Ý

 

WARNING: Slow blogging today and tomorrow

 

I’m heading north until tomorrow afternoon for an annual event.  Yup, I’m doing the wifely thing and accompanying my husband to a dinner that I’d much rather not attend.  I’ll be gussied up, primped and curled and all that crap, country-club style.  I’m going to be his drink holder and “nodder”.  You know the kind, the wife that nods whenever he says “Didn’t we, dear?”   Oh yes, I’ll say, and I’ll nod for emphasis as I hold his beverage and mine while gesticulates and talks animatedly about the day’s golf.  I’ll hover at his elbow, make polite chit-chat, talk about stuff I haven’t thought about since I did this last year.  I’ll wince inwardly when someone slips and asks me about the ex-wife or accidentally calls me by her name – although that happens far more infrequently these days.  Wincing in the past hasn’t been all too inward; my segues to new topics were not as polished and smooth as they are after thirteen years of practice.  I have the pleasure of seeing more people each year who’ve never made the association between my husband and his first wife as well. 

 

It helps not one whit that I’ll be the lone Greenish-Democrat  in a sea of Republicans.

 

The club member wives will ask about my trademark mabé pearls after exchanging the archetypal greeting, “It’s been toooo long!”  Yes, I’ll nod, the kids are fine, everything’s just fine.  Oh, no, I’m staying at home with my kids now; yes, my husband is still traveling a lot these days.  Hmm, I’m not certain we expect the tax cuts to help his business in the short-term.  Quite amusing yes, I’m sure, although I think I’ve heard that joke about liberals/Clintons/[insert-race-ethnic group here] before.  Yes, really.  Say, how about those Cubbies/index funds/new BMW’s anyhow, hmm?

 

This is not one of my favorite chores.  It’s what the women of his family do, though.  I’ll be the one in the crowd with gritted teeth and clenched jaws.  How my mother-in-law does it year after year I don’t really know.  Or maybe I do and I’m just going to have to pretend I didn’t think that just now.

 

At nine o’clock I’ll be kicking him gently in the shins, telling him to ease up on the beer as I exit to relieve the sitter of her duties.  My chores stop there, about the time my face can’t handle another faux smile and I feel like I’m drowning after a dozen soda-waters-with-a-twist punctuated with the occasional vodka-water-twist.

 

I really do want a corporate-type job again, soon, in part so he can pay me back by taking a turn at being my escort and nodder at corporate dinners.  Pay backs are hell and he’s overdue for his; love you, dear, but…

 

Stay out of trouble while I’m away – and say a little prayer for me, or better yet, pour me a stiff drink on my return.

 

Make it a vodka and water with a twist, please.  Stoli, if you have it.

 

---

 

P.S.  This Radio software is crapping out again!!! no updates showing up!!!  What gives???

 

  10:44:30 AM    comment []

Build-A-Meme Project:  REMINDER: BUILD-A-MEME CHAT SATURDAY NOON EDT

 

For those of you who can make it, we're having our regularly scheduled chat today, Saturday 02-AUG-03 at noon EDT, at the Freedom 2004 chat room.

 

If you're new to the chat room, you will need to register to use the software (it's pretty quick and painless).

 

NOTE:  I am unable to attend or moderate this chat today; if you make it, please be sure to copy-paste your chat to save as a transcript for posting to the Freedom 2004 Forums.

 

If you can't make it, be sure to check the Freedom 2004 Forums at http://www.freedom2004.us/yabbse for the transcripts.

 

Build the meme, people!  Keep the fires burning!

 

~Rayne

 

  9:34:40 AM    comment []

ö

 

Lani

 

A fur ball, amidst a swirling mass of other fur balls, all swarming within a small glass-front cage.  This particular scrap of fur distinguishes itself by looking at me, dead on, curious and daring, unbothered by the other fur balls heaving and writhing around it.  The seal on its fate is its whiskers; they were curly, reaching forward in the direction of the wearer’s earnest little feline gaze.

 

I’ll take that one; no, the one with the curly whiskers.  Yes, her. 

 

Lokelani, heavenly rose.  Lani, for short.

 

She was intimidated by the other two cats in the household.  No surprise, since they were much older, related and quite used to the apartment we lived in.  They regularly ate all the food before she could get to any of it; I eventually had to feed her separately.  She was skittery, shy, and surreptitious about asking for affection.  She leapt up to the greatest of heights to hide from her tormentors – surprising both the feline and humans in the household.  How could this littlest scrap be strong enough to leap well over seven feet in a single bound?

 

A personality developed, although it wasn’t able to shine as brightly as it might have under different circumstances.  The other two furry occupants were bold, audacious, completely in-your-face; they owned the residence.  They sweet-talked their master into anything and everything, mother-cat and son-kitten, both having beguiling bright blue eyes.  I loved them, but they were pigs – hairy-furry, selfish and domineering pigs.

 

I left their master, and the sweet-talking furry pigs stayed with him.  I took a place of my own, and Lani went with me.  We two girls struck out on our own.

 

It was as if I had gotten another cat.  My shy little bit of a kitten became a tigress in her own right.  She learned to boss me around, learned to scold me if I left her alone too long, demanded the best part of a can of tuna.  She became luxuriantly radiant, more fully developed, her tortoiseshell coat becoming shiny and glossy, a large orange bull’s eye of fur on her flanks glowing as never before.  She took possession of our little apartment, became a part of the couch, a fixture on my pillows.

 

Funny, I think I looked the same way; when I go through old photos, I think I looked much more at ease with my life at that time.

 

I fell in love with someone and things got serious.  She scolded me more and more because I was home less and less, nagging at me whenever I came home with a persistent nyaow-nyaow.  She made it obvious our home was little more than a closet to me.  If I opened the door to the small balcony, she would punish me by jumping up on the roof to scare me.  I would beg and plead with her, tempt her to return with bits of tuna.  She would watch me coolly until she’d had enough of toying with me; then she’d slowly return off the roof and hop back into the apartment as if nothing had happened.  Something had to change.

 

It did; we left our apartment and moved in with the love of my life.  She liked the new digs, made herself at home, perching in the sunny bay window to watch the birds and bask in the sun.  She was wary of my boyfriend – and he of her, since he’d never had a pet of his own as a child, let alone a cat.  How is it that cats know when people are not used to cats?  She knew.  She kept her distance.

 

After the first year of living together, the three of us, she would feel comfortable sitting on my lap while we three sat on the couch.  She would leave if he was too restive for her comfort.  After the second year, she would sleep on the bed curled behind my legs – but never on his side.  She liked his son, who had cats of his own at his mother’s house; they played well together.  She’d even sleep with the boy when he came to visit.  Once in a great while she’d let my boyfriend pet her, although it was awkward and unnatural for both of them.  He’d touch her in the wrong way or against the grain of her fur; she’d scowl at him and slowly ease away from his reach, as if to be rid of him without wanting to offend him. 

 

I knew they’d gotten over it, the two of them, when I came home one day and found them both on the couch, together, watching football.  She was curled up on his stomach; he was petting her, slowly.  They both jumped when I walked into the room – he looked surprised, she looked like she’d been caught at something.  I grinned and ignored them; they were finally going to be okay together.  Ah, they were so much alike, stubborn, reticent and slow to warm.

 

She loved ice cream; we couldn’t open the freezer door without a sudden rush of fur winding itself around our legs to beg for a bit of the cold stuff.  She eventually figured out that ice cream came only in bowls – she’d run to the kitchen any time she heard us get a bowl out of the cupboard.  In her final years, she would walk across the back of the couch and reach out with a paw to grab for the spoon if my boyfriend-now-husband or I were trying to eat ice cream while watching television.  She would drape her body about my neck, tap me on the shoulder with her paw as if to say, Don’t forget me, I’m here and I’d really love a bite of that, thank you.

 

Sixteen years of quiet, cozy companionship, and I had to spoil it with a pregnancy.  I worried how she would handle taking back seat to this much-wanted baby.  I spoiled her as I waited, feeding her bits of the steak I craved so often, hoping she’d remember and forgive me eventually.

 

A lump on her shoulder showed up after she’d mixed it up with a stray cat.  She used to go outside with me, slink around the flower beds and pretend she was a big cat; she’d go in when I went in, ready to resume her role as queen of the house.  One night she wouldn’t come in; I left her, thinking she simply wasn’t ready yet and she’d be along momentarily.  But a stray cat had entered her turf, compelling her to stay on guard.  I discovered this only when I’d heard her scrapping with him shortly after sunset.  A scratch on her shoulder gave indication of the serious nature of the scrap; it was treated at the vets.  A month later, a small mass remained that suggested a lingering infection; the vet gave us antibiotics and reassurance.  It wasn’t enough.

 

The mass continued to grow; one of the vets in the practice (a crabby old man who reeked of cigarette smoke) told me quite bluntly she had bone cancer and I should enjoy her as long as I could, to plan ahead for the inevitable.  My hormonal state made the sorrow more weepy than I could have expected, or so I told myself.  I spoiled her even more than ever, lavishing her with the maternal care I would soon bestow on my baby.

 

She became increasingly slow, hampered by the mass.  I had not the heart to put her down because she was otherwise normal; she purred when I held her, she ate heartily, she played hard.  The persistent thought that it was something else gnawed at me; perhaps I should I get a second opinion, I wondered.  I took her to another vet’s office where they examined her gently and took X-rays.  The vet explained that it wasn’t bone cancer at all; it was a mass that might have been operable, had I taken her in to him early (roughly about the time I saw the other crabby old vet, who’d never even bothered with X-rays).  Now the mass had involved her whole shoulder and there was little that could be done at this point.

 

I was wracked with guilt.  What if this had been a baby, my child?  Would I have gotten a second opinion earlier?  Would I have accepted a first diagnosis?   I vowed to be a better mother to my child than this.  My acquiescence may have caused much discomfort, cost my little friend her life.  I tried to ask her forgiveness, as one can only ask a beloved pet; I asked her to give me a sign when it was time, as if she could somehow tell me she’d had enough.  What would a sign look like from a cat?  I could only surmise that pain would eventually make her miserable; she’d stop purring.  Okay, I told her, if you stop purring, I will know and I will make it end.  As if she would understand a word of this contract.

 

The baby came; there was nothing to be concerned about between them after all.  The baby was a source of amusement to Lani; she was puzzled at first, but took the baby in stride.  She meowed when the baby cried, as if to ask if everything was alright.  She slept when the baby slept; we all moved into a rhythm of waiting between naps, waiting between feedings and diaperings.

 

It wasn’t long that we waited.  Lani had increasing difficulty with moving, then eventually with toileting.  She continued to purr even though everything must have been incredibly difficult to do, even though I had to confine her to a kennel.  She was still happy to see me, happy to be held, happy to be fed; she purred and purred.  I couldn’t do it any longer, couldn’t see her suffering like this even though she denied it in her cat way.  I fed her the finest pieces of rib roast chopped finely with homemade pate for her last meal; I held her and petted her, listened to her soft purring.  Then I called the vet.

 

I held her for the short trip to the vet’s office; I held her while we waited.  I held her as the vet administered the last shot.  She purred, even as I held her.  I watched the dimming of her gold-green eyes as her heart stopped, as pupils dilated and became vacant.  I told her I loved her as I caressed the orange bull’s eye on tortie coat one more time.

 

A co-worker asked about my cat some time after I’d put her down; she said, Oh, your priorities will be different now that you have a baby anyhow; it was just a cat.  I had to bite my tongue and walk away, fighting tears.  She obviously knew little of the depth that could be between animals and humans; as if my baby was the only creature I could love fiercely.

 

That little bit of fur gave me much, taught me much in our seventeen years together.  She was there for me when no human was; she was a mirror of my own condition.  She also taught me a most important lesson I hope never to have to exercise: a good mother knows when to bring death.

 

I’d read this for myself before, but I’d never learned it.  There is a time to end the suffering of others, and one must be prepared to do it.  There may be no negotiation of terms, no signal given; if one is truly responsible to another human, another creature, a beloved one, for their care and well-being, they must be up to the task.  They must attune themselves to the suffering and know when to ease it forever, with kindness and love.  Of all the tenderness and generosities we can extend, this is the ultimate mercy we can give in this life, the ultimate gesture of kindness and love.

 

I am still grateful, nearly ten years later, that I learned this valuable lesson from my little fur ball with the curly whiskers.  I am so very glad she let me be the pupil, that I learned this from nothing else, from no one else but her. 

 

I still miss her, though.

 

  12:58:15 AM    comment []