| Subject: If it rains on my grave 2 |
Author:
Holly
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Date Posted: 08:54:04 06/26/04 Sat
My friend Bob used to tell a story whenever he could find someone who hadn't yet heard it. It was all about his friend Mark accidentally (it wasn't even on purpose, Bob would say) hitting a cat and getting into a discussion with the owner. In the story, Mark would offer to bring a kitten from the ranch, and the owner would argue that THIS cat had been neutered and declawed and was worth $250....
And, Bob would say, that's where Mark got arrested.
For what?
Arguing about the price of pussy in public.
A year to the day after Bob died, I was working at a riding school on Long Island. My friends and I were responsible for different barns on the property, but most of the time, we used to feed together. I was hell-bent on having a pretty shitty day. Bob had been young and funny and (I thought) an asset to the world in general. I knew plenty of people who brought nothing but misery to those around them, and it galled me that they were wasting (I thought) good oxygen and carbon.
Worse, one of my favorite barn cats had disappeared a couple weeks back. BMW was the father of my kitten, Herbie, and the companion of Herbie's mother Cicely. He was a tuxedo kitty, very old, last seen having a sunbath in the center of the clover leaf that was the entrace to the Northern State, probably on his way to the elephant's graveyard. We'd had many long conversations in the North Aisle hayloft, BMW and I, and I missed him.
Cicely was not as friendly. She was truly paranoid, probably from the many attempts to catch her (in order to SPAY her), so we were surprised that day in May when she did not scurry away as we lifted ourselves into the loft to throw down a few bales of hay.
Queening must have caught her without warning. She was right out in the open in a pile of shavings. And she was having the fourth kitten, a little all black one, just like Cicely, just like my Herbie. She had another little black one nursing. She was cleaning a little tuxedo kitty (Turbo). And there was a second tuxedo kitty who hadn't made it.
I think the one I saw being bron was Teazer. I'm not sure. It doesn't matter, really, but I always thought of those kittens as my gift on a day I really needed one.
Six weeks later, a hay delivery was expected, and my friends and I set about catching the kittens to protect them from the heavy boots of sweaty men who didn't give a fuck about barn cats or their kittens.
It was supposed to be temporary.
I already had a kitten (from the last hay delivery).
We couldn't catch the male kitten and decided he was probably going to be able to take care of himself, but Turbo and Teazer were snatched and brought in. They were terrified of me, unless I was sleeping, in which case I made a fine warm bed for a nap, or unless I was having coffee, in which case I was an adored source of half-and-half. Shy, like their mother, most of the rest of the time.
Turbo moved in with my friend Robin when I had to move and could take only two kittens with me. Herbie, Mr. Casual, was and is sweet and self-sufficient. If the litter's a little gross, he'll make do with a quiet corner (and a law school syllabus, if available). Out of food? he'll knock down the bag.
Teazer was my early warning system. Every morning, when it was time for coffee, she'd come poke me in the arm to wake me up. When we were almost out of cat food, she'd let me know.
Litter almost gross? She was on it. And you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you she had different "words" for all of these situations, but it was true. "Maaa" was half-and-half, "roo" wet food. "Epp" was affection, come check this out, or the answer to any question I asked her.
Teazer disappeared once, for seven days. I was beside myself with worry that she was alone and frightened somewhere. Everything seemed to scare her. By the seventh day, I was sure she was dead in a ditch. I had been crying at my desk at work for days, and this Thomas Dolby song about a submarine that was missing kept swirling through my head.
Out of nowhere, on the seventh day, Teazer appeared on the doorstep, completely at ease. I opened the door and asked where she'd been.
"Epp."
Lately, my old Herbie, who turned 18 in February, has been creaking around. Things like getting up on the couch have been not so easy. I was thinking about taking him to a vet to see how much pain he's in, and when it might be time to say enough. But I was worried about Teazer. She'd had him her whole life, and she depended on him for companionship it was sometimes hard for her to accept from humans. And she was obscenely healthy for her age (18 on May 25).
So, I waited. Then, the other day, something really weird happened. Samson walked by with Teaz in his arms.
XH1 and I knew that just wasn't right. The next day, she was stuck halfway up on the dining room chair.
The next day, she was bleeding from her nose and mouth. That was yesterday.
Dr. Murphy, the vet who was able to help her out, was kind and gentle. With all of us. But leaving her lying there on that table, even though I knew she was gone, was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Harder, even, than at least one of my divorces.
Okay, so maybe that one was a gimme. It takes nothing from Samson to say that Teazer was like a child to me. Her spot in the pecking order definitely changed when I had Sammy, but not because I loved her less than I did before Sammy came along.
And I was missing her pretty hard last night after Samson went to sleep. XH1 was out working, as usual, and nights, Herbie has always cuddled Samson. Teaz has always come and lain on my chest for awhile, like she did when she was little.
Last night, Herbie wasn't cuddling. He was going from room to room to room. I went out on the 3 season porch to have a good cry without waking Samson. And it stormed like a motherfucker.
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