Disappointment looms

I went back over to the animal shelter today to visit Kismet, and she fell into my arms like a baby, purring and peaceful. She has been in the shelter since January, and she has begun to be depressed and unresponsive to other people passing through; but she and I are drawn to each other. One of the volunteers took this flash-lit picture with her little point and shoot and sent it to my email. However after the bliss of our time together, I learned that there may be a hitch in my application. It may be that my income is too low to adopt a cat. My references have checked out fine, but there's a question about income, and about what I would do if Kismet needed serious medical care.

"If you had vet bills of, say, a thousand dollars, would you be able to pay them?" the concerned man asked me.

"It would be difficult," I admitted, feeling like a failure in life. "But I think I could raise it," I persisted, summoning bravado.

I understand their concern, and I respect their careful vetting process. I provided more information and some explanation of the choices I've made that put me where I am in the world today. I did earn a middle-class income; I gave much of it away. I made unconventional choices. So now I'm not at all sure the application is going to go through.

When I think of the income of the workers who died hideously in the garment factory in Bangladesh last Wednesday; or when I think about countries where a thousand dollars would double a family's annual income or send a group of children to school for a year, I feel insane, trying to prove I could pay a thousand dollars in vet bills if necessary. And yet of course a thousand dollars is a moderate vet bill in this country. The shelter is wise to insure that any cat being adopted will be properly cared for.

The distribution of wealth in the world is mad and twisted. I grieve for those who have much worse troubles than I, who have worked much harder than I for what they have. Nobody in the world works harder than a waitress or a miner. I feel ashamed for wanting to indulge myself with this little animal. I do have some reserves, and I told them that. But I didn't tell them that in six more years, when Kismet is twelve and begins to have health issues, I will probably have exhausted those reserves. Life is full of imponderables. I can't plan for six years ahead. It's about all I can to to think about next week, but tonight I'm feeling heavy-hearted.