When I was growing up, we had a cat Moselle (Moe). It took about a month before Mom was left with all the animal feeding and dirty work including taking Moe to the vet. This was always a traumatic event for Mom, me and Moe. Say the word “vet” and Moe evaporated into thin air like a fur covered Harry Houdini.
Mom would say to me, “It’s time for take Moe to the V-E-T. Go get a pillowcase.” Why we carried Moe to the vet in a pillowcase is unknown, but I unhappily trudged to the linen closet and picked the oldest pillowcase I could find.
Mom snatched up Moe from a sunbeam nap. “Hold it open!” Mom demanded. This was a dangerous task as Moe, abruptly awakened from her cat dream had all claws and teeth unsheathed and ready. Mom dumped Moe into the pillowcase and Moe promptly exited the bottom of the case like a stone through a wet paper bag. Moe finished the first cat 100-yard dash in record time, choosing beneath the dresser in my bedroom as her hiding place.
My Mom had a very generous and salty vocabulary which she now proceeded to lay on Moe. This included terms concerning the dubious origins of Moe’s mother, Moe herself, certain reproductive terms not used in polite society, various bodily parts and bathroom functions ascribed to Moe, and a curse that Moe spend an eternity in the brimstone place.
“Go get another G.D. pillowcase,” Mom ordered. I sadly searched the linen closet for the next-to-oldest pillowcase. Mom, with Herculean strength shoved Moe’s hiding place away from the wall and screamed, “Catch that stupid @&^%@)(^% cat!” Dutifully I pounced on Moe who dug all claws into the carpet and hung on for dear life. “Hold that pillowcase open wide, G.D. it,” Mom yelled, “and make sure it’s bottom’s on the floor this time.” I did.
Moe, all claws and desperate, refused to be removed from the carpet. “Listen you @%*#* cat, let go or…” Mom made threats of dire cat bodily harm at this point. Somehow Mom got Moe and the carpet separated and jammed that cat into pillowcase #2…and Moe went right out the bottom and disappeared.
Mom looked really funny with her mouth in a big “O” and the blood vessels in her eyes beginning to pop. Moe was gone but I was there, bleeding and covered in some nasty scratches.
“Where in the name of god did those pillowcases come from?” she screamed. I told her I picked the old ones since Moe usually ruined them. I now truly know what someone looks like when they feel they’ve been betrayed. “Well, @#*&*^%$,” said Mom stomping to the telephone to call the vet. But the vet had an idea: a cardboard box. Moe punched a little furry fist through that, nailing Mom on the hand. “Mary, Mother of God that @&^%$#* cat is going to the vet if I have to drag it in dead!” Mom vowed.
And this, my friends is the definition of bouncing back from repeated failure. Never giving up, realizing that you’re not a failure, you just don’t have the right tools or the set up was faulty. But you know deeply, and believe in and desire the outcome so strongly, you’re willing to try again, tweaking the methods and learning what does and doesn’t work. This is what I do when I work with people: we look for methods to get to the prize they dream about.
We did get the cat to the vet that day: cardboard box IN a pillowcase. The vet gave us a nice carrying box that Moe ripped to shreds once we got into our station wagon. Did you know cats can hang from the ceiling and pee on you? But that’s a story for another day.
How do you cope with repeated failure? One and done? Continue to try, hone and refine? What about results? Leave me a comment. You know I love hearing from you!
