Spike solved, or the crazy, persistent cat lady

Sunday afternoon I was messing around on the computer when the phone rang. I didn't recognize the number so I let the machine pick up. It was the woman in search of Spike again! I decided to pick up part way through the message and the woman said, "Ashley?" I said no, there was no one by that name that lived here, and explained that there was no Spike either. Was Spike a little Jack Russell Terrier, or a spunky Poodle? No. Spike was a cat with seizures, the woman was the person in charge of placing animals for an organization, and Ashley was the woman the cat was placed with, who apparently used to have my phone number. Ashley has also changed jobs, so the lady on the phone was at a dead end. She perked up a bit and asked me if I was interested in adopting a cat, but that just wouldn't fly here at the house of dog.

My most favorite library user came in yesterday. He is about 30 inches tall and is full of life. He loves James Brown and Mick Jagger. He's joie de vivre, pre-k style. I wrote a poem about him once, when I was very alone and felt as if I may never have the opportunity to have children.

I am trying to have joie de vivre, but I find it difficult. My recent re-dabble in counseling reminds me of the constant struggle with being. I was told I am too hard on myself, that I have a problem with anger, and that I need to constantly remind myself of my worth to reverse the negativity I have placed upon myself. But isn't that part of my charm? The counselor was a nice enough of a person. She gave me an exercise called writing an angry letter. I suspect she may give this to many of her clients since the directions were located on the top of her desk, for easy access.

Here is how it works. These are pretty much the directions on the sheet she provided:

1. Pray to higher being/angel to see you through the exercise.
2. Handwrite letter.
3. Burn letter.
4. Take bath or shower to release yourself.

I sat down with a pad of legal paper and began to write. I have horrible handwriting so it was difficult at first. I wrote for quite some time, mainly angry at myself. I then shredded the letter, since I am afraid of fire. I went out to observe my garden, and felt minutely better. I have often felt that anger is a wasted emotion, accomplishing little but alienating many. I also feel like it is all or nothing. If I am going to be angry, I'm going to be big time. I hate hurting people, although apparently I have made a career out of doing it to myself.