Tag: feline

19.

Years.

That’s how long one very tyrannical cat has been at my side—through term papers, car accidents, roommates, bad apartments in the dangerous areas of Hollywood, through road trips cross country without A/C in a muscle car with loud exhaust, through so many boyfriends and breakups that he learned simply to sit in quiet judgment and never, ever get attached.

19 years of he and I learning each other’s language, sleeping next to each other, jamming to classic rock, starting and stopping jobs, rescuing new dogs, and mostly him nursing me through magnitude 10 herculean headaches.

I always knew that this cat—this little Dictator of the house—meant the world to me.  I knew it from the moment he surfaced from under a filthy trailer on the Alabama border, declawed and riddled with worms, eyes focused on mine, speaking loud and clear that we two souls were connected. I knew that when I put him in the car with my dog, Circe, a Rottweiler (and a big, big girl), he would just sit on my lap and look at her, calm and already devoted. And he did.  I always knew with Mr. Manne—I knew that he would sit on my arm and inside my overalls and never run. He came with me to Olvera Street for the blessing of the animals, and he calmly sat with me on a harness and watched everything, never scared.

But I found out this month when he got sick, and I almost lost him how devastated I will be when I do, actually, lose him.  Mr. Manne pulled through, and he’s returned to his usual despot behavior, stealing our food and romping through the house as if nightly we don’t hook him up to an IV bag and assist his body with hydration by pumping him full of subcutaneous fluids. He acts as if his one-functioning kidney is more than enough as if he’s invincible.

But I know, as I always have, how much love hurts in the end. Mr. Manne represents to me a sort of time capsule that I have buried within him—the old me, the person that I lived with him by my side. The person that only he knew will disappear with him when he chooses to go.  That’s what animals are, really. They are reflections of our best love, our deepest secrets, the parts of us that we choose to share with only the purest, non-judgemental creatures to which we have access.  Humans aren’t worthy, surely, as Mr. Manne saw time and time again and tried to tell me, as he eschewed those that I brought home.  But in him, in one tiny cat, I had the image of my best, most vulnerable self. We all, in our pets, have secured the most private transactions: their love for our actual, transparent selves.

Each time we bury the pets in our life, we lose part of this, the past self that we gave to them, and each time I lose one I say, “I can’t get another.” I wonder, skeptically, if it’s because there is no purity remaining within me.  A lot has been said in the past few years about pet loss and grief, so it’s not just me that seems to think it takes a lot of a person (Huffington Post Article)

Until Mr. Manne passes, that is. Until then, my heart is still filled with the love of the bitter little soul that somehow steals my pillow and my dessert and manages to still seem wiser and more enlightened than me. After he goes, after the time capsule is sealed and Mr. Manne’s crown is retired, the skepticism surfaces. Let’s please all hope that his reign is longer than 19 years.

Skeptically Yours,

Roadmistress

Knowing

I know you, George.

I know you by the sharp pang I feel when you plunge your teeth, all ten of them remaining in your mouth, into my shin as I’m moving too slowly in the morning as you wait for your Friskies. I know the three canine teeth especially, and I’m always surprised by your strength. By your fearlessness.  Your…assholery. I know that your crooked grin is from fighting valiantly as the calicivirus ravaged you, your mouth full of sores and your organs shutting down. You survived because you are a fighter, and you finally submitted to allowing a human’s assistance.

I know you by the hoarse series of vocalizations you give me, and I know what they all mean. I know that one is a plea to go outside—one that, until just a month ago, went unanswered. You are an inside cat. Inside is safe. One means you’re hungry. One means that you’re needing attention. One means you’re incredibly annoyed with the canine attention you’re receiving. Each one demands an immediate reply. It’s why, although you’re named for a few men that your character echoes—you’re known around here as “King George.”

I know the feeling of your fur and your paws as you walk across the bed and eventually settle in beside me.  You aren’t as heavy as the other boys, and you don’t ruffle the covers. You’re careful and precise.  You spent a lot of time outdoors before we found you; you know how to maneuver unnoticed. You are svelt and weightless.

Outside—that’s new, and it’s because I know we’re near the end. I know that because I know you. I knew immediately when things changed for you. And I realize that once upon a time, you reigned as an outside Tomcat, errr—intact—and no human told you what to do. So watching you roll in the dirt and feast on grass and scratch the palm tree—I know that’s not the virile Tom you once were, but it’s a compromise, King George, and that’s all we have in the back yard. I watch over you like the secret service, and I know that you hate that. I won’t compromise here.

You are named George Harrison Ford. Your name hails from two men—George Harrison, the subtle but insanely talented Beatle who went largely unnoticed and asked for so little. And Harrison Ford—handsome, usually playing the hero, and weathered in just the right way.

You found your way to my mother because you were dying, and for ten years, you have let me know you—despite the fact that you were reluctant to be a people’s cat. And I thank you, George. And here we are now.

In the next few weeks, you’ll ask me to let you go, and I will do that for you. I believe the biggest gift we give each other is knowing well enough when to say goodbye.

And I’ll know.  Because I know you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

George Blog