So used to rooming with my brother was I, that waking up to an empty apartment seemed pointless. I would sleep as long as I could and spent my waking hours either waiting for the phone to ring or sitting idle at my computer. In the time between, however, I had made a friend. Gabriel Richard was his name, a thirty something man that intermediately lived with his mother or in cramped section eight apartments and was strickened with nigh crippling obsessive compulsive disorder, had a love for queen and other classic rock bands bordering on obsession, and was blessed with a genuine attitude of kindness towards others that was refreshing in comparison to the bleak jaded voice of those who I had befriended in my past.
When things went south with Ben, Gabe was there to pick up the pieces. He helped me clean out the old apartment, separating me and Ben's belongings the way one would for a divorced couple. Then came the task of finding a place to stay. I had been terrified by the prospect of ending up in some sort of group home, and was gladdened when I found the spacious basement apartment on King Street. The eccentric landlord, an elderly man named Dallas Wayne Crickenburger, was one part WWII vet, one part geriatric cowboy, add a dash of dementia, mix well, serve warm and friendly.
It wasn't until after I had moved in that I realized the distance I had placed between myself and anyone who could offer me company. Gabe was my only friend at the time, as there was some distance between me and my long-time friend/ex-girlfiend Rebecca, but he lived clear across town in Belmont and had to ride several buses just to bridge the gap between us. He tried to be there for me, but nine out of ten days I sat alone in silence, silently begging for company that I was too afraid to seek out.
So there I was, keeping tract of time by the passing of Tuesdays and Thursdays that marked the bi-weekly appointment with my social worker, at the time a friendly former punk rocker-turned mental health professional named Senna Magill. It was she that reminded me of one of the major benefits to moving into that place, so far from removed any source of social interaction: Pets.
"You have to implement something I call the Fuzz Factor." She told me in an official manner, with eyes barely concealing there loosely hidden mirth.
I took the bait.
"What is 'The Fuzz Factor'?" I Replied, "I'm dying to hear this one."
She looked at me for a moment and her good humor finally broke loose and she cracked a wise-ass smile.
"I'm glad you asked!" Was her sarcastic reply, "The 'Fuzz Factor' is a human beings innate love for all things fuzzy and cute used to combat mental illness or depression, kinda like a service animal for a blind person, only more fuzzy and with less responsibilities save for just being there and being loved upon."
It clicked in my head like the hammer of a gun, ready to fire and finally accomplish SOMETHING towards feeling better, something about being less of a mopey bastard and more of a whole human being. The Fuzz Factor, it made sense in the simplest of ways, I had always shown affection towards animals, especially cats, and I was now in a unique position to both own and provide for one. I had the new apartment, the restrictions on my finances were being loosened and readied for me to handle my own money, and I desperately needed both the company and the affection.
AND I already had a named picked out...
I would call this little ball of fuzz that I would take in, care for, and ultimately befriend MOJO.
No comments:
Post a Comment