Package deal — Marriage the 2nd Time Around
I came with four dependents
Since the moment I was born, I have never lived without animals. Never. In fact, my love affair with animals began before I was born. In the late 1950’s, while I was in utero, there was much discussion and concern about the status of my mom’s cat, Theo. Theo, a beautiful seal-point Siamese mix, was so pissed when I was born that he pissed all over the house. Grandma, who understandably was elated over her first grandchild, was moreover fretful and worried about how Theo was handling the change. After all day travelling on a Greyhound bus for her first visit, Grandma made a beeline for the “cat room” to soothe Theo. Only after being assured Theo was temporarily content, Grandma turned to the nursery to cuddle me, a premature infant who weighed less than five pounds.
Humans, even while in utero can intrinsically learn. Although I can’t remember meeting Theo in person, more pictures of him than me exist to this day, an honest indicator of the effect animals had upon my family. I learned my first life lesson before I even caught a glimpse of the world. The legacy instilled in me became one of loving and living together in harmony with all living things. This was a beautiful way to begin my life.
Fast forward 40 years or more after Theo’s demise; George, my eager future husband, is standing before me, with a burning question.
“Will you marry me?”
He knew what to expect when he bent down on one knee. I was a package deal, and he was taking it all, “hook, line and sinker.”
As George reasoned with the shocked silence of the room, my dog “Kitty,” a Weimaraner, panted heavily over his shoulder.
Moments passed while George awaited my answer. All watched in wonder, or maybe horror, as a drop of saliva rolled in slow motion down Kitty’s tongue — drip, drip, dripping onto my future grooms’ collar. Kitty was ecstatic to be acquiring a new daddy. George, the dog’s future stepdaddy, was a bit perturbed.
“Couldn’t the dog have waited just a few seconds longer to drool?”
I immediately said “yes.”
Was that yes to the marriage or yes to not drooling, or yes to both? Unequivocally it was yes to both.
The additional three dependents George gained that day were also furry. Tragedy struck before our wedding. Kitty had returned to his birth father, but unexpectedly we had to put his brother Rasta down. Rasta was the most amazing rescue dog ever. He was a German Shephard mix who knew he was hours away from the needle when we fell in love on a snowy day at a rural Virgina shelter. As I whisked him away from that awful place, I pledged to provide him the best life ever. In fact, he provided me the best life ever.
For the rest of Rasta’s long life, he constantly thanked me through his gentle soul and steadfast loyalty. Rasta has been gone now for over 30 years; I still miss him every day.
It’s also been 29 years since our magnificent wedding day, where my family had shrunk to two cats: Pearl and Squeak. Pearl was reserved and shy, while Squeak, her mother, was the Alpha cat. Squeak was in the last stages of a teenage pregnancy when I fell in love with her. I rescued Squeak from a warehouse near my office, where she had been dumped and abused by the cold-hearted workers. Squeak was a petite ragdoll Siamese whose figure never quite recovered from childbirth; her stomach grazed the floor for her entire life. Squeak’s delivery of three babies, including Pearl, happened only a week after I adopted her. We were surprised when we found her laboring in my bathtub one night while “Moonlighting” was on TV. That was the only time I ever missed that show; the wonder of birth was far more important.
The cats moved with us to Florida, and since then, our fur family has morphed. While owning dogs seemed too demanding upon our careers, we’ve enjoyed the lifecycles of at least three generations of cats. Pearl’s demise was hastened by the arrival of Killer, who was found sleeping next to his first human mommy after had she passed on, hence the name “Killer.” A more polite explanation for his name was his long, beautiful legs which reminded George of the comedian Jerry Lee Lewis. Jerry Lee Lewis was nicknamed “The Killer.”
Killer was a mature, beautiful, Russian blue who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Our quiet, demur, calico, Pearl couldn’t stand him. Nor could Killer stand George, my husband; he was a fine example of a stepchild gone wrong.
George and Killer would glare at one another, as they passed in the hallway, each snarling under their breath. I could see George’s blood pressure rise as Killer assumed his position on the edge of the bed each night. As the lights were turned out, they exchanged pleasantries such as
“Good night F___ker.” Such appropriate thoughts promoting restful sleep, I thought.
I tried to maintain a state of detente within our house for at least ten years, until Killer mellowed with his old age. In the end, George and Killer found peace together, in the same way some step- family relationships heal over time. After all, George, and Killer, loved the same woman!
Because I adopted him at an estimated age of 5, I believe Killer lived for upwards of 20 years. I was an honor to be his 2nd mommy.
Our last generation of cats began to arrive precisely 5 days after Killer departed. The beautiful tabby kitten was named by our 3-year-old Nephew. Using typical toddler vocabulary, he proclaimed her to be
“Maca-woon-eeee”, after his favorite food.
“Melt my heart,” this was a perfect name, what 3-year-old doesn’t love Macaroni? She became the cat whom everyone loved.
Macaroni didn’t have a mean bone in her full-figured body. Her favorite sport was football. She sat next to her daddy on the couch every Sunday, watching game after game. A part of her body was always subtly touching his; and when he tried to move, she closed the gap. By the end of the day they looked cramped together at the end of the couch. Macaroni was not to be disturbed by George’s loud outbursts directed at the TV, and she always enjoyed her slumber well until the end of the day. George was Macaroni’s human.
Macaroni’s brother Monkey came home the same day, named for the fact that he sat on my shoulder in the car (not in a carrier, a faux pas I know), while I drove him home from the shelter. He was so happy to be free, and to be alive, that he headbutt me, and purred loudly for the entire ride home.
When I realized I had a rambunctious new child, my first vision was of the accordion grinder at the state fair, who always had a live, diapered, monkey on his shoulder. Although I wanted to, I was never allowed to pet the monkey at the fair. When I adopted this nameless cross-eyed Siamese cat, the only name I could call him was “Monkey,” and I was elated to discover that I now had one of my own! For his entire life it was difficult for me to believe that Monkey was a cat; he was always a monkey to me.
A few years later, our third arrival was Tod, a tuxedo tabby who originally belonged to our young niece and nephew. He too had been born to a teenage mother, in the garage during a blizzard in the Ohio. The family was housebound by the weather and Tod became the most “child handled” animal on earth. Tod was named after a Disney character; but unlike the character, rarely did his feet touch the ground. His “name generators” are now grown adults with families of their own. Somehow, after I first met Tod as a kitten, I believed deep down he would be mine one day. Tod was a dream come true when he arrived one Thanksgiving, homeless, as the consequence of his first human parents’ divorce. He is the most affectionate cat ever; labeled a “Velcro cat, “ in these days of social labeling.
Reader! Thanks for your patience! You’re arriving at the reason for this story
All our fur babies, except Tod are now gone. As some of you may have read in The Paradox of Passings, Monkey departed just a month ago. Tod too is living in the rays of the sunset of his kidneys. As he and Monkey aged and received IV’s every day, I often speculated that Tod would go first. Tod’s life unfortunately cannot be measured by years anymore, and even the concept of months is a stretch. I know he will be passing on soon. I think about it constantly.
Every day I am reminded by George, my husband, that he is entitled to an empty nest. Upon the demise of Tod, which will be soon, George has repeatedly said there will be
“NO MORE CATS.”
Knowing that this day is coming, I’ve been negotiating with George’s emphatic tone, and have gotten a concession:
“NO MORE CATS FOR NOW.”
The meaning of “Now” is up for further negotiations; I’m saving that discussion for the right moment, or rather a WEAK moment?
To digress, Tod just climbed onto my lap as I’m typing; with his slow decline he’s been upgraded from Velcro, to a “super -glue” cat these days.
“Tod must have known I was writing about him.”
My soul aches deeply when I think of having no furry children in my household.
That day is coming, and I question if I can exist without an animal in my home. I must however, try, as I cry, about what is to be.
Now it’s my husband’s turn. George deserves to be the only male to love me after 30 years of sharing me with other furry men. My other stories such as Day after the Diagnosis explain why. George needs me, and I need to be his, 100 percent for now.
Sometimes I tease George that I will get another animal once he’s drooling (like Kitty) and wheelchair bound, unable to protest, or physically remove a new furry addition from our household. I compare this thought to the movie Misery, where the antagonist tortured a bedbound man. The man won in the end. My situation is not about winning and losing; it’s about what is fair and right for our current life. I’m content.
My apologies for sharing this perverted joke. Such humor is distasteful to most people but a reality for me. Bye for now. It’s intravenous feeding time for Tod.
