I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
Showing posts with label Seamus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seamus. Show all posts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The guardian and the preparation
Seamus has taken to sitting on Marcie's table of memorial, alongside her container. This began a short time ago. Usually, he slept under her. It is almost as if he has to be even closer. Of course, my dreams have accelerated, too.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
I wonder if his have. At any rate, a few pictures:
I will post pictures of her recontainment another day. I sleep and prepare for the journey for now, folks. Good night.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Her Little Ways: That quiet whisper
Not every special moment in my time Marcie was some gigantic occasion or breakthrough event. My tendency, I believe, is always to reflect on those things I know were grand and now will simply not be. But I often miss, as I have noted, the little things she did even more.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
If our love was a house and the pillars of it built by her included her charity, her ferocity, her wit and her tender ministrations, then her ways with me carved intricate inlays and myriad baroque embellishments on them. One of them I miss is the quiet, beckoning whisper.
Marcie appreciated simple moments of beauty or joy in the everyday. She also loved to share them when she could.
I shared her appreciation. However, I was always focused on a project or a plan and not often aware of them. I could also be prickly when suddenly barged in on and interrupted. But Marcie learned to get around it.
"Honey..." she would whisper. "Honey, come look at this..."
I could judge what it was by the look on her face and the tone of her voice. Something cute meant she would say it with a rising voice at the end, with mischievous cuteness being marked with a knowing half-chuckle. Her eyes would roll.
If it involved something that could be ruined by too much noise, she would whisper her entreaty with a little falloff in volume at the end and a gentle shush. "Honey, come look at this... shh... quietly."
She would hold my hand or continuously crook her finger, turning, as she crept on her target, sometime a bird on the porch, or Seamus busily working on solving a locked door or a closed box of food. Sometimes it was a wild animal.
Those little words were soon used to interrupt her reading as I became more accustomed to, and attuned to, the same kind of appreciation. She too could suffer from tunnel-vision and a laserlike focus, especially with a new tome.
There were many little moments we enjoyed and shared because of that quiet beckoning.
It was just such a call that drew my attention to a pair of doves nesting in our porch plant on Suncrest Drive. It also brought me a view of a vole enjoying out birdseed and porch in Humboldt.
I cannot count the number of times that we sneaked up on Seamus in the throes of some deviltry, one or the other noticing his cleverness being turned to his whims or wants.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I miss those little words. But this weekend, while I was focused on some online work and paying bills, I felt that weird tingle on my neck I got when she would open my door and wait.
"Honey, come look at this..."
I did not hear the words or see her or anything so direct as much as I was acting on habit. I stood up from the chair I use for the computer desk and quietly walked to the back room, wondering what was going on.
Then I saw.
Seamus was inside a window between the glass and the screen at the back of the house. A few inches away, on the other side of the screen, was a green hummingbird, twittering and peeping at him, hovering.
Seamus chittered at the bird through a mouth full of slobber and the screen, eyes no doubt wide and pupils dilated.
He did not notice me, and I quietly backed out of the room, as she likely would have, not wanting to interfere with his moment. I walked into the bedroom before I realized what I was doing.
All I wanted to say was, quietly, "Honey, come look at this..."
So I did. But who was showing what to whom I can't say.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The Skunk Hunter
Seamus decided the other night that he was tired of the skunk who had made my patio his buffet. Cue malevolent theme music...
I fell asleep with just the screen closed, having attended to some overdue reading of Mother Jones. I woke at 1:18 to Seamus's fight growling.
I look out on the patio for the other cat and ran outside to get Seamus. He was foaming at the mouth and shaking his head, his eyes squinted almost shut.
I reached down to get him and froze. Hiding behind the tall plant was a black shape with a distinct racing stripe of white down the side. I saw it precisely as my adrenalin-enhanced sense of smell was finally tuned in.
A fat little skunk. Its black eyes locked with mine and it walked backwards a bit. Seamus went to dart at it and its tail went up just as I scruffed him and dragged him backward.
The skunk came out from the plant just a little, and its tail went down as I retreated, stinking cat in hand, through the screen.
I took Seamus into the bathroom and closed the door, gather up the bathroom rugs and all the other cloth in the area, and locked him in. I checked the screen and it locked when I tried to close it again. He had smashed through it.
I had no tomato juice, no supplies and no idea where to look at 1:20 AM. I scanned the grocery store websites. Ralph's and Food For Less are apparently 24 hours. Off to Gay Ralph's I went.
I grabbed some hydrogen peroxide, standard shampoo, and baking soda, then some tomato juice for good measure. I also bought some treats for bribes.
When I got home, he was screaming to get out. At times like these, I am possessed by an irrational thought... that cats can be reasoned with in a chastening way. It may not be productive, but it passes time and serves as interaction through doors.
"YOWWWW!" he cried.
"Well, you can't just go and beat up every animal you see," I said as I mixed the recipe preferred by mythbusters:
"Well, doors that are closed and locked are to keep kitties in and critters out," I said, getting a pitcher to rinse him with and some extra supplies.
When I had a bowl of the secret recipe mixed, I gathered up some disposable linens and went in. The bathroom was safe, as Seamus was simply hovering by the door, awaiting his escape. He engaged me in more heated howling conversation.
"NYOOWWW!"
"Well, it's only for a little while. You need a bath!"
"OWWWW! NgggYOOOOWWW!"
"I know you don't like them, but you can't spread skunk spray all over the house," I said, filling the tub a few inches.
"RRRooowww!"
"Yes, as soon as you don't smell like marching death in a stinky shit band, you can go lay down," I said.
"Mmmmrrrrr," he said, plopping on his belly, panting from the stress.
I gave him a treat and he perked up a bit. The washing began.
I used body-temperature water for the whole process. It helps and keeps a cat calm. Slightly warmer is fine, but even a little cooler will bring howls of disdain and escape attempts.
For stage one, I washed him with pure Dawn. I was careful around his eyes and massaged it deeply into the huge spray-spot on his sternum to break up the greasy base containing the thiols from the skunk.
I rinsed him off, then drained the water and cleared the tub of his massive hair clog, then refilled. The smell was lessening. Seamus walked into a corner and peed, which I mopped up with a throwaway towel. He purred as he was given a treat and then stood by the door.
"YEE-OWWWWW!" he demanded.
"Not yet, you still smell like three-day-old roadkill tartar with a side of shit stew," I said, snickering a bit in my sleepiness.
"YOOOWWWW!" he said, pawing at the door.
I scruffed him and back into the water he went. I finished working out the spot on his chest and soaked him to the bone, looking for scratches or bites all over his body, as skunks are known to carry rabies. No bites. Good news!
The mix went on as a soapy soak, and Seamus disliked the cooler mix of fluids immediately. But he did not lick, and I let him soak for the 10-15 minutes asked. In the meantime, I went into the kicthen and boiled ammonia and set out cheap bowls of coffee grinds.
"YOWWW!"
"I will be back in after you soak, just calm down."
(Tap-tap-scritch) "YOWWWW!"
"Leave the door alone, that's how you got into this mess!"
"Mrrr.... Mrrrrowwwww... Mmmff"
"Good boy, I will be back soon," I said, opening the door a crack and tossing in a treat.
Once the vinegar was boiling and grinds were out, back in I went. Seamus put up with the indignity of yet another rinsing, his coat now a bleached, lighter shade.
I ran more water after cleaning the drain and soaked him in tomato juice then left to check on the other measures, adding candles and incense to my smell battle. I stopped and tossed a treat to him in the back corner. He ate it and laid back down, sighing big.
After soaking him for 15 minutes in tomato juice, I washed him off completely and patted him until he could take it no longer. The smell was almost completely defeated.
I went to sleep at 4 AM. Seamus hid in the closet with his mother's old clothes, but it smelled clean he next day. I worked a long day exhausted, but he seemed fine. Joy.
I need a new screen door.
I fell asleep with just the screen closed, having attended to some overdue reading of Mother Jones. I woke at 1:18 to Seamus's fight growling.
I look out on the patio for the other cat and ran outside to get Seamus. He was foaming at the mouth and shaking his head, his eyes squinted almost shut.
I reached down to get him and froze. Hiding behind the tall plant was a black shape with a distinct racing stripe of white down the side. I saw it precisely as my adrenalin-enhanced sense of smell was finally tuned in.
A fat little skunk. Its black eyes locked with mine and it walked backwards a bit. Seamus went to dart at it and its tail went up just as I scruffed him and dragged him backward.
The skunk came out from the plant just a little, and its tail went down as I retreated, stinking cat in hand, through the screen.
I took Seamus into the bathroom and closed the door, gather up the bathroom rugs and all the other cloth in the area, and locked him in. I checked the screen and it locked when I tried to close it again. He had smashed through it.
I had no tomato juice, no supplies and no idea where to look at 1:20 AM. I scanned the grocery store websites. Ralph's and Food For Less are apparently 24 hours. Off to Gay Ralph's I went.
I grabbed some hydrogen peroxide, standard shampoo, and baking soda, then some tomato juice for good measure. I also bought some treats for bribes.
When I got home, he was screaming to get out. At times like these, I am possessed by an irrational thought... that cats can be reasoned with in a chastening way. It may not be productive, but it passes time and serves as interaction through doors.
"YOWWWW!" he cried.
"Well, you can't just go and beat up every animal you see," I said as I mixed the recipe preferred by mythbusters:
- 1/4 cup of baking soda
- 1 quart of hydrogen peroxide
- 1 tsp of grease-cutting dish washing fluid
"Well, doors that are closed and locked are to keep kitties in and critters out," I said, getting a pitcher to rinse him with and some extra supplies.
When I had a bowl of the secret recipe mixed, I gathered up some disposable linens and went in. The bathroom was safe, as Seamus was simply hovering by the door, awaiting his escape. He engaged me in more heated howling conversation.
"NYOOWWW!"
"Well, it's only for a little while. You need a bath!"
"OWWWW! NgggYOOOOWWW!"
"I know you don't like them, but you can't spread skunk spray all over the house," I said, filling the tub a few inches.
"RRRooowww!"
"Yes, as soon as you don't smell like marching death in a stinky shit band, you can go lay down," I said.
"Mmmmrrrrr," he said, plopping on his belly, panting from the stress.
I gave him a treat and he perked up a bit. The washing began.
I used body-temperature water for the whole process. It helps and keeps a cat calm. Slightly warmer is fine, but even a little cooler will bring howls of disdain and escape attempts.
For stage one, I washed him with pure Dawn. I was careful around his eyes and massaged it deeply into the huge spray-spot on his sternum to break up the greasy base containing the thiols from the skunk.
I rinsed him off, then drained the water and cleared the tub of his massive hair clog, then refilled. The smell was lessening. Seamus walked into a corner and peed, which I mopped up with a throwaway towel. He purred as he was given a treat and then stood by the door.
"YEE-OWWWWW!" he demanded.
"Not yet, you still smell like three-day-old roadkill tartar with a side of shit stew," I said, snickering a bit in my sleepiness.
"YOOOWWWW!" he said, pawing at the door.
I scruffed him and back into the water he went. I finished working out the spot on his chest and soaked him to the bone, looking for scratches or bites all over his body, as skunks are known to carry rabies. No bites. Good news!
The mix went on as a soapy soak, and Seamus disliked the cooler mix of fluids immediately. But he did not lick, and I let him soak for the 10-15 minutes asked. In the meantime, I went into the kicthen and boiled ammonia and set out cheap bowls of coffee grinds.
"YOWWW!"
"I will be back in after you soak, just calm down."
(Tap-tap-scritch) "YOWWWW!"
"Leave the door alone, that's how you got into this mess!"
"Mrrr.... Mrrrrowwwww... Mmmff"
"Good boy, I will be back soon," I said, opening the door a crack and tossing in a treat.
Once the vinegar was boiling and grinds were out, back in I went. Seamus put up with the indignity of yet another rinsing, his coat now a bleached, lighter shade.
I ran more water after cleaning the drain and soaked him in tomato juice then left to check on the other measures, adding candles and incense to my smell battle. I stopped and tossed a treat to him in the back corner. He ate it and laid back down, sighing big.
After soaking him for 15 minutes in tomato juice, I washed him off completely and patted him until he could take it no longer. The smell was almost completely defeated.
I went to sleep at 4 AM. Seamus hid in the closet with his mother's old clothes, but it smelled clean he next day. I worked a long day exhausted, but he seemed fine. Joy.
I need a new screen door.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Conclusion)
I knew Marcie would not settle for an ice cream cake on my birthday, but I also knew that, since she had talked them up so much, she might wait before she pressed. Wait, she did. In the mean time, I decided on the cake I really wanted.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
As was typical between us, an impasse meant that we both waited for an advantageous moment before we upset the apple cart. Marcie had one planned.
The week before my birthday saw her tip her hand. Not that she had a choice. Her gift to me arrived with a harried-looking Barbara in tow.
"Oh, honey!" she said. "I didn't know you were home. Well, happy birthday!"
And there he was, a little puff of fur, half asleep and clinging to her dress. Under the closest of observation I took him from her and he mewed in protest.
He was tiny and soft, and as I held him, cupped in my hands, he stood, arched his back and stretched, his little needlenails poking into my palm.
All that Marcie knew was that he fit in one of my hands. "Oh my god, he fits in one hand. How precious is that?" she asked her mother.
Barbara nodded and "mmhmm'd" a little neutrally. I would find out later that Seamus had been in her house for a week, terrorizing Samantha, their older cat, and driving her insane.
"Well, happy birthday ahead of time, Frank," she said, taking her keys and walking back to her little Sprint.
"Thanks, Barbara," I said, smiling at the yet-unnamed and deceptively calm furball in my hands.
"So what is your name?" I asked him.
He looked at me sedately and made a silent meow. His striped chunks of fur and white belly told me little about him, except some possible Maine Coon lineage. But his green eyes were a clue.
Marcie wanted to name her male cats Angus and Fergus, girls would be Talulah Belle and (as was one of her nicknames) Tink. I liked the idea of a good Irish name.
"He doesn't have a name," Marcie said. "You have to name him."
"I think he's a Seamus," I said.
"Seamus," she said. "Oh, honey. I like that name. Like Seamus Heaney, the writer?"
I nodded and Seamus decided to look to the ground. I caught him and we went inside.
We played to his exhaustion with him that afternoon, then Marcie cooked some dinner. She wandered out and smiled, pleased with herself, hands on her hips. Her gift had been a big success. Seamus slept on my shoulder.
"So I have to order you ice cream birthday cake tomorrow," she said. "I hope you like it, honey."
I looked up and smiled. "Well, it's like having cake and ice cream all at once, I guess. Do they have German Chocolate cake versions? That's what I really want."
Her eyes lit up and she shook her head. "Oh, no, honey. They have pretty basic, set recipes with ice cream. It's not really even cake, really."
I feigned thought and then some disappointment. "That's a bummer. I have a craving for some German Chocolate cake with pecans..."
"Oh, I can make you that!" she said, plopping down next to me. "Then we can just buy some ice cream and eat a normal birthday dessert. What do you think?"
She set her hand on my forearm and bit her lower lip. She was stoked.
"That sounds good," I said. "We'll do that instead. I wanted to try your baking, anyways. We can get an ice cream cake some other time."
She clapped her hands a few times and then slapped her thighs as she got up. "I am very excited to bake for you," she said. "I think you're going to love your cake."
She brought dinner, and Seamus woke to wander about begging by our feet. Pieces of chicken slipped off my plate to him "accidentally." It is a continued tradition, of course.
Marcie shook her head as a piece fell from my plate. "So, honey, I am glad you want to celebrate your birthday, and it was sweet of you to say I was the reason you had to celebrate, but why are you so anti-birthday?"
I shrugged and I let it all out. "I will be 24 and I am just finishing my first year of college," I said. "I will be six years behind most of my peers from high school."
She looked at me as if I were insane.
"I am barely on my feet and don't have a solid job, I have to scrape a lot to get by, and some of my friends are already in their careers," I continued. "I just don't feel like I have anything to celebrate, accomplishment-wise. I'm behind."
She looked at me with a look of near-disgust on her face and rolled her eyes. Her fork clattered on her plate.
"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," she started. "You're a straight-A student, you have two jobs at the college, you are respected, you are a member of student government and you work on the side, too."
She picked at her sun-dried tomatoes and bread, then looked over, shaking her head, "You saw a lot of the world and you have lived and struggled and overcome more crap than almost anyone who goes straight to college ever will."
"I don't care who graduates before me," she added. "Ive been to Europe twice, had a lot of fun and worked and paid my own way through. Nobody gets any credit but me. And when you finish, you'll be able to say the same thing."
I leaned over and I kissed her as she turned to continue after gnoshing a bit on her dinner. "Thank you," I said.
I had heard a lot of the ideas of my being behind from a generation of people who thought door closed at certain times. Some of those gems I remember still, like "No college degree by 22? It's too late to go back..." and "Still in school at 23? You must be a professional student..."
Luckily I was with a woman with a sense of adventure, a lust for life and a disdain for convention and conservatism. Her opinion was that the quality of the life lived mattered more than the pace at which it accumulated goods or achieved milestones.
That next week, she made me a delicious dinner of steak and broccoli, rice and a grand salad. We ate a German Chocolate cake chock full of pecans. We enjoyed feeding a little puff of personality-laced fur teriyaki beef.
She came up with more gifts for me first birthday, but she had already given me the greatest one in that little bit of sage observation, annoyed as she was in delivering it. Of course, Seamus was a close second, but I digress.
She fit a lot into her life because she was never in a rush to do what everyone else wanted her to or decided was important. Doing it your own way was what made something special, not some arbitrary right way.
And if, as Marcie observed, people were impatient with you about how long you took, then make them wait a little longer and enjoy that, too.
Of course, she eventually taught me how to do that with bacon.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Skunk Cat Rides
Seamus is wild, even at 14 years of age. This often makes him a pain in the ass when he is given the opportunity to express his less tame side. How does he show this? Let's take an inventory:
The saga continues even now. Seamus? Pleased with himself to no end and thoroughly happy.
That means I took good care of him. Mean or not, crazy or not, he's a good little buddy and I was worried. The skunk left in seemingly one piece, so that was good news. But what an encounter.
If only there was web smell-o-vision.
- Setting boundaries on petting with the application of force? Yes.
- Treating every furred wanderer into his territory like prey? Yes.
- Knocking a screen so hard it bends enough to open against the lock? Yes.
- Continuously swatting and darting in on a little skunk after he has been thoroughly sprayed? Yes.
- Roaming from door to door after he has been deskunked to get some more? Yes.
The saga continues even now. Seamus? Pleased with himself to no end and thoroughly happy.
That means I took good care of him. Mean or not, crazy or not, he's a good little buddy and I was worried. The skunk left in seemingly one piece, so that was good news. But what an encounter.
If only there was web smell-o-vision.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever (conclusion)
We sped to the veterinarian's office as quickly as we could. Before we left, we gave Seamus some Bach flower essences, which did seem to calm him. We expected to wait, but were dissuaded.
"It will be a while," the tech said. "Go home and relax, we'll call you when you need to come get him."
I wanted to wait, but Marcie convinced me to get out of the office and to the car. We went home and worried for a while, made love to comfort each other and fell asleep for an hour or so.
When the phone rang, it jarred us both awake. Marcie grabbed it from her side of the bed.
"Hello?" she asked, very tentatively.
"Yes, hold on, Dr. Mason," she said as she then hit the speaker button.
"Well, it does not appear to be a tumor, it appears that he simply has a collapsed lung," Mason said. "So, it could be asthma, but I would like to do a biopsy before I start giving him any medicine."
"I think I want him to have medicine and then you can biopsy him if it doesn't help," I said, holding Marcie's hand tightly as she rubbed my arm.
I had decided that I did not want him to go through anything else, and he would be treated however it was possible. All I heard was "not cancer."
"Well, I am not sure that he is really going to respond to asthma medication, so we should just eliminate even the chance of..." Mason's voice disappeared as I kissed Marcie.
I heard her giving points to consider as the kiss broke, more reasons to wait and see him suffer. I cut her off.
"Thirty years ago, would a vet give a cat an ultrasound to diagnose a breathing problem?" I asked.
She was silent.
"Would a veterinarian 30 years ago hold off on trying a treatment just to be so sure that the cat wasn't dying?" I asked, now angry, as my first belief had been he was suffering asthma, but we had to pay to be allowed that relief. 5 weeks later, no less.
"I understand. He'll be ready when you get here, he's resting in his cage and there is a little bit of fur missing from his belly where we did the ultrasound. I'll send him home with Theodur and start him now."
I felt scammed, I felt relief, and I felt great grief welling up within me, all relieved for the moment. Marcie and I held each other.
We brought him home. That night, we fed him teriyaki salmon. We amusedly noted that Marcie's father and Seamus were now on the same medication, and we wondered which of the two was better behaved.
We had no idea that, just a few months later, we would be given far worse news and Seamus would be the least of our worries.
"It will be a while," the tech said. "Go home and relax, we'll call you when you need to come get him."
I wanted to wait, but Marcie convinced me to get out of the office and to the car. We went home and worried for a while, made love to comfort each other and fell asleep for an hour or so.
When the phone rang, it jarred us both awake. Marcie grabbed it from her side of the bed.
"Hello?" she asked, very tentatively.
"Yes, hold on, Dr. Mason," she said as she then hit the speaker button.
"Well, it does not appear to be a tumor, it appears that he simply has a collapsed lung," Mason said. "So, it could be asthma, but I would like to do a biopsy before I start giving him any medicine."
"I think I want him to have medicine and then you can biopsy him if it doesn't help," I said, holding Marcie's hand tightly as she rubbed my arm.
I had decided that I did not want him to go through anything else, and he would be treated however it was possible. All I heard was "not cancer."
"Well, I am not sure that he is really going to respond to asthma medication, so we should just eliminate even the chance of..." Mason's voice disappeared as I kissed Marcie.
I heard her giving points to consider as the kiss broke, more reasons to wait and see him suffer. I cut her off.
"Thirty years ago, would a vet give a cat an ultrasound to diagnose a breathing problem?" I asked.
She was silent.
"Would a veterinarian 30 years ago hold off on trying a treatment just to be so sure that the cat wasn't dying?" I asked, now angry, as my first belief had been he was suffering asthma, but we had to pay to be allowed that relief. 5 weeks later, no less.
"I understand. He'll be ready when you get here, he's resting in his cage and there is a little bit of fur missing from his belly where we did the ultrasound. I'll send him home with Theodur and start him now."
I felt scammed, I felt relief, and I felt great grief welling up within me, all relieved for the moment. Marcie and I held each other.
We brought him home. That night, we fed him teriyaki salmon. We amusedly noted that Marcie's father and Seamus were now on the same medication, and we wondered which of the two was better behaved.
We had no idea that, just a few months later, we would be given far worse news and Seamus would be the least of our worries.
Friday, May 2, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever (pt 2)
We were tense for weeks. We did everything to try and keep Seamus' coughing to a minimum. But as we tried to save up the $600, Marcie became more and more distraught, and I became less convinced that it would all work out.
"He's getting worse," she said. "Honey, he's punky all day now, and he even coughs when he's try to eat."
I nodded and stroked him as his wheezes cycled in again and his limp, ever thinner body shook with each breath. He was down a lot of weight. But there was life and love in his eyes, and he could manage a purr until the built-up liquid went down the wrong tube.
"I know, honey," I said. "He's fighting, though."
She slid onto the couch next to me and cupped and rubbed my hands on him. A talk was coming. Marcie knew that, whenever she told me anything, she needed only rub and hold my hands to express how hard it was to say. She was rubbing very hard.
It meant she was going to upset me. It also meant she needed me to console her when the shock had passed.
"We can't give him chemo if it's cancer, honey," she said, her voice trembling. She squeezed my hand earnestly. "He hates the doctor, and his poor little body just won't take it. I don't want him to be miserable."
I looked up and felt hot tears as I nodded. She needed to know I was with her, but I couldn't say it. I could express only my pain and grief, so I did.
"He is my little gift from you," I said. "He used to sleep in the palm of one of my hands, or in my shoes when I went to school."
I had more to say, but my voice cracked and I couldn't. Seamus stirred. I pulled him in close to me and began to rock him, and Marcie stroked my back as I bit my lip and gulped. I turned away.
Marcie stroked my arms and back as she slid close. "You have to promise that if it's cancer, we'll take him and put him to sleep, no arguments."
I considered my little buddy's state as he coughed into my chest and mewed pathetically at me, his eyes a little dull at the moment. I could in no way let him suffer even worse, on one lung, just to prolong his time with me.
"Of course we will," I whispered, kissing his head as he complained at the sudden hugging. "The last thing he'll hear will be us, and the last thing he'll feel will be us holding him in his blanket, okay?"
She couldn't handle it and broke down completely, her forehead in one hand, her other hand squeezing mine tightly as she sobbed. "He never did anything wrong," she wailed. "This is so horrible."
I consoled her as best I could as Seamus squirmed free and tried to lead us into the kitchen for food, stopping to wheeze as he did. We went for a long walk at Cabrillo National Monument that evening and just held hands.
As the weeks passed, we endeavored to make him more comfortable and to bring him things to enjoy. He had jerky, catnip of all kinds, his own patch of wheat grass in every room and ate whenever he wanted. He sill lost weight.
I had stopped smoking the year prior. Marcie finally joined me, saying, "If we gave it to him with our cigarettes, I'll just fucking kill myself, I swear to God."
Her light habit and the sad circumstances made the quitting easier for her. She walked more often and I went with her. We became closer still.
Every day, I would get home and see him outside onto the patio, where he would loll and roll between hacking fits. When Marcie was not home, I took him downstairs to walk around in the complex.
When the week came in which we would have enough to get his ultrasound done, I quietly searched and found an in-home euthanasia service. I printed the page, with its comforting but solemn graphic of a sun-drenched room and an empty cat bed.
Marcie hugged me and shook. I stroked her back, something my hands remember doing so often, and massaged her gently as I kissed her neck and tucked her into my chest.
The morning arrived. Seamus had coughed all night the night before. When he quietly walked into and he plopped his body heavily into his cage and on the blanket inside, we looked at each other.
He never wanted to see the doctor. But he was so scared he wanted to, or he wanted to hide.
"I'm ready," she said. "Let's go."
We kissed first and our solemn parade took a long walk to either certainty or relief. We did not expect the latter.
"He's getting worse," she said. "Honey, he's punky all day now, and he even coughs when he's try to eat."
I nodded and stroked him as his wheezes cycled in again and his limp, ever thinner body shook with each breath. He was down a lot of weight. But there was life and love in his eyes, and he could manage a purr until the built-up liquid went down the wrong tube.
"I know, honey," I said. "He's fighting, though."
She slid onto the couch next to me and cupped and rubbed my hands on him. A talk was coming. Marcie knew that, whenever she told me anything, she needed only rub and hold my hands to express how hard it was to say. She was rubbing very hard.
It meant she was going to upset me. It also meant she needed me to console her when the shock had passed.
"We can't give him chemo if it's cancer, honey," she said, her voice trembling. She squeezed my hand earnestly. "He hates the doctor, and his poor little body just won't take it. I don't want him to be miserable."
I looked up and felt hot tears as I nodded. She needed to know I was with her, but I couldn't say it. I could express only my pain and grief, so I did.
"He is my little gift from you," I said. "He used to sleep in the palm of one of my hands, or in my shoes when I went to school."
I had more to say, but my voice cracked and I couldn't. Seamus stirred. I pulled him in close to me and began to rock him, and Marcie stroked my back as I bit my lip and gulped. I turned away.
Marcie stroked my arms and back as she slid close. "You have to promise that if it's cancer, we'll take him and put him to sleep, no arguments."
I considered my little buddy's state as he coughed into my chest and mewed pathetically at me, his eyes a little dull at the moment. I could in no way let him suffer even worse, on one lung, just to prolong his time with me.
"Of course we will," I whispered, kissing his head as he complained at the sudden hugging. "The last thing he'll hear will be us, and the last thing he'll feel will be us holding him in his blanket, okay?"
She couldn't handle it and broke down completely, her forehead in one hand, her other hand squeezing mine tightly as she sobbed. "He never did anything wrong," she wailed. "This is so horrible."
I consoled her as best I could as Seamus squirmed free and tried to lead us into the kitchen for food, stopping to wheeze as he did. We went for a long walk at Cabrillo National Monument that evening and just held hands.
As the weeks passed, we endeavored to make him more comfortable and to bring him things to enjoy. He had jerky, catnip of all kinds, his own patch of wheat grass in every room and ate whenever he wanted. He sill lost weight.
I had stopped smoking the year prior. Marcie finally joined me, saying, "If we gave it to him with our cigarettes, I'll just fucking kill myself, I swear to God."
Her light habit and the sad circumstances made the quitting easier for her. She walked more often and I went with her. We became closer still.
Every day, I would get home and see him outside onto the patio, where he would loll and roll between hacking fits. When Marcie was not home, I took him downstairs to walk around in the complex.
When the week came in which we would have enough to get his ultrasound done, I quietly searched and found an in-home euthanasia service. I printed the page, with its comforting but solemn graphic of a sun-drenched room and an empty cat bed.
Marcie hugged me and shook. I stroked her back, something my hands remember doing so often, and massaged her gently as I kissed her neck and tucked her into my chest.
The morning arrived. Seamus had coughed all night the night before. When he quietly walked into and he plopped his body heavily into his cage and on the blanket inside, we looked at each other.
He never wanted to see the doctor. But he was so scared he wanted to, or he wanted to hide.
"I'm ready," she said. "Let's go."
We kissed first and our solemn parade took a long walk to either certainty or relief. We did not expect the latter.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever (pt 1)
There was little on the Seamus front after his urinary tract infection. Certainly, Marcie had her arguments with him and his wild streak shot out whenever he was allowe outside, fixed or not. But one day, that all changed.
"Mao hooooff!" Seamus coughed.
He was barely able to breathe.
"Mu HOFF!" he coughed again, his head sagging to the floor pitifully as his eyes closed a bit. He coughed hard and his tongue came out.
"Spit it up, Seamus," I said, half expecting a gigantic mouth-turd of fur to issue forth like some ungodly spawn of feline spite and hell. I was happily disappointed at first when one did not.
My relief would be short-lived. Seamus began coughing again later in the day. It was the off-season for my day job, renting and manning inflatables, but I left a note for Marcie as I went off to my job with Pavia-Volpe, a finance company.
"Look out for hairballs. Seamus is coughing," I wrote. "Probably will be huge, so watch your feet"
When I got home, I opened the door to Seamus's coughing and Marcie holding him, rocking him in our couch and holding him close.
"Honey, he hasn't stopped coughin all night," She said. "I don't know what to do."
"Oh, honey, it's just stuck is all," I said.
She nodded and set him gently on the couch. His eyes looked a little glazed, I noted. But he recognized me and let out a rather pathetic "mrrrr."
I spent the night petting him and calming him when he coughed. He coughed all night and through friday. By Saturday morning, we had to take him into the vet. There was one sure sign of a problem.
"Honey, he didn't eat all his food," Marcie said, in tears. "What's wrong with him, why is he so sick?"
"The hairball probably is filling up his stomach," I said, beginning not to believe myself one bit. "But let's take him in, okay?"
He did not fight as we put him in his cage. That was bad. He did not yowl as we went to the vet's. That was worse. When he did not hiss at the vet tech, we feared the worst.
We were told to leave him there, they would call us. When they did, the vet tech asked us to come get him, the doctor was done with him.
We rushed over and waited, holding hands and nervous that they had said so little.
Dr. Mason, our new Normal Heights vet, sat down. "I am not sure how to tell you this, so I will just say it. Seamus has a collapsed lung with a mass on it, according to his X-rays. I think he may have cancer."
We were devastated.
"What can we do?" I asked.
"Well, I am not sure what you can do," she said, looking at us. "But if you want a better look at him and a diagnosis for certain, we can bipsy him or we can get an ultrasound of his lung done.
We nodded, but the doctor shook her head. "You may want to put him down, it's not cheap to get an ultrasound for an animal at all. Chemotherapy for him would be hell, and may not be possible. Once he got his wind today, he started lunging in his cage at us. He would have to be sedated for it, which he is a little old for..."
Marcie squeezed my hand and looked at me, about to fall apart. I tucked her head into my chest softly and kissed her hair as tears flowed, then croaked out, "Please make sure he can't be helped. He is the best friend we have, and we need to be sure."
She nodded. "You'll need to have $600."
I nodded back, then asked, "What is the chance he has something else?"
She shrugged. "It's hard to tell, because his lung is collapsed. If it's asthma, we may get the lung back. If it's cancer, then it's almost all cancerous now."
Marcie was wracked with a sob and curled into me, clutching my shirt. I stroked her back and breathed her hair in, her scent. Dr. Mason mumbled about getting Seamus back to us now and left, uncomfortable. I noted it.
I took him out of his cage and he crawled into my lap and went limp. He was almost damp from stress. I kept him in my lap all the way home.
We slept together on the couch and we fell asleep, exhausted with grief and fear, in the middle of the cold and clutching his soft fur and each others' hands in it.
"Mao hooooff!" Seamus coughed.
He was barely able to breathe.
"Mu HOFF!" he coughed again, his head sagging to the floor pitifully as his eyes closed a bit. He coughed hard and his tongue came out.
"Spit it up, Seamus," I said, half expecting a gigantic mouth-turd of fur to issue forth like some ungodly spawn of feline spite and hell. I was happily disappointed at first when one did not.
My relief would be short-lived. Seamus began coughing again later in the day. It was the off-season for my day job, renting and manning inflatables, but I left a note for Marcie as I went off to my job with Pavia-Volpe, a finance company.
"Look out for hairballs. Seamus is coughing," I wrote. "Probably will be huge, so watch your feet"
When I got home, I opened the door to Seamus's coughing and Marcie holding him, rocking him in our couch and holding him close.
"Honey, he hasn't stopped coughin all night," She said. "I don't know what to do."
"Oh, honey, it's just stuck is all," I said.
She nodded and set him gently on the couch. His eyes looked a little glazed, I noted. But he recognized me and let out a rather pathetic "mrrrr."
I spent the night petting him and calming him when he coughed. He coughed all night and through friday. By Saturday morning, we had to take him into the vet. There was one sure sign of a problem.
"Honey, he didn't eat all his food," Marcie said, in tears. "What's wrong with him, why is he so sick?"
"The hairball probably is filling up his stomach," I said, beginning not to believe myself one bit. "But let's take him in, okay?"
He did not fight as we put him in his cage. That was bad. He did not yowl as we went to the vet's. That was worse. When he did not hiss at the vet tech, we feared the worst.
We were told to leave him there, they would call us. When they did, the vet tech asked us to come get him, the doctor was done with him.
We rushed over and waited, holding hands and nervous that they had said so little.
Dr. Mason, our new Normal Heights vet, sat down. "I am not sure how to tell you this, so I will just say it. Seamus has a collapsed lung with a mass on it, according to his X-rays. I think he may have cancer."
We were devastated.
"What can we do?" I asked.
"Well, I am not sure what you can do," she said, looking at us. "But if you want a better look at him and a diagnosis for certain, we can bipsy him or we can get an ultrasound of his lung done.
We nodded, but the doctor shook her head. "You may want to put him down, it's not cheap to get an ultrasound for an animal at all. Chemotherapy for him would be hell, and may not be possible. Once he got his wind today, he started lunging in his cage at us. He would have to be sedated for it, which he is a little old for..."
Marcie squeezed my hand and looked at me, about to fall apart. I tucked her head into my chest softly and kissed her hair as tears flowed, then croaked out, "Please make sure he can't be helped. He is the best friend we have, and we need to be sure."
She nodded. "You'll need to have $600."
I nodded back, then asked, "What is the chance he has something else?"
She shrugged. "It's hard to tell, because his lung is collapsed. If it's asthma, we may get the lung back. If it's cancer, then it's almost all cancerous now."
Marcie was wracked with a sob and curled into me, clutching my shirt. I stroked her back and breathed her hair in, her scent. Dr. Mason mumbled about getting Seamus back to us now and left, uncomfortable. I noted it.
I took him out of his cage and he crawled into my lap and went limp. He was almost damp from stress. I kept him in my lap all the way home.
We slept together on the couch and we fell asleep, exhausted with grief and fear, in the middle of the cold and clutching his soft fur and each others' hands in it.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever
Seamus's ailments and mishaps continued over the years. There was, of course, his vacation/anniversary-ending urinary tract infection. There was also a problem with his weight, which was solved with a change to soft food.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
The Feasting Cat of The Magic Ear
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Marcie's kitty heartaches
Seamus is not in the best of health, but he is doing well enough. It was not always so, and Marcie and I both had serious scares over his condition. The first once came early on.
"Frank! FRANK!" she screamed from the passage between the buildings. "Frank, please come help me! Seamus is under the main house and his paw is huge. I think he's hurt!"
Seamus was just out of reach under the house, avoiding us because he knew it was a no-no. He walked, limping on his left front paw, then holding it up.
It looked like he was wearing a big pink catcher's mitt with claws. He wandered just close enough that I was able to catch him and drag him out, complaining in low growls. Marcie snatched him away immediately.
"Oh, my god, he got bitten by something," she said. "Look at how red his little paw is. I can see his skin it's so swollen."
I had seen this before, at the egg ranch my grandfather owned in Campo. Cats would get bitten by spiders, stung by bees, even bitten by rattlesnakes. Whatever part was hit, if they lived, would swell up.
But this looked bad, and I knew we had everything from wasps to widows under the rickety old house in front of us. We also had no idea what his allergies were yet.
"God, this is why you should have let me buy a car," I said. "How are we going to get him to a vet, honey?"
Marcie looked up at me and handed Seamus, who was either enjoying the attention and had begun to relax, or was falling more ill as we spoke. He was almost limp and only murmured as I took him.
"I'll call my mom, she can come pick me up," she said. "You'll have to help me get him in his little cardboard carrier then hide until we leave."
I was still hiding my presence from Marcie's parents. I nodded. I put Seamus in the house while she made the call. It was Saturday. The ritual day-long shopping had already begun.
"Honey, what are we going to do?" she asked.
I looked at Seamus closely, searching for a stinger or bite mark."He seems fine," I said.
Just then, he chose to retch and vomit his entire breakfast onto my arm. Marcie covered her mouth as i went to get a towel. Seamus sat, his eyes looking a little glazed.
"Oh my god, he's going to die," she said. "Honey, should we ask the neighbors?"
I nodded, more worried about her than the cat. I knocked on doors, checking with the neighbors one by one. No one was home.
I was about to give up and call cab we could ill afford when an unlikely savior arrived. Andy, a cheerful gay man whose late-night romps in the apartment above us sounded more like fights than anything else, was walking down the stairs.
"Oh, god, pleeease," he said. "I'll give you two a ride, just stop pounding on everyone's doors and making such a fuss!"
And he did. Marcie clutched Seamus in her arms the whole way, I later learned, refusing to let me take him in the carrier and piling into the little Miata before I could offer to go.
She came home an hour later, having been dismissed from the veterinary hospital with a cursory exam, a shot of benadryl and a $50 bill from Dr. Dixon, which included a cardboard carrier.
"Oh, my god, what a production," Andy said. "It's a bee sting or a spider bite, and he'll be fine, the doctor said. Stop already, Marcie."
"I know, I know, I know," she said, carrying Seamus in her arms, squeezed against her until his little cries were muffled by her envelopment.
Andy followed behind, and I thanked him.
"Oh, you're welcome, but next time let's call the vet first so we can be calm and let our neighbor's guests sleep in peace, okay?" he said.
I nodded and Marcie brushed past wordlessly. Marcie was still upset and fawned over Seamus the whole night.
When the next day came and the swelling was gone, she alternated between castigating him and scooping him up in her arms near tears.
It was to be the mildest scare and only the first of a few heartaches for both of us.
"Frank! FRANK!" she screamed from the passage between the buildings. "Frank, please come help me! Seamus is under the main house and his paw is huge. I think he's hurt!"
Seamus was just out of reach under the house, avoiding us because he knew it was a no-no. He walked, limping on his left front paw, then holding it up.
It looked like he was wearing a big pink catcher's mitt with claws. He wandered just close enough that I was able to catch him and drag him out, complaining in low growls. Marcie snatched him away immediately.
"Oh, my god, he got bitten by something," she said. "Look at how red his little paw is. I can see his skin it's so swollen."
I had seen this before, at the egg ranch my grandfather owned in Campo. Cats would get bitten by spiders, stung by bees, even bitten by rattlesnakes. Whatever part was hit, if they lived, would swell up.
But this looked bad, and I knew we had everything from wasps to widows under the rickety old house in front of us. We also had no idea what his allergies were yet.
"God, this is why you should have let me buy a car," I said. "How are we going to get him to a vet, honey?"
Marcie looked up at me and handed Seamus, who was either enjoying the attention and had begun to relax, or was falling more ill as we spoke. He was almost limp and only murmured as I took him.
"I'll call my mom, she can come pick me up," she said. "You'll have to help me get him in his little cardboard carrier then hide until we leave."
I was still hiding my presence from Marcie's parents. I nodded. I put Seamus in the house while she made the call. It was Saturday. The ritual day-long shopping had already begun.
"Honey, what are we going to do?" she asked.
I looked at Seamus closely, searching for a stinger or bite mark."He seems fine," I said.
Just then, he chose to retch and vomit his entire breakfast onto my arm. Marcie covered her mouth as i went to get a towel. Seamus sat, his eyes looking a little glazed.
"Oh my god, he's going to die," she said. "Honey, should we ask the neighbors?"
I nodded, more worried about her than the cat. I knocked on doors, checking with the neighbors one by one. No one was home.
I was about to give up and call cab we could ill afford when an unlikely savior arrived. Andy, a cheerful gay man whose late-night romps in the apartment above us sounded more like fights than anything else, was walking down the stairs.
"Oh, god, pleeease," he said. "I'll give you two a ride, just stop pounding on everyone's doors and making such a fuss!"
And he did. Marcie clutched Seamus in her arms the whole way, I later learned, refusing to let me take him in the carrier and piling into the little Miata before I could offer to go.
She came home an hour later, having been dismissed from the veterinary hospital with a cursory exam, a shot of benadryl and a $50 bill from Dr. Dixon, which included a cardboard carrier.
"Oh, my god, what a production," Andy said. "It's a bee sting or a spider bite, and he'll be fine, the doctor said. Stop already, Marcie."
"I know, I know, I know," she said, carrying Seamus in her arms, squeezed against her until his little cries were muffled by her envelopment.
Andy followed behind, and I thanked him.
"Oh, you're welcome, but next time let's call the vet first so we can be calm and let our neighbor's guests sleep in peace, okay?" he said.
I nodded and Marcie brushed past wordlessly. Marcie was still upset and fawned over Seamus the whole night.
When the next day came and the swelling was gone, she alternated between castigating him and scooping him up in her arms near tears.
It was to be the mildest scare and only the first of a few heartaches for both of us.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.5) An Unkind Cut (Conclusion)
The howling and caterwauling began daily at sunset. Female cats wandered up to our door, as did older males spoiling for a fight.
If I tried to pull Seamus away and close the door or even the back window where he sometimes called, I found myself holding an angry ball of spitting, gyrating, clawed fur.
A few days of angry silence and howling cat psychosis after the whole mess began, I found myself nursing a seriously slashed forearm as Seamus walked around the house hissing.
I had corralled him and brought him in just as he tried to make an escape, and gotten my arm both clung onto and bunny-kicked for my efforts.
"Fucking shit, that burns," I said, watching four ragged red lines explode into foam as I poured hydrogen peroxide over them.
"Uh huh," Marcie said, startling me a bit.
She stood with her purse slung over her shoulders, looking smug and smiling, biting her lower lip. "What are we going to do about this, Frank? Do you understand now? He's a beast and he'll just get meaner and crazier until he gets neutered or he runs off."
I shook my head and wiped my arm with a towel, cleaning the wound carefully. "Marcie, that's not my point."
"What's your point, that you want him to live a shitty, short life and die of disease or by getting hit by a car as he wanders around?"
"I would just like to see him have a litter of kittens, which I know Cammy is going to have Kazi have before she fixes her."
"Oh, really?" she asked, glaring. "So you and Cammy are breeding kittens now? Is that it? Well, why don't you just go sleep with Cammy, then, since you two are living out your lust for each other through the cats, Frank. Asshole!"
I watched her leave, bewildered. I shook my head and heard something at my feet. Seamus was crouched there, licking up blood dripping through the towel. When I tried to clean it up, he hissed.
I decided it had gone far enough and when she came back from the store, I brought it up to arrange terms of surrender.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking in and sitting on the bed. "You can get him fixed. I think I can find a place that will do it for a low cost or even free..."
"Frank! You are NOT going to have me be the one he associates this with! You have to go with me!" she demanded, yelling and fuming.
I put my hand on her lap. "I don't really need to," I said. "Why does this have to be about me going with you now?"
Really, I felt I had been jumped on enough over my admittedly foolish response. But where I had not associated my personal masculinity with the situation before, it was now firmly in play and I was determined to get my way.
"I am the disciplinarian, I am the responsible one, and I am the one taking away his food all the time," she said. "I am tired of being the one he has to watch out for. You need to be the bad one with me once in a while."
I considered it and then I considered the operation. Though called minor and referred to casually, cats and dogs do not get vasectomies when they are neutered, castrated. But she was right. I agreed.
On the day she took him in, though, I had school and exams. She let me off the hook. When they got home, he ran into a corner, then under the bed, then eventually ventured out, avoiding us both.
When Marcie and I made love that night, I had to admit a little sense of guilt and a creepiness to it as he watched, I imagined accusingly, from atop a pile of warm clothes.
Seamus was sedentary and already overeating by the end of the first week. It took him days not to avoid us or hiss. The other cats stop coming around. I was worried his personality would change drastically.
But one night, as the sun set, he began caterwauling out of our back window. It was music to my ears.
"Seamus! Shut up! Jesus!" Marcie screamed, cutting him off for all of three seconds.
All was well. And there was a bonus. Cammy moved out, confiding in me before she did that Kazi's first litter was coming. She also seemed to think that she had only had that one tryst.
I neglected to say anything to Marcie, of course.
If I tried to pull Seamus away and close the door or even the back window where he sometimes called, I found myself holding an angry ball of spitting, gyrating, clawed fur.
A few days of angry silence and howling cat psychosis after the whole mess began, I found myself nursing a seriously slashed forearm as Seamus walked around the house hissing.
I had corralled him and brought him in just as he tried to make an escape, and gotten my arm both clung onto and bunny-kicked for my efforts.
"Fucking shit, that burns," I said, watching four ragged red lines explode into foam as I poured hydrogen peroxide over them.
"Uh huh," Marcie said, startling me a bit.
She stood with her purse slung over her shoulders, looking smug and smiling, biting her lower lip. "What are we going to do about this, Frank? Do you understand now? He's a beast and he'll just get meaner and crazier until he gets neutered or he runs off."
I shook my head and wiped my arm with a towel, cleaning the wound carefully. "Marcie, that's not my point."
"What's your point, that you want him to live a shitty, short life and die of disease or by getting hit by a car as he wanders around?"
"I would just like to see him have a litter of kittens, which I know Cammy is going to have Kazi have before she fixes her."
"Oh, really?" she asked, glaring. "So you and Cammy are breeding kittens now? Is that it? Well, why don't you just go sleep with Cammy, then, since you two are living out your lust for each other through the cats, Frank. Asshole!"
I watched her leave, bewildered. I shook my head and heard something at my feet. Seamus was crouched there, licking up blood dripping through the towel. When I tried to clean it up, he hissed.
I decided it had gone far enough and when she came back from the store, I brought it up to arrange terms of surrender.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking in and sitting on the bed. "You can get him fixed. I think I can find a place that will do it for a low cost or even free..."
"Frank! You are NOT going to have me be the one he associates this with! You have to go with me!" she demanded, yelling and fuming.
I put my hand on her lap. "I don't really need to," I said. "Why does this have to be about me going with you now?"
Really, I felt I had been jumped on enough over my admittedly foolish response. But where I had not associated my personal masculinity with the situation before, it was now firmly in play and I was determined to get my way.
"I am the disciplinarian, I am the responsible one, and I am the one taking away his food all the time," she said. "I am tired of being the one he has to watch out for. You need to be the bad one with me once in a while."
I considered it and then I considered the operation. Though called minor and referred to casually, cats and dogs do not get vasectomies when they are neutered, castrated. But she was right. I agreed.
On the day she took him in, though, I had school and exams. She let me off the hook. When they got home, he ran into a corner, then under the bed, then eventually ventured out, avoiding us both.
When Marcie and I made love that night, I had to admit a little sense of guilt and a creepiness to it as he watched, I imagined accusingly, from atop a pile of warm clothes.
Seamus was sedentary and already overeating by the end of the first week. It took him days not to avoid us or hiss. The other cats stop coming around. I was worried his personality would change drastically.
But one night, as the sun set, he began caterwauling out of our back window. It was music to my ears.
"Seamus! Shut up! Jesus!" Marcie screamed, cutting him off for all of three seconds.
All was well. And there was a bonus. Cammy moved out, confiding in me before she did that Kazi's first litter was coming. She also seemed to think that she had only had that one tryst.
I neglected to say anything to Marcie, of course.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.3) Kazi changes everything
For several months the most entertaining event in our world and the complex denizens' was the Cat Races. Kazi and Seamus raced around the yards, pouncing, tackling, frolicking and generally being kittens.
But at the end of the day, a curious ritual was performed. The kittens would stop chasing each other and hop the fence (or clamber through its portholes), joining Dodger and Tatiana in the vacant lot beyond.
Usually sitting in a loose formation and watching the sun set over the decrepit El Cortez parking structure, or perhaps the tantalizing shadows of the fat pigeons walking its edge, the cats would sit silently as the dark crept in.
It was usually the time to get Seamus inside, because if night fell, he was uncatchable and wild.
"Frank, get Seamus in before it gets dark," Marcie would call out from the doorway. "I don't want to have to chase him with you."
But Marcie understood the importance of what she called "the catting hour," and simply made sure he came in after making his appearance among his pals, which, as a crew, she referred to as "The Meadow Cats."
Seamus had a habit of slipping under buildings, sometimes coming out with a huge, bloated paw from a sting or bite, sometimes with an unidentified rodent, occasionally one half-dessicated or putrid.
It was not a good scene to have him loose at night.
On occasion he would disappear as we pulled down laundry or tinkered with dinner in the house. Hours of searching later, we would find him going back and forth between the meadow and another yard, or the back houses.
But when that disappearing act became all too common, at about 8 months, Cammy joined the search. Kazi was disappearing, too, and long before the sunset approached.
We did not put two and two together because of all the kitten-like play. But we didn't have to. One afternoon, in the middle of the day, I went looking for Seamus iin the yard. I found him by following a growl.
"Oh, geez," I said. "Seamus! what the hell! knock it off!"
He had Kazi's head pinned and it appeared he was doing the natural thing, which is, of course, to mate with her. Marcie came around the corner, saw it, and ran away.
No way was I going to interfere. I just waited for nature to take its (inter)course.
Not Marcie. She came back and dumped a bucket of water on them, eliciting hisses and a rapid separation.
"Nice, Frank, just stand there," she said. "Catch him before he screws her again! God!"
Seamus turned on me as I tried to catch him, gashing me deeply. Three hours later, with Kazi safe in her house from her initial flight, we caught Seamus, who growled and fought the whole way home.
"Alright," Marcie fumedd. "That is enough. He is wandering, he is getting more aggressive, and now he is trying to impregnate Kazi. He's getting neutered."
Kazi had changed everything. What a fight this one was, though I knew Marcie was right and Seamus should be fixed.
But at the end of the day, a curious ritual was performed. The kittens would stop chasing each other and hop the fence (or clamber through its portholes), joining Dodger and Tatiana in the vacant lot beyond.
Usually sitting in a loose formation and watching the sun set over the decrepit El Cortez parking structure, or perhaps the tantalizing shadows of the fat pigeons walking its edge, the cats would sit silently as the dark crept in.
It was usually the time to get Seamus inside, because if night fell, he was uncatchable and wild.
"Frank, get Seamus in before it gets dark," Marcie would call out from the doorway. "I don't want to have to chase him with you."
But Marcie understood the importance of what she called "the catting hour," and simply made sure he came in after making his appearance among his pals, which, as a crew, she referred to as "The Meadow Cats."
Seamus had a habit of slipping under buildings, sometimes coming out with a huge, bloated paw from a sting or bite, sometimes with an unidentified rodent, occasionally one half-dessicated or putrid.
It was not a good scene to have him loose at night.
On occasion he would disappear as we pulled down laundry or tinkered with dinner in the house. Hours of searching later, we would find him going back and forth between the meadow and another yard, or the back houses.
But when that disappearing act became all too common, at about 8 months, Cammy joined the search. Kazi was disappearing, too, and long before the sunset approached.
We did not put two and two together because of all the kitten-like play. But we didn't have to. One afternoon, in the middle of the day, I went looking for Seamus iin the yard. I found him by following a growl.
"Oh, geez," I said. "Seamus! what the hell! knock it off!"
He had Kazi's head pinned and it appeared he was doing the natural thing, which is, of course, to mate with her. Marcie came around the corner, saw it, and ran away.
No way was I going to interfere. I just waited for nature to take its (inter)course.
Not Marcie. She came back and dumped a bucket of water on them, eliciting hisses and a rapid separation.
"Nice, Frank, just stand there," she said. "Catch him before he screws her again! God!"
Seamus turned on me as I tried to catch him, gashing me deeply. Three hours later, with Kazi safe in her house from her initial flight, we caught Seamus, who growled and fought the whole way home.
"Alright," Marcie fumedd. "That is enough. He is wandering, he is getting more aggressive, and now he is trying to impregnate Kazi. He's getting neutered."
Kazi had changed everything. What a fight this one was, though I knew Marcie was right and Seamus should be fixed.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.2) Meeting Kazi
After meeting his closest neighbors, life was good for Seamus. He went out for an hour or so several times a week, usually with Marcie and the laundry, jumping around and attempting to climb the sheets.
There were wrinkles, such as his obstinacy about slipping off any collar, flea or otherwise, causing us havoc with pest control. Otherwise everything was working out well. He was a happy kitten and he had Dodger and Tatiana for company at times.
He had begun settling into being a mixed outside-inside kitty and he had even gotten his own territory, a stairwell to our neighbor, Cammy's, front door. It was prime real estate. It was high up and came with a treat source.
Cammy, a cat lover, had no cat of her own. She spoiled Seamus endlessly with snacks and tuna. Marcie was immediately suspicious of her.
"She's going to steal him, honey, I know it," she said. "She is totally in love with him and he is going to disappear when she moves away."
As irrational and over the top as that thought was, it was not unheard of for cats to adopt multiple families or households that chose to favor them with food. So, it was a great relief to us when Cammy appeared one afternoon to introduce a new friend.
It was a great moment for Seamus, too.
We are told that cats do not have romance in their relations. Cats, we are told, have a simple range of instinctual reactions only loosely analogous to our own feelings.
But Seamus, I assert nonetheless, fell instantly in love with Kazi, Cammy's new girl, a little calico kitten.
When Cammy opened her door that day, Seamus ran up the steps with his usual aplomb. But when he saw another kitten up there, he froze and slinked upward slowly.
"Mow!" said the little puff of spit and vinegar, landing a spread paw on his nose and making him back off, one paw off the ground as if pointing.
There was a tense, tail-twitching standoff on the porch as I came up the steps. Kazi kept batting at Seamus as he came close, Seamus swatted back. Cammy looked on.
As I pet him, Kazi became curious at his purring. He raised a paw and she rolled onto her back on one of the steps. He instantly darted in.
"Seamus!" I shouted, catching his attention only a bit.
He sniffed Kazi's foot, then pawed at her, rolling her aside a bit, sniffing her back and ribs a bit as she tried to push him away. Then he licked her, just as I tried to pick him up.
"Mow!" she protested, both her paws pushing on his head and driving his face effectively into her belly.he continued to clean her.
I tried to pick him up but when I did, I noted he was purring and let him be, stroking his head and smiling.
"He likes her!" Cammy said. "Oh, that's adorable."
Marcie came up the steps and watched. "Cuuuuuute," she said, kneeling down in her skirt and petting him.
I decided the scene was entirely too "fluffy bunny" for me and walked down. I was not alone long.
Seamus flew down the steps, hair raised and tail puffed, skidding in a turning stop as Kazi pursued in a hopping gait. He turned his head a little excitedly, then tore off the other way. Kazi tried to follow and lost her footing.
Seamus returned and tackled her, then rolled away and darted off again, ears fully forward. It was the beginning of an hour-long frolic.
For the first time ever, we slept in peace that night. Seamus was too exhausted to attack our feet or yell at us on the bed. He simply plopped at the end of it and, I imagine, considered his boon, a lively playmate up a favorite set of stairs.
Later, she was much more, to Marcie and my chagrin.
There were wrinkles, such as his obstinacy about slipping off any collar, flea or otherwise, causing us havoc with pest control. Otherwise everything was working out well. He was a happy kitten and he had Dodger and Tatiana for company at times.
He had begun settling into being a mixed outside-inside kitty and he had even gotten his own territory, a stairwell to our neighbor, Cammy's, front door. It was prime real estate. It was high up and came with a treat source.
Cammy, a cat lover, had no cat of her own. She spoiled Seamus endlessly with snacks and tuna. Marcie was immediately suspicious of her.
"She's going to steal him, honey, I know it," she said. "She is totally in love with him and he is going to disappear when she moves away."
As irrational and over the top as that thought was, it was not unheard of for cats to adopt multiple families or households that chose to favor them with food. So, it was a great relief to us when Cammy appeared one afternoon to introduce a new friend.
It was a great moment for Seamus, too.
We are told that cats do not have romance in their relations. Cats, we are told, have a simple range of instinctual reactions only loosely analogous to our own feelings.
But Seamus, I assert nonetheless, fell instantly in love with Kazi, Cammy's new girl, a little calico kitten.
When Cammy opened her door that day, Seamus ran up the steps with his usual aplomb. But when he saw another kitten up there, he froze and slinked upward slowly.
"Mow!" said the little puff of spit and vinegar, landing a spread paw on his nose and making him back off, one paw off the ground as if pointing.
There was a tense, tail-twitching standoff on the porch as I came up the steps. Kazi kept batting at Seamus as he came close, Seamus swatted back. Cammy looked on.
As I pet him, Kazi became curious at his purring. He raised a paw and she rolled onto her back on one of the steps. He instantly darted in.
"Seamus!" I shouted, catching his attention only a bit.
He sniffed Kazi's foot, then pawed at her, rolling her aside a bit, sniffing her back and ribs a bit as she tried to push him away. Then he licked her, just as I tried to pick him up.
"Mow!" she protested, both her paws pushing on his head and driving his face effectively into her belly.he continued to clean her.
I tried to pick him up but when I did, I noted he was purring and let him be, stroking his head and smiling.
"He likes her!" Cammy said. "Oh, that's adorable."
Marcie came up the steps and watched. "Cuuuuuute," she said, kneeling down in her skirt and petting him.
I decided the scene was entirely too "fluffy bunny" for me and walked down. I was not alone long.
Seamus flew down the steps, hair raised and tail puffed, skidding in a turning stop as Kazi pursued in a hopping gait. He turned his head a little excitedly, then tore off the other way. Kazi tried to follow and lost her footing.
Seamus returned and tackled her, then rolled away and darted off again, ears fully forward. It was the beginning of an hour-long frolic.
For the first time ever, we slept in peace that night. Seamus was too exhausted to attack our feet or yell at us on the bed. He simply plopped at the end of it and, I imagine, considered his boon, a lively playmate up a favorite set of stairs.
Later, she was much more, to Marcie and my chagrin.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Heart attacks and sneaky cat tricks (pt. 1)
Seamus has personality. Seamus’s personality is often cranky, but he’s also occasionally wonderfully sweet and he is a clever, if mercurial, little grumpling. His abilities to stress us out, however, started when he was extremely small.
Seamus was known to hide in little nooks and crannies throughout the house when he was but a wee puff of feisty fur. He could secrete himself into anything and fall asleep. When Seamus was a kitten, I would often find him sleeping in my shoes, in my backpack, in my watch caps and even in Marcie’ purse .
But his worst combination of the hidey-hole habit was his proclivity to “hide-and-go-sleep.”
We would usually find him under the bed, behind the couch, or in his “sock pile of under-the-television-stand comfort.” But one Saturday, after a long stretch in the sun watching people’s runts bound about on a bouncy jump, I was greeted at the door by a tearful Marcie.
“Honey?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, my god, Frank, I am so sorry,” she moaned, hugging me. “I think Seamus got out and someone snatched him. I can’t find him anywhere, and I tore apart the house twice already.”
I knew it was going to be a long night as I stroked her back and hugged her into my chest.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Getting back to Seamus
At first glance, the idea of Seamus and Marcie and my marriage being related might seem a little bit of a stretch. However, aside from Seamus sometimes being the fluffy glue of our relationship, there is a very direct connection to our first anniversary and Seamus.
When Marcie suggested we re-honeymoon in Vegas, staying at the Luxor, I was quick to agree. I wanted to make up for my illness and hopefully enjoy myself and my wife a bit more. Everything was set, and Barbara had volunteered to keep an eye on Seamus, as opposed to having him stay in a kitty kennel for our trip.
We arrived in Vegas and soon checked in at the Luxor. We had gotten a room in the Pyramid, which was a terrible mistake, as it would turn out. The space was cramped, the bedclothes were somewhat uncomfortable, and the place was just... subpar. We began agitating for a suite in one of the towers after a tryst in the scratchy sheets.
As Marcie hammered the front desk for better accomodations in which to get her satisfaction, I contacted my coworkers from Pavia-Volpe, including my buddy Ruben Gonzalez, and made arrangements to pop in for a minute at his party. But it was not to be.
The phone rang as Marcie worked on her war paint and I finished repacking us for our move to the suite we'd been offered. I grabbed it, assuming it was Ruben or the front desk.
"Hello, room 2417 here," I said. "Can we go someplace else and stain a new set of sheets now?
"Fraaaank? Helloooo?" Barbara said.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, and how. I recovered without missing a beat, though.
"Um, hello, Barbara," I said, recognizing the whine and near-panic she laced her non-routine calls with. "Are you okay? You sound upset."
"No, we're not okay," she said. "Seamus is sick and he's crying a lot."
Marcie had heard "Barbara" and "Upset" and came out, gorgeous and beautiful, dressed to the nines and maximally painted for effect. Even worried, she looked so hot. She took the phone.
"Oh, no," she said, holding her forehead and looking away from me as I gestured, "What is it?"
"Well, mom, you have to take him to the vet, and you have to get him into the cage, so just please try," she said. "Don't worry if he pees in it, in fact, that would be good if he did. Just call the vet number I left you."
Marcie hanged up the phone and looked at me.
"Honey, Seamus hasn't peed and he is howling at her," she said. "We have to go home as soon as possible because she's freaking out and she doesn't know what to do. Why don't you go downstairs and wait for me by the Chinese restaurant? I'll be down soon, I promise."
When she came down, about a half hour later, she had smeared makeup and was back in her sweats. "Honey, I am so sorry, but I had to spend every last dime on a flight home. My mom refuses to put Seamus in her car while he is howling and she is very upset."
Home we went, flying only two hours later. When we got there, Barbara picked us up and we packed Seamus into the car. A urinary tract infection meant not only a $1,000 veterinary bill filled with things we did not ask for, but a change of veterinarian, soft food forever, and a cat that lost weight rapidly for a few years afterward.
But our little family was intact, and Seamus was safe at home with us again, regardless our aborted Vegas debauch and bacchanalian. There would be other trips to Vegas, but there would only be one Seamus, and Marcie and I both agreed over more modest anniversary activities that our bed was better than the Luxor's by far.
When Marcie suggested we re-honeymoon in Vegas, staying at the Luxor, I was quick to agree. I wanted to make up for my illness and hopefully enjoy myself and my wife a bit more. Everything was set, and Barbara had volunteered to keep an eye on Seamus, as opposed to having him stay in a kitty kennel for our trip.
We arrived in Vegas and soon checked in at the Luxor. We had gotten a room in the Pyramid, which was a terrible mistake, as it would turn out. The space was cramped, the bedclothes were somewhat uncomfortable, and the place was just... subpar. We began agitating for a suite in one of the towers after a tryst in the scratchy sheets.
As Marcie hammered the front desk for better accomodations in which to get her satisfaction, I contacted my coworkers from Pavia-Volpe, including my buddy Ruben Gonzalez, and made arrangements to pop in for a minute at his party. But it was not to be.
The phone rang as Marcie worked on her war paint and I finished repacking us for our move to the suite we'd been offered. I grabbed it, assuming it was Ruben or the front desk.
"Hello, room 2417 here," I said. "Can we go someplace else and stain a new set of sheets now?
"Fraaaank? Helloooo?" Barbara said.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, and how. I recovered without missing a beat, though.
"Um, hello, Barbara," I said, recognizing the whine and near-panic she laced her non-routine calls with. "Are you okay? You sound upset."
"No, we're not okay," she said. "Seamus is sick and he's crying a lot."
Marcie had heard "Barbara" and "Upset" and came out, gorgeous and beautiful, dressed to the nines and maximally painted for effect. Even worried, she looked so hot. She took the phone.
"Oh, no," she said, holding her forehead and looking away from me as I gestured, "What is it?"
"Well, mom, you have to take him to the vet, and you have to get him into the cage, so just please try," she said. "Don't worry if he pees in it, in fact, that would be good if he did. Just call the vet number I left you."
Marcie hanged up the phone and looked at me.
"Honey, Seamus hasn't peed and he is howling at her," she said. "We have to go home as soon as possible because she's freaking out and she doesn't know what to do. Why don't you go downstairs and wait for me by the Chinese restaurant? I'll be down soon, I promise."
When she came down, about a half hour later, she had smeared makeup and was back in her sweats. "Honey, I am so sorry, but I had to spend every last dime on a flight home. My mom refuses to put Seamus in her car while he is howling and she is very upset."
Home we went, flying only two hours later. When we got there, Barbara picked us up and we packed Seamus into the car. A urinary tract infection meant not only a $1,000 veterinary bill filled with things we did not ask for, but a change of veterinarian, soft food forever, and a cat that lost weight rapidly for a few years afterward.
But our little family was intact, and Seamus was safe at home with us again, regardless our aborted Vegas debauch and bacchanalian. There would be other trips to Vegas, but there would only be one Seamus, and Marcie and I both agreed over more modest anniversary activities that our bed was better than the Luxor's by far.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Note #1- Letters from Marcie
Here is one of the notes I wrote about in this week's earlier, heavier post. It relays some of the love, as do all of them. More importantly, it illustrates the kind of wife and lover Marcie was, romantically speaking. Perhaps most importantly, her notes, letters and communications always told me what was on her heart, not just her mind.
The picture she sent me is the one of her in the green tank top at City College, viewable in the memorial book gallery widget/slideshow. She had not changed much at all, and I told her so. So beautiful...
Seamus was always sensitive to missing people in his life, and he still has a very good memory for people he has liked. He is quick to get close with long-absent pals and slow to take in unknowns. When Marcie or I would leave for extended periods, he would take up the habit of sleeping in the front kitchen window, overlooking the driveway all day and night for a few weeks. This was one of those periods, as she mentions.
Please enjoy. Reading these lately has made me feel at once both very loved and very forlorn.
I know she knows I love her, but I still have to declare it. God I love you, honey. I missed and miss you, too, and more all the time. I could use another note, too.
The picture she sent me is the one of her in the green tank top at City College, viewable in the memorial book gallery widget/slideshow. She had not changed much at all, and I told her so. So beautiful...
Seamus was always sensitive to missing people in his life, and he still has a very good memory for people he has liked. He is quick to get close with long-absent pals and slow to take in unknowns. When Marcie or I would leave for extended periods, he would take up the habit of sleeping in the front kitchen window, overlooking the driveway all day and night for a few weeks. This was one of those periods, as she mentions.
Please enjoy. Reading these lately has made me feel at once both very loved and very forlorn.
I know she knows I love her, but I still have to declare it. God I love you, honey. I missed and miss you, too, and more all the time. I could use another note, too.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Coping Kitty Quietly Communing
What a comfort Seamus has been to me in Marcie's absence. He's in my lap when needed, playful when he senses a little cheer might go over well, and just serene and quiet otherwise. He spends a lot of time near Marcie's shrine, and has been sleeping under it, as seen below. He was sleeping there a lot before the shrine was done, too... It's behind where her hospital bed was. I wonder...
Just a comfy spot to sleep or something more?
I know how lucky I am to have him here. A coworker lost both her cats in the last couple of months, one just the other day. Cats are friends who choose to stay with you because they deem you worthy of spoiling them. I can't believe Seamus will be 14 in March.
That little pad under him is one of the first things Marcie bought him. It's a heated pad from a catalog. I put it there when I saw him sleeping under her shrine often in the early evening and the morning on weekends.
Marcie's "little lamb" on his "little woolly lamb pad" (Marcie's words, not mine).
Incidentally, this picture was taken with a much better camera than the first, a Canon S5 IS, which I have procured for the trip. You can see a lot more detail when you blow it up, and can tell that the fountain is running by the reflection in the lip of the container.
Just a comfy spot to sleep or something more?I know how lucky I am to have him here. A coworker lost both her cats in the last couple of months, one just the other day. Cats are friends who choose to stay with you because they deem you worthy of spoiling them. I can't believe Seamus will be 14 in March.
That little pad under him is one of the first things Marcie bought him. It's a heated pad from a catalog. I put it there when I saw him sleeping under her shrine often in the early evening and the morning on weekends.
Marcie's "little lamb" on his "little woolly lamb pad" (Marcie's words, not mine).Incidentally, this picture was taken with a much better camera than the first, a Canon S5 IS, which I have procured for the trip. You can see a lot more detail when you blow it up, and can tell that the fountain is running by the reflection in the lip of the container.