Nine lives? Please.

Just three weeks after Alla's death, I started looking in earnest for a cat to adopt. I didn't know if I was ready, but I couldn't get the thought out of my head, so I pressed on. I looked at picture after picture and struggled with all the unknowns, like whether the cat would get along with the dogs, how Eli would adjust to a new companion, what type of hair the cat would have and whether it would affect Mitchell's allergies, and, of course, the huge paranoia that comes from having lost a cat to the dreaded disease FIP. After several days of searching and thanks to an online rescue friend, I found a beautiful, long-haired Siamese (otherwise known as a Balinese) in the Savannah, GA animal control shelter. By that weekend, Hazel was in Connecticut, making herself comfortable with the dogs and trying to decide what to think about Eli, since on the outside he looked a lot like a cat and she far prefers dogs to cats. It's been three weeks now, and it feels like Hazel has always been a part of our family.

I constantly wonder, though, how Eli feels about the stream of cats he has seen come and go in his 14 years with me. He was always "the baby" of the house, since he grew up with his older brothers BoBo and Otis. They were my kitty crew for a full 10 years--BoBo as the patriarch and my lap warmer and the other two a silly Mutt & Jeff sort of pair. I don't think that I realized how much the group had aged until BoBo succumbed to the mounting effects of his failing kidneys at the age of 16. Otis was 11 already and Eli 10. It seemed fitting, then, when 8-year old Manny came to live with us five months later. Little did I know then that Otis would become sick just a year after we lost BoBo and gone in under 3 months. Twelve-years old seemed too young and intestinal cancer so random, but just 2 1/2 years later, Manny fell victim to the same tormentor at the age of 11. And, then, of course, Alla was taken a year later, a mere 7 months after we adopted her and at the tender young age of 14 months.

In case you've lost track, since January 2006, Eli has experienced the loss of four of his feline friends. And, now, my "baby" suddenly seems old and tired, jaded and suspicious, aloof and cautious, maybe even sad and worried. And his emotions are rubbing off on me. I worry about him day and night. His meow is off. Could he have a tumor in his throat? He's lost weight. Could it be intestinal cancer yet again? He seems a bit dehydrated. Is it his kidneys? He isn't eating a lot. It could be any number of things. I'm trying not be too doom and gloomy. I am struggling with the decision to take him to the vet to do bloodwork or to just watch and see. I am wondering if this is just a natural slowdown for a nearly 15-year old cat. In any case, I am still not OK seeing Eli as anything other than the strong, independent, wise, young cat that he has always been. To this point, he has been ageless, and I don't know how to (or want to) treat him like an elderly pet. He's not the type to submit to medical treatments without much complaining. He would much rather be outside enjoying the fresh air and rolling in the dirt than to be babied or tended to. He has a routine, and he has trained us all to follow his schedule and to meet his demands. I can't imagine him approving any changes or amendments. He's the boss. He will always be the boss. As long as I keep things on his terms, I am sure I will be making the right choice. I just don't want to have to make any choices...not for a long, long time. Please.

getting outside myself

A good friend gave me some great advice yesterday. Knowing that I was trying to come up with the answers to some difficult questions, she told me to take the afternoon off and just go be with nature. Though I couldn't take the time yesterday, I did get outside a bit today. First, I took three of the dogs to the dog park. I don't usually take Bennie since she's older and doesn't really like playing rough like they do there, but she wanted to go for a ride, so I figured the ride would compensate for the destination. Anyway, the dog park was the perfect destination for me. It's a great park, the best one I've ever been to, with lots of big shade trees, park benches, and picnic tables. It backs up to a brook with a small, dammed off section which creates a pool perfect for dogs to swim in. Since none of mine are swimmers, though Labrador blood runs through half of them, we didn't visit the water today, but some of the other dogs there did and they happily shared the water left on their coats and feet with the rest of us.

The dog park is a great place to just get dirty and have fun. I mean, the dogs have no pretenses about their objectives, so why not drop your defenses and do the same? I, for one, can think of nothing better than being kissed by a 100-pound pit bull who climbs up onto your lap or having a shy Rhodesian nudge your hand for a clandestine stroke while the rest of the canine crowd is engaged in something akin to a rugby scrum in the far corner of the park. The dog park puts all humans on an even playing field. There are no occupations or titles there. You're Gator's mom or Happy's dad. (Yes, there was a dog named Happy there today!) No one asks you about your political views or where your kids go to school. They talk about how old their dog is and how they came to have a dog. They talk about surgeries for knee injuries, baby teeth, the dog at home who doesn't like the park, and the funny things their dogs do. They smile, they laugh, they live in the moment...just like their dogs. The dog park is kind of like a playground for grown-ups.

So, since it's in the 90's right now, we didn't stay at the park for too long, but after everyone had their nap in the A/C, I felt the need to go back outside again. I haven't felt like doing much in the gardens around the house all year. Truth be told, I haven't felt much passion for gardening since we moved here. Maybe it's because the other houses are so close, and I prefer a more secluded outdoor space. Maybe it's just my lack of joy over living in Connecticut in the first place. But, hostas still need to be trimmed back after their blooms are gone, and I still hadn't done this, so outside I went. Armed with a new pair of shears that I found tucked away in my old, rusty gardening cabinet, I started cutting, and cutting, and cutting.

I soon remembered what I loved about being in the garden, about doing a mundane task like weeding or pruning. It's the quiet that I find inside my head. Gone are the voices of worry and doubt. There is no such thing as gossip or judgment. No deadlines, no bills, no boss, no nothing and nobody. Watched over by my dogs, who somehow protect me from the outside world, I am able to just dig into the task at hand. Today, I reacquainted myself with the daddy longlegs spider and thanked him for the great job he does in my garden. I walked barefoot through the fallen leaves of last autumn that line the beds of the side yard, where our characteristically au naturel approach to gardening is more "naturel" than the front, and I could feel the warmth of decay through my soles. I had dirt under my nails and sweat on my brow, and I felt truly accomplished and peaceful, all at once.

I had cut and cut away at the things that were no longer needed and had thrown them in a heap onto the compost pile. Like pushing aside the nonsense that clutters my mind from time to time, I cleared space for new growth as well as tidying up what's left behind when an something dies. There's still work to do, as I never made it to the hosta bed outside the kitchen window, but I guess I know where my next opportunity lies.

$1.00 Challenge

24 hours

We have an appointment tomorrow morning at 10:30...just 24 hours from now. I didn't want to make an appointment. It felt like I would be sealing your fate and giving up on you. I didn't want to plan for your death, but I didn't want you to have to wait when your time had come. I called other vets and made contingency plans if you told me that you were ready and your regular vet couldn't see you right away. I even made arrangements with my boss to take time off without notice when the time came. I did all that I could think to do, all that made sense in a completely insane situation, all that my heart told me was right to do. When I noticed on Saturday that your good moments were growing more infrequent, I called and made the appointment. It made me sad to do it, but I felt like we would be taken care of if that was what we needed come Monday morning.

I was so happy on Saturday when you ate so readily and so often throughout the day, but this morning you are not interested in eating and my mind is beginning to reason with my heart. I've taken a hundred or more pictures of you already this morning. I know you're getting annoyed with me, but please be patient while I try to take in every last minute we have together. I know you don't understand what's going on, that you only know that you don't feel well. I want to explain to you how it's supposed to be, all that I imagined for you, and how angry I am that we are both being robbed by this disease. I want you to understand how much I love you, that I have done all that I can for you, and that I believe with all my soul that we will be together once again. I want you to know how much you were wanted, how we chose you from all the cats we looked at and met, and how we would choose you all over again...even knowing what we know now.

I don't know how long it will take me to be able to walk by the dining room and not look for you. I still sometimes look for Otis to be hiding in the back of Bennie's crate, and he has been gone for three years now. I still glance at the front window as I leave for work in the morning, expecting to see Manny watching me go, and he has been gone for a year. I can't imagine that as long as I live in this house I will be able to look into the dining room and not look for you. I can't even bring myself to clean the floor where your wet paws left little, clay-colored prints after a trip to the litterbox. I don't want to vacuum your hair off the chair where you used to sleep. I will look for you there. I will expect to see you come to the dish every time I walk through the doorway. I will miss seeing you lying on the window sill. The room will be empty and lifeless without you in it.

Today you are here with me. Tomorrow, you probably will not. I don't know how to deal with that. I guess I'll figure it out in 24 hours.

some kinda bad voodoo

When I lost Manny to cancer on June 21, 2009, I found myself in a single-cat household for the first time in 14 years. Eli, who had been the baby of my original clan, was now 13-years old and alone for the first time in his life. I wondered if he would enjoy some time as the sole kitty or whether he would rather have a feline compatriot. I watched for signs of a change in his behavior or attitude. I listened carefully for whatever message he had for me. We settled into a routine where he spent nearly every night in our bed, sleeping between our pillows with one paw wrapped snugly around my arm and purring loudly in my face.

I eventually realized that Eli would be content with any decision that I made. Eli just loves being Eli, and he loves that we allow him to be himself. As long as he is secure in that, I think that he will accept any addition to our household. It was not Eli who had to make the decision about adopting another cat. It was I who needed to determine if I were ready to open my heart to loving another. I was, and so I decided that I would.

After looking for at least three weeks, we found a beautiful, little, 7-month old kitten named Heather, and we adopted her on December 26, 2009. We hadn't been looking for a kitten. In fact, we had actually thought that we would adopt an adult cat, but we made our decision based on personality (had to get along with dogs) and type of hair (with a highly allergic person in the house, we have learned what kinds of hair are less troublesome), and all signs pointed to her. So, after some negotiation, Heather became Alla (he wanted to name her Marie Laveau, but that seemed unwise to me) and turned our house into a multi-cat home once again.

Now, just seven months later, I am once again facing the very real fact that I will soon be living in a one-cat household once again. Only 14-months old, Alla has been diagnosed as having FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). A fatal condition, FIP has no cure and no treatment. Theories vary on how effective both traditional and holistic approaches are, but what seems clear to me is that Alla is going to die much, much, much sooner than I ever would have imagined. It is nearly impossible that she will be with us this Christmas, which would have been her first with us. It would be considered quite lucky is she is with us more than a couple of months. Each day, I simply pray that it will not be her last.

I do believe deep down that all things happen for a reason, but I am struggling to find a good enough reason for a cat to be doomed to live only a year and a half--or less. I am equally full of anger and sorrow, and my outward expression of emotion teeters tenuously between the two. I have heard others say that when one encounters a pet with special needs, he has been chosen to be the animal's earthly caretaker not only to provide the love, care, and support needed during the animal's life, but also to have the strength, bravery, and selflessness needed to help the animal during its transition out of this life. I do respect this idea, but I wonder how much I am capable of. I am merely human, after all, and heartbreak takes its toll on a person. I have lost pets before, and each loss is with me daily.

I don't know what the future holds for Alla. I don't know how long she will be here with us. All I know is that I love her. I love her, and I will do all that I can to give her as much quality of life for as long as possible. If there is any lesson for me in this tragedy, I guess it is that life is never guaranteed and that we should make the most of the time that we are given.

So, to you, my reader, I suggest the following: Hug your kids a little longer tonight. Kiss your significant other when it's unexpected. Give your pets more of your attention. Look up at the sky. Watch the clouds. Let the rain touch your skin. Squint at the sun. Sleep in. Indulge a little. Laugh at the little stuff. And when you feel stressed, breathe deeply and fully.

Now, if only I can follow my own advice....

ghosts of girlfriends past

I started this blog when I inadvertently killed someone else's blog. She had abruptly exited my life after three drama-filled years, then I told her off on her blog and she deleted it. She wasn't a friend, and I know that I (and everyone else involved) am better off without her, yet I still find myself thinking about her several months later. She was featured in a newspaper article a couple months ago, and I've read it more than once. I even found a picture that accompanied the article, and I'm pissed to see that she's lost weight!

And it's not just her! I do the same thing with another female who is no longer in my life. In that case, she was a friend....my best friend, in fact. After a BIG blowout and legal intervention, we went our separate ways over 9 years ago. I am glad not to have the drama and the worry anymore, but still I wonder about her. I feel like an online stalker! I've Googled her, looked for her on Facebook, even researched people who know her. I want to know where she lives, not so that I can contact her or have anything to do with her, but more just to feel informed, prepared, whatever.

What bothers me is that these people who negatively impacted me and my life (including others that I care about) continue to have a hold on me! I'm mad at these people for hurting me, but I'm even more mad at myself for obsessing on them! I hate that I have allowed them to rent space inside my head!

Maybe it's because I rarely have people react so negatively towards me. I mean, I know that not everyone likes me, but usually once people decide that they do, they don't suddenly change their minds. Maybe it's because I like directness and honesty. If you don't like me, I'd rather have you tell me than not. Maybe it's just that I hope that karma exists, and I want to witness her handiwork. Or maybe it's because the situation of being rejected by another female unconsciously triggers feelings of being rejected by my mother. I'm sure that Freud would have a field day with that one!

Anyway, I have nothing eloquent to say. This is just what's on my mind today. Maybe like speaking at an AA meeting or going to confession, writing about this will help me release some it from my mind. In the words of Ashley Holmes, as heard on tonight's episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey, "Love and light, bitch!"

none of the above

I had a medical procedure done last week that required me to be semi-sedated, so I needed someone to be there with me to drive me home. Although I am unmarried, and this is clearly indicated in my medical records, I was told that I should make sure my husband could be there and was assured that he (my imaginary husband) would be in the room with me during the procedure. Now, I have been in a heterosexual partnership for almost ten years, so I am used to people referring to my partner as my husband, but I still think it's strange that people even assume that I am heterosexual, much less married. And don't even get me started on the reproduction issue! Apparently, it is everyone's business when you decide not to have children, and they will remind you almost constantly with stupid questions like, "Who's going to take care of you when you get old?" and with idiotic statements like, "You'll change your mind someday." Oops, I guess I got started.

Because I am unmarried and have no children, I seem to be less important than many others. While we celebrate the longevity of marriages through anniversaries, there is no such recognition for unmarried couples. Many are quick to point out that without a legal commitment, it is easier for unmarried couples to "just walk away" from the relationship. Perhaps, but if this is true, isn't it more of an accomplishment to stay together for 10 years without a legal bond than with one? And isn't a couple without children more likely to be together because they actually love one another than one with children who are "staying together for the kids?" I won't hold my breath waiting for Hallmark to publish the list of traditional gifts for the anniversaries of unmarrieds, and I really don't need external validation. I just don't want to be demeaned and undervalued.

Our culture even devalues those choices that fall outside the accepted norm through our language. There's not even a word to describe my relationship. Instead of being able to say that I am married to a husband, I must explain that I am in a long-term, committed, co-habitating relationship with a male partner. I like to use the word "partner" when I refer to Mitchell, since it most closely recognizes the role he plays in my life, but this often leads to confusion about my sexuality. The word "boyfriend" doesn't differentiate him from some guy that I'm just dating and is the same word that a seventh grader would use. There's always "fiance," but, of course, that word implies that a wedding is imminent.

While my experiences are annoying, I know that they only scratch the surface of what so many others are subjected to. I have friends who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, polyamorous, asexual, transgendered, transsexual, intersexed, and genderqueer. I also have friends who have no idea what at least half of those words mean. In any case, I know that I am lucky to have the external genitalia, internal organs, and chromosomes to match my internal sexual identity. I guess you could say that I'm lucky to be white, to be straight, and to be in a long-term relationship. I realize that I am not far from the mean on the societal bell curve, but I'm not ignorant enough to believe that everyone else thinks, lives, loves, and votes like I do. I thought this country was founded on individual differences and personal freedoms. (I know it really wasn't, but that IS what they taught us in school, right?) Call me old-fashioned, but I think we risk alienating others when we assume that we know who they are and what they believe or when we force them to identify themselves with a label.

What would it be like to fall outside of society's check-the-box mentality? Imagine having to refer to your spouse as your "roommate." Imagine worrying that someone will ask you about your relationship status and you will feel forced to either "come out" or lie to hide the truth. Imagine being called ugly names like "faggot," "homo," or "he-she." Imagine being afraid of being attacked in a public restroom, because either your "parts" or your outward appearance doesn't match the label on the door. Imagine binding your breasts tightly against your chest. Imagine tucking (maybe even taping) your penis and testicles back toward your buttocks. Imagine being stared at while people try to figure out what gender you are. Imagine waking up everyday and seeing a body that doesn't match how you feel on the inside. Imagine. Open your mind (and your heart) & just imagine.