truffles) that I’ve let my curiosities go. My lumpy, unexpected gift couldn’t fit in the machine-read mail and required extra postage to send; all the church asked for in return is my email address, the number of dependents living here, and our household income bracket. I’m glad strangers are looking after me, that’s really something. Yes, I’ll volunteer for their fall rummage sale; I’m sure I have a few Pier One lamps and bowls to donate, those usually hold generational value. So what the hell is wrong with my cat? If you’ve noticed she no longer has a tail, and spends most afternoons sleeping on the dog’s hydrofoam bed after an early pill-pocket supper, you're on to the truth. She is not in pain; she has no earthly idea of her own existence anymore. The more pressing concern might be explaining to our small town pharmacist that I’m not addicted to anxiety meds, antidepressants, and/or sedatives; our well-known, well-respected veterinarian who teaches at the big university prefers to use the Walgreens pharmacy for her patients. “It’s just more cost-effective, and you can pick up the scripts anywhere, anytime,” she says. “They’ll label it FOR A CAT in the system. It’ll be fine.” It is never fine. All of the cat’s mind erasers are controlled substances, and refilling involves assigning an anti-addiction wait time plus background checks that aren’t even required for gun sales, even though the prescribing doctor and the dosage (for a 9 pound feline!) should clearly make this ongoing crisis a non-issue. This is not about laws, this is about advocacy. I will not compare my special needs cat to your special needs child, though; that’s not fair to you, but I do understand a few of your struggles with growing clarity and new perspectives. The cat practices self-mutilation when grooming—she has grown to hate herself without life’s usual triggers like money problems, estranged parents and February days without the sun—but I don’t need sympathy when you need empathy. Honestly, I didn’t hear that your son’s Silverado hit a white oak tree until after I saw his obituary, the one that included part of his note: “I have to run now. I hope I’ve been of some help.” That was brave of you to share globally, but terribly hard to walk beside the rest of your life. There are prayer chains for this. I have a few contacts for you.
Kimberly Sailor, from Mount Horeb, WI, is a 2020 poetry fellowship recipient from the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her poetry has appeared in the Peninsula Pulse, Sixfold, Silver Birch Press, and the Eunoia Review. Her fiction has appeared in Sixfold and The Bookends Review. She is the author of the novel The Clarinet Whale and editor-in-chief of the Recorded A Cappella Review Board. Sailor studied creative writing at the University of Southern California. She enjoys bigfoot research, fostering rescue kittens, and her pickup truck, Big Red. www.kimberlysailor.com