Most of the time,
the great stories teachers bring home about work are about the students and the
shenanigans that go on anytime you bring together large numbers of half-formed
humans and attempt to illicit productive behavior from them. However, what most
people don’t realize is that there are just as many great things going on in
teacher’s lives outside the classroom as inside it.
Take the end of term for example. End of Term
for teachers, especially English teachers, is a (insert sing-songy voice) Na-ha-hightmare. Not only do you get the honor
of hearing all the intimate details of students’ personal lives and why they
will not be getting their work in on time…again…but you also get to grade a
ba-gillion essays because, being the good teacher you are, you know that in
order for them to improve their skills as a writer, they actually have to
write. And in the ultimate self-sacrifice, you have allowed all 200 of your
students turn in a 3 page paper on the last day of the term, giving yourself
approximately 144 hours to grade, give feedback and enter these “well-developed
forays into the critical conversations of the literary world” before the school
registrar’s final deadline. It is during these special times that every English
teacher ever takes a moment to reflect on her life choices. And it is during one
such time that I am bringing this story from my heart to yours.
It
is about 11:30 at night and I am on my 22nd of the 30 papers I
promised myself I would get done today—so help me—when I finally cannot handle
it another moment and slam Sally Whoop-de-do’s essay on the coffee table and
march down the stairs to the basement. Now, you may be thinking, there are only 8 left, so come on! You can
do it!—And I assure you, these are the very thoughts that my inner
cheerleader has been blasting through my brain for the past few hours—but I can’t!
Because for the past few hours that cheering has been interrupted by the
incessant mewling of a cat. Somewhere, outside, in the darkness of my
condo-filled neighborhood, there is, what I imagine, a tiny, obnoxious cat in
obvious distress. And though I am absolutely dedicated to my work and could not
be pulled away by even the wildest of wild horses, this is a poor, defenseless
animal! Saving it is the right thing, nay, my civic duty as an American, to do!
(Did I mention I am allergic to the little beasts?) So, shoeless! Braless!
Companionless! I trudge out of my garage and into the night, following the
desperate meowing that threatens the future of my students’ careers as great
American authors.
Using
my echo-locative powers, I am guided through the night, past three other condos
(how are they not hearing this?) to the side of a residence across the street.
Quickly, to combat the pervasive darkness, I press the flashlight feature on my
Nexus 5 and the mysterious scene is instantly brought to light. In front of me
is a window-well, constructed to hold back the earth and allow light into the
condo’s basement bedroom, and on the sill of that window is perched a tiny, now
silent, tiger-stripped kitten.
“You
poor little kitty! Did you fall in?” I croon in the syrupy sweet voice I
reserve for babies of all species. “Don’t worry, I will get you out!”
Now,
this well is like six-feet down with that washboard rib type texture, so
looking at it, I’m pretty sure I can lower myself down and then stick my bare
toe onto one of the ribs to climb out. I look around and then shine the light
into the window of the house and decide that the coast is clear. It’ll only
take a few seconds to pop down, save the cat and be on my merry way, so no need
to wake the occupants when I am completely capable of a quick and easy
extraction. Swinging my leg over the
side, hisses of absolute loathing and the flailing of ninja cat claws issue from the bottom of the well. Without even a second’s hesitation my leg snaps
back from the well. “Nope!”
But
I can’t just leave it…so I look at the other windows of the house and see that
there are a few lights still on. Maybe if I cross my arms over my chest, they won’t notice
my lack of bra and they can save the cat by opening the window and letting it
inside and then out their door. In fact, maybe it’s even their hateful kitten outside for a time-out…for hours…in the
dark…either way, that meowing has got to stop!
I walk around to their door and
decide to knock, because you know, maybe they have kids and they may shoot me
if I wake them up in the middle of the night.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
My boobs look totally normal
with my arms crossed this high over them, right?
No
answer. Whelp…there is no way I am knocking again. They definitely think I am
some freaky creeper escaped from a mental institution and will absolutely shoot
me on sight if I touch their door again.
But
the cat!
I
walk back to the window well and peer over.
HISSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
Yeah, I missed you
too, stupid animal.
Okay, so the cat
is like a pound at most. And I am…well, more pounds than that, so maybe I can
just grab it by the scruff of it’s neck like mama cats do and get it out? Okay.
Once again I lower
my leg into the 6 foot hole and once again the cat does its hissing, karate
kitten routine. “Alright, alright! I get it! You are very fierce. I am very
threatened. Now, knock it off so I can get you out.”
My feet hit the
ground and some half decomposed leaf crap snaps under my feet and I am reminded
that investing in slippers could definitely bring some beneficial features to
my nightlife. I crouch down and make some popping, clicky, cat-friendly noises
towards the miserable cuss and then rub my fingers together in a gesture of peace. No
good. The cat’s ears drop and it’s tiny teeth bare themselves in my direction.
“Seriously, cat?”
I reach my hand over and it starts flipping out and scurrying around it’s side
of the well like a rogue bottle rocket.
“Geez! You are
literally the spawn of Satan, cat! I just wanna help you!” At this point it is
hiding under this sagebrush thing that has fallen into the well during some
ridiculous windstorm recently, and I am trying to decide if I should just leave
it to its pathetic fate.
But it will keep
meowing! And I can’t grade—let alone sleep at some point tonight—with that crap
going on in the background. (Seriously, am I the only one hearing this?!!!) And
then it hits me. I just have to cover my hands so it doesn’t go all Edward
Scissors paws on me and give me rabies. I can just take off my P.J. Bottoms,
drop them on the cat, grab the little furball and lift it out. BOOM. Mission
accomplished.
Reaching for ties
of my pants, and dropping them to the ground, I can’t help feeling a little, COMPLETELY
PSYCHOATIC, about the possibility being discovered in a window well, in my
underwear, with a cat, in the middle of the night. But it’s fine. If they were
going to hear something going on outside, they would have come down 3 HOURS AGO
WHEN THE STUPID CAT FIRST STARTING CRYING OUTSIDE THEIR WINDOW IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!!!
Pants in hand, I
reach for the mini-beast and it tries to kill me, but as soon as I drop the
pants on it, it freezes.
“Alright. Maybe
you do want to be saved after all.”
I grab the cat
cocoon and gently lift it over side, releasing it back into the wilds of
West Provo. “Be free little devil cat, and remember forever the pantless human
who saved your hateful life!”
Donning my pants,
I chuckle, pull myself out of the well, and walk back towards my house,
where still students' papers await. I renew my resolve to finish this year strong, and I will not let anything else come between me
and my commitment to my students…right after I blog about the whole experience in
vivid, pictorial detail.
