January 2008 Archives

When I was eleven I got a cat named Caesar. He was a tiny kitten when he came into my life, but he quickly grew into a giant, fluffy gray tabby. He was an accidental addition to my life: I had been begging my mother for a cat for years, and when she finally said yes, I immediately came home with a little spotted female kitten from a friend's house. And my mom took in Caesar the same day from my older brother and his wife. It was an awkward moment. She wanted me to pick one, but they were kittens and I couldn't reject one. So they both stayed. And the female cat hated me almost immediately. But Caesar became the love of my life. At night, I would sneak him inside - even though it was forbidden - and let him sleep on my bed. I would clean up his kitten messes, and brush his tangled fur when he became a quarrelsome tom. I snuck him tuna and old clothes to sleep on out in the garage. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be patted on the head or scratched under the chin.

Eventually the female cat had a tiny litter of her own. And a few months after that, she and her kittens disappeared. My mother told me they ran away. My sisters told me they went to the pound. I believed my sisters. But secretly I didn't care. As long as I had my fluffy Caesar I was happy.

As he got older, Caesar got pretty dirty. He lost a good chunk of one ear. Then his eye got pretty infected. I cried a lot and petted him more. He drooled on me and purred his heart out. Then one day he, too, disappeared. He was only a year old. My mother told me he ran away. My sisters told me he went to the pound. I didn't believe any of them. I knew he had died somewhere, all alone, fighting out his little half-feral tom life.

I never asked for another cat. My parents were relieved. They decided it was just a phase. My mother had never really understood the whole pet idea in the first place. Animals were more of a functional contribution to the farm in her mind. She hugged me and told me I was allergic to cats anyway. I didn't believe her. I was heartbroken without my Caesar. My high school years were lonely and bereft of his furry company. I kept the few pictures I had. For a long time I secretly kept his name tag in a little jewelry box. I would take it out and remember how much I loved him and how dirty and sick he had been at the end. And I hated myself because I hadn't taken better care of him. He was my best friend and the thing I loved most in the world, and I had let him slowly be eaten away by the cruelties of animal life because I was too young and stupid to know how to protect him.

Twelve years later I finally gave in and got another little kitten. His name was Orpheus, and he was an accidental addition too. I went to the Humane Society with my Significant Other and we came home with a little black female. And she hated me immediately. But the next day I found little Orpheus, the size of my hand, abandoned, crippled from hunger, and near death. And I couldn't say no, so home he came. He was a little wobbly at first, and jumped around the house like a bunny as he struggled to make his legs work again. But soon he could jump and snuggle and climb under the blankets and purr against my chest. And he was the love of my life. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be picked up and held.

Orpheus grew up big and strong and I got him all his shots and the best food I could find, even though I couldn't afford it. I got him fixed when he was old enough and then I took him in for antibiotics after all the fights he got into anyway. I took him into the Kitty E.R. when his liver failed and paid $600 from my last credit card to keep him alive. I smuggled him his favorite blanket and fed him his favorite treats. And I thought, when he dies I don't think I'll ever ask for another cat. Because I'll be heartbroken.

But he got better. And he sleeps on my bed every night, even though I am allergic to cats after all. And I drool a little on him (because of the allergies) and he purrs his heart out. And even my little female cat comes around, snuggling up in the end and deciding she might like me too. And I look down at them and think, "I love you, Caesar."

Maybe I can never change the short, wretched life I gave my beloved friend, but I am making it up to him the only way I know how. By doing all the things for Orpheus that I should have done for him. And all the love that I give my little cats is the love that I owe my childhood cat. I miss him.

I often find myself watching my brain at work, puzzling over its various quirks. Note that I say *it*. Julia Sweeney mentioned something of the kind in Letting Go Of God, that we seem perversely incapable of viewing these innerworkings as being ourselves. My brain is a little machine, it isn't me. Except that it is. And I am afraid that I am not possessed of a sleek and efficient device like my MacBook laptop. No, my brain unfortunately more closely resembles a particularly badly-designed Rube Goldberg contraption, clicking away with little marbles and dominoes flying every which way. Kinda interesting if you are into the whole steampunk world, but not terribly useful if you are trying to take an exam on Etruscan politics or recall all the Roman emperors in order.

One of the things that most amuses me is my word recall. I have a pretty extensive vocabulary due to the many, many books I have read over the years. But it's not very accessible, as each word requires a tiny brain hamster to crawl through a maze, down a zigzag ramp, ride an elevator up, and then swing through the air to the correct elevated platform and ring the red bell. The yellow bell means the hamster gets flattened by a large Monty Python foot, and - alas - my brain hamsters are not too bright and I have lost many of them to the foot, resulting in me standing slack-jawed in the middle of a conversation and completely at a loss for words.

But, thankfully (I guess), I can usually manage to retrieve a word from this process. Most often not the right word, but a word nonetheless. And it's generally a word that is pretty close to almost being what I wanted, so if I send the hamster back a few times more I can sometimes find the RIGHT ONE. I wrote down some examples from today.

Searching...
1) dog-tagged. NO
2) dog-earred. NO
3) ear-marked. YES!

Searching...
1) black list. NO
2) white wash. NO
3) blackmailed. YES!

As I'm sure you can see, this means that most conversations with me can be quite entertaining as I dance around (sometimes quite literally) trying to find the right word. And then a hamster dies and it all comes to a painful, stuttering halt.

This is why I prefer to use email. And why I never answer my phone (sorry, Mom and Dad!).