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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Wildcat!

They say you don’t get the cat you want, but the cat you need. Well, I’ve really only heard Cesar Milan say that about dogs, but it probably applies to cats too. And maybe romantic partners, children, or parents. Basically, anyone who’s made your life at times…um – shall we say…challenging. And I’m not sure who they are, but I can assure you it wasn’t the people at the Humane Society, or the friends that went with me to adopt him, nor even the cat himself. Everyone assured me that he was the cat I wanted. And for his part, he appeared calm and cuddly, purring as I held him. A real lap cat. It was all an act.


Not that Finnegan, eight months old now, doesn’t love my lap. He does. But only as a mode of transportation or a brief landing spot that propels him to even greater heights or more interesting locations. Whereas I see myself in my wheelchair as having a disability, Finn sees his person as special and unique. Regular cats have regular laps in which to sit. Finn has a magical lap that moves. He rides around like an Egyptian pharaoh lounging on his platform, while his lowly servants parade him through the streets of his adoring subjects. It goes without saying that I’m a lowly servant in this scenario.


When I’m not busy playing footman, I assume the role of prey. Finn can go from zero to attack in five seconds flat. At first, I was careful to look for the warning signs. Then I realized, there are no warning signs. He likes to approach soundlessly, like a stealth ninja, as I watch television, blissfully unaware on the sofa. Then, in a quick hit and run, he delivers a piercing bite to my ankle before slipping out of sight down the hall. He’s got it down to one fluid offensive move. But I’ve been working on my defense, too. I wear leggings, socks and long sleeves, wrapping myself up in a blanket to cover the accidental sliver of exposed skin. Then I lay there like a sweaty burrito, trying not to make an unnecessary motion or enticing twitch.


Several times, on my lap, he’s turned and sunk two fanged teeth into my boob. When I push him to the floor, in pain and anger, he plays it to the hilt, falling over in dramatic fashion and looking at me from the floor with a kind of hurt shock. He reminds me of one ex-boyfriend, I’m embarrassed to say, that I lightly pushed, during a fight in the garage over his being drunk. In his inebriation, and perhaps with his own flair for the dramatic, he stumbled backward, tripping over various supplies and yard tools along the way until finally landing a good fifteen feet away, as if I’d shoved him with all my might. He looked at me then just as Finn does now. With that same surprise, that feigned “how could you?” look. Unfortunately, the boyfriend’s descent ended with an unceremonious thud as he fell butt-first into the recycling bin, his arms and legs dangling out among the displaced soda and beer cans. His guilt trip might have worked if it hadn’t been so funny.


But It works with Finn. I’m immediately filled with regret when he hits the floor. Like a battered woman, I pull down my sleeves to cover the marks and make excuses for him. ““I provoked him,” or, “He didn’t mean it.” Mostly, he doesn’t bite hard. “They’re just love bites,” I tell friends. Yeah, toxic love maybe.


These nips seem designed to get my attention. As does his maneuver of running to get in front of me and then flopping to the floor in front of my wheelchair. In a protesting move leftover from the 60s, he doesn’t get up until the tires of my vehicle slowly start to nudge his body. His body goes limp when arrested. It’s our Mexican standoff.


Still, I’m convinced it’s not his fault. In fact, having just finished watching the documentary Wildcat! and doing a bit of research on my own, I think I may have some kind of wild hybrid mix on my hands, like a Bengal or an “Ocicat.” For example, Finn always carries things with his mouth and scratches all around his food and litter every night, “covering his tracks” or any scent of himself and “burying his kill,” lest Frankie and I decide to go on the hunt. He’s extremely thorough, and like any self-respecting obsessive-compulsive, he’s not satisfied until he’s scratched all his food right out of the bowl, dug in his box for a good 15 minutes, flinging litter everywhere and spilled his water into a big puddle on the hardwood floor. Other traits fit the bill, too. Like the way he walks (like a model on the catwalk,) bravely greets strangers at the door, or has markings that look increasingly like spots as he matures. And hey, if some mad scientist has bred wild instinct into him, then who am I to punish him? He can’t help it, right?


Besides, I’ve tried everything. Yelling, spanking, a spray bottle. Yelling is pointless and spanking only escalates a conflict I can’t win. Only water seems to deter him, but even it’s losing its initial power. Lately, he seems not to mind getting wet (another wild characteristic). I had some brief success with making a high-pitched noise, like a cry, something I read somewhere that mother cats will do to admonish their offspring. To let them know that something they did in play was actually too rough. I was squealing like a dolphin all the time until I realized that concerned neighbors might come to my aid or call the police over my loud screams.


Frankie also gets frustrated. Finnegan bites him too, yet only seems to connect with a mouthful of fur. Frankie shuts him down real quick with a fast “grark,” (my word for a combined growl and bark). They get along for the most part. Or more accurately, Finn worships his big brother, following him everywhere. Frankie just tolerates his annoying sibling. Most of the time though, I catch Frankie looking at me, after I’ve made some weak attempt at discipline as if to say, What were you thinking? I have no idea, Frankie. Not a clue.


This same thought has been voiced by friends or family. “As if your life weren’t challenging enough,” they say. I know what I wanted, but no inkling of what it is I needed. I try to think of him as my special needs child. Sure, it’s tough and more work and not what I would have picked for myself if I had a crystal ball. But, it’s the luck of the draw and you get what you get. I picked him.


One friend said recently, “You know, it’s not too late to give him back. He’s still young.” Not only do I not feel I made a lifelong commitment, but let me tell you something — it’s too late. I already love him. So, he’s not the perfect cat for me. And yes, there’s a little dysfunction to my family. But we’re just that. A family.

5

For Better, For Worse

October 25, 2022

I was not getting a kitten. Remember Rikki-Tikki-Tavi? Something tiny, fast and mongoose-like darting under my wheels or out the door? No, thank you. That’s the last thing I needed. I had planned all along to get a teenager or young adult cat, six months to a year or two old. With an older cat, you kind of know what you’re getting. Maybe the shelter knows the cat’s history or the foster home can provide details about its’ personality. A kitten, on the other hand, is a total crap shoot.

I remember my most recent cat, Bella, was perfect for me. She was sweet, slow and a little tubby. A Ragdoll mix, she was a cat that either couldn’t or wouldn’t jump. She and Frankie would blissfully lay on the dappled sunlit balcony for hours. They were happy if a little sloth-like, so I, in turn, was happy and never worried about them. I could go about my business inside, with the balcony door open, and they would come and go as they pleased.

Meet Finnegan. A scrawny, kind of gangly-looking, 12-week-old kitten, who lured me in under what can only be described as false pretenses. Part of the appeal was his extra toes. Six on the front paws, five on the back. It looks like he’s wearing big catcher’s mitts. A Hemingway, or polydactyl cat, he’s called. The romantic idealist in me couldn’t resist. A writer cat for a writer! How serendipitous! I read about them much later. Polydactyl cats are particularly good athletes: fast, agile and great jumpers. Not exactly perfect for me.

Finn has two modes of operation. On, which is (way on ) and chill mode. On chill, he appears perfectly normal and affectionate, like a rather low energy, lap cat. Guess which show he put on for me on adoption day? In fact, as he fell asleep, purring in my lap amid all the barking dogs and clamor of families out looking for a new pet, my girlfriend said, “Wow, I hope he’s not too chill.” Ha! She needn’t have worried. Halfway home someone flipped his switch and he was struggling to get out of his cardboard carrier and look around.

At home, confident and fearless, he ran out to meet Frankie, and immediately rewarded Frankie’s curiosity with a hiss and a swipe. We spent the next half hour trying to hold on to him and keep him out of trouble, which is something like trying to hold onto a melting ice cube while wearing latex gloves. He wriggled and explored and basically got into everything. He made huge leaps, always trying to reach higher places. He scampered along the windowsill, leaping over all the miniature potted succulents I have there, without breaking, or even moving a single one. I was hit with a sunken feeling. I can never let him out on the balcony.

Finn hits a wall

Then, boom! The switch flips and he hits a wall. I thank God for these down times. Like a new mother who’s supposed to nap when her baby is napping, I try to enjoy the balcony with my “firstborn” during this reprieve. Before Finn came along, Frankie and I had just settled into a new routine. He would wait at the balcony door in the morning, while I made my breakfast and then, coffee in hand, we’d proceed outside together. Those days are gone. I’m reminded of a girlfriend, who after the birth of her first child and struggling with postpartum, admitted to hiding out in the closet with her cat, crying, “Why couldn’t I have been happy with just you?” Indeed.

Why couldn’t I have been happy with just Frankie? Well, I love Frankie, but in the three years without Bella, our family seemed incomplete, not really a family at all. Just a woman and her dog. Somewhere along the line, I’ve gotten it into my brain that three make a family. Three. That’s the magic number. Hogwash I’m sure, but that’s what was going on in my head. That’s the answer to my father’s question, “What were you thinking?”

Exhibit A

My mother warned me too. Keeping pets can be challenging for anyone, let alone someone in a wheelchair. I’m not like all your friends posting their perfect pictures on Facebook. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. See Exhibit A above. And yes, that’s cat poo on the walls. “Are you sure you want to deal with all that extra work?” my mom asked. This is rich coming from her since she’s the one who brought Frankie home as a puppy, despite all my chiding her that puppies are like newborns as far as work is concerned.

What with the extra work, the lack of lap cat cuddling and the destruction of anything nice I brought into the house, I struggled with my own postpartum depression. I’d lie in bed awake with Frankie, listening to Finn dart around the living room, busy defeating imaginary prey and not sleeping with us. I stayed up late, researching every way imaginable to kitten-proof a balcony. I bought balcony netting, invisible screen mesh and anti-bird spikes to keep him off the railing, but in the end, it looks like I’m living in a giant chicken coop. I’ve resigned to keeping him inside until he gets bigger.

Until then, I’ve purchased so many spray bottles I should’ve had stock in them. You know how Amazon makes you buy the big multi-packs? You can’t buy just one. That would be too simple. I now have eight spray bottles, in various pretty colors, positioned around the apartment. And I have one outside the door where regular visitors can arm themselves before coming in. It’s like a big game of paintball, I realized, as my friend Pauline headed to the door on her way out and looked back nervously. I grabbed a blue spray bottle and shouted, “Go quick! I’ll cover you!”

Luckily, Finn detests being sprayed. Unlike Frankie, who loves game time with the mini-water hose, a well-timed shot to the face will deter Finn from just about anything. He has learned to stop whatever he’s doing and run at just the sight of it. The other day, I was watching a documentary on Netflix about the mindset of cats. They were arguing against using such negative training tools. They suggested distracting your cat from the unwanted behavior by talking nicely and offering a toy or treat. Yeah, right. So when Finn jumps on the counter I’m supposed to say, “Pardon me, sweet kitty, but won’t you come over here instead and get this nice tuna?” Nonsense.

Fortunately, just as a girlfriend predicted, the postpartum is passing. It must be, because when another friend, listening to my woes, asked, “So are you going to keep him?” I gasped in response, “Of course, I’m keeping him!”

He’s my cat. For better or worse. To my mind, there is no other option. I wanted a family of three and I picked him. This is where faith comes in a little bit. There must have been a reason I went straight to him at the shelter and didn’t look around more. I’m reminded of that Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers.” So, I didn’t get exactly the cat I wanted. More will be revealed in time. At least that’s what I’m counting on. Heck, for the first two years of Frankie’s life, during which time he was living with my mother, she worried about what would happen to him if she died. “Don’t worry,” I said, not wanting a dog, “I’ll find him, a good home.” Can you imagine? Anyone who knows me knows how attached I am to Frankie. I would never say that now. Sure, the house is all shut up and I can’t enjoy the balcony, but maybe an older cat wouldn’t have accepted Frankie as well.

Brothers

And they are getting along. Well, as well as can be expected of brothers, with the occasional gripe, always from Frankie, not wanting to be bothered.

And he will get bigger and calm down. Until then, Frankie and I will be enjoying the breeze through enough mesh and spikes we look like prisoners behind the barbed wire of a high-security prison. Actually, I don’t want to jinx it, but the past few days, when I’m at my desk and he’s not bouncing off the walls, Finn has started curling up with me. A writer cat for a writer. Just what I’ve always wanted.

Hemingway and his cat

My Writer Cat!

3

Home Sweet Nest

September 12, 2022

I’ve spent the past few weeks nesting. Though, I guess that’s not an accurate word, since that usually refers to the maternal thing expectant mothers do to ready the house for a new baby. I am getting ready for a new cat, but that doesn’t involve much more than a litter box and a food bowl. (And yes, I’ve already planned where these things will go.)

Most of my friends are past the nesting phase of life and are now becoming “empty-nesters.” The whole bird analogy really only applies to me if there were some kind of selfish bird that built and beautified her nest simply for her own enjoyment. (As opposed to making an actual home for baby birds.) In fact, in my analogy, my lone bird finds the calls of other birds preferable to the pitter-patter of hungry chirps, forever demanding and open-mouthed. Happy in mid-life, my bird also just flies away during old age to die alone. So there’s that. This kind of bird is rare though, and not naturally occurring in the wild, so there’s not even a term for what I’ve been doing. Maybe empty-nesting.

I’ve been happily spending at online retailers like Overstock and Wayfair, while a real-life trip to Target is enough to send me over the edge with excitement. You wouldn’t think a person could actually get giddy perusing bathmats and toothbrush holders, but I can. Actually, I’ve determined toothbrush holders are a rip-off in the same way expensive cat toys are when your cat just spends hours batting around a Q-tip. So, the lesson on toothbrush holders? Use a cute mug.

Yes, the unpacking and decorating phase has been quite enjoyable. The actual moving part of the process, however, not so much. The problems all started when I hired that popular moving company who to me, will forever be known as Two Children and a Truck. The kids, who barely looked old enough to drink yet seemed to be sporting hangovers, showed up with their dollies and looked over the mountain of boxes that made up my personal belongings. Then the head kid holding the clipboard said, “Oh ma’am, we’re just here to move these 11 items,” motioning to his paperwork. “If you want everything moved, you’ll have to reschedule.”

Hell yes, I want everything moved! I’m moving! I don’t think I actually said these words. It’s more likely I was getting so upset, I was having trouble forming any coherent sentences at all. My assistant, Gia, took over all communications at that point, knowing full well that my already garbled speaking voice gets even harder to understand when I get excited.

The snafu had apparently occurred back when I called for the estimate. I had assumed the woman taking the call was asking for a list of the bigger, heavy items for her estimate. She had assumed (though I still don’t see how) that this was all I wanted to be moved. Who just moves 11 things? Or when someone calls to confirm the move and that person says, ”So, you’re moving from a one-bedroom at ‘X’ location to a one-bedroom at ‘Y’, right?” But they really mean you’re moving these 11 specific items? Who says that? Wouldn’t they have confirmed by saying, “We have you down to move 1. a sofa, 2. a bed,” and so on? Word to the wise when dealing with someone who has their speech affected by a disability – don’t just pretend you understand the words coming out of her mouth. Ask a very vital question – what? Or if you’re really worried about seeming polite, try this one – excuse me, can you repeat that?

Long story short, we got moved by the kids. Not the same two. One actually quit and walked off the job (my job) and was replaced by a slightly older supervisor, who Gia overheard speculating that the entire “miscommunication” might have been that the kids just didn’t want to work. Another word to the wise – always book movers first thing in the morning, not the afternoon, when children tend to get tired, hungry, and cranky.

Children are also less likely to own up to their mistakes. Like when you only find a couple of broken, antique bottles instead of the box full you were expecting. Like any good murderers, they had disposed of the bodies. No bodies, no crime. And I, of course, had neglected to take pictures of the two broken bottles I did have. I just threw them out. No evidence, no conviction.

Nightmare-moving experience aside, Frankie and I are settling in nicely. There are some things about this apartment I obviously had a selective memory of. For example, I have no recollection that it’s as far away from the elevator as you can geographically get and still be in the same apartment complex. Or maybe, the long treks to let Frankie out are just more noticeable to my aging body. The flip side to that is my apartment is very private. My balcony is on the very outside of the complex so I don’t watch kids playing in the pool, hear partiers down by the river or even face any other balconies. I look west down Riverside Avenue. I do hear the traffic when the balcony door is open, but I don’t mind that. It makes me feel very urban-chic. Frankie seems to like it too. In fact, we’ve been known to spend too much time aimlessly watching the activity below. Vehicles making the daily commute or people taking their dogs to the park. Yesterday, I watched construction workers pour concrete for a new bus stop. There’s a meditative quality to it. Zen and the Art of Traffic Watching.

I also don’t recall getting in the shower being such a source of mental anxiety. I thought it would be easy, what with the grab bars being exactly where I’d left them. But one look in the bathroom just left me wondering, how the heck did I do this? Again, maybe it’s age. What a difference 1,825 days make. I’m having more safety bars installed. It’s like shower prison. And when did washing my feet become a death-defying feat with risk akin to that of bungee jumping? Another one of my empty-nesting purchases was one of those suction cup, feet scrubbing mats that attach to the floor of the tub so you don’t have to bend down. I highly recommend them for anyone on the downside of 50, disabled or not. I have most of you beat on these “assistive” type products because I’ve been receiving those types of catalogs for the past 15 years.

Don’t get me wrong, even with its challenges, my new bathroom still trumps the old one. It’s twice as big. And my next bathroom will be twice as big as this one. I’m just kidding. I don’t like to say never, but I’ll take the chance of being wrong. I’m never moving again. My girlfriend laughed as she scratched through and added yet another new address for me. She said she was going to mark my words. “Okay,” I agreed. “Mark my words. I’m never moving again.” And why would I? It’s the perfect nest.

0

Full Circle

August 6, 2022

Frankie and I are moving again. For the sixth time in seven years. What can I say? We like to keep things interesting.

Seriously, I think it’s safe to say I’ve spent most of the last seven years (ever since I moved to Riverside), if not in full-blown crisis mode, than at least in temporary limbo land. If my life was a book, these last seven years would be a titled chapter “Dealing with an Aging Parent and Other Life Sacrifices.”

Not to sound ungrateful. The very fact that I have life at all is a testament to my mother’s own sacrifice. Really. What is motherhood, if not an exercise in selflessness, of putting someone’s own wants and dreams ahead of your own? I am indebted.

Which is why I originally moved from the one-bedroom apartment I loved and once foolishly dubbed “my forever home,” to live with her in a three-bedroom apartment after her first fall in 2017. We made it more than a year before her doctor stepped in and stated the obvious – it was a bigger task than I could take on myself. She moved to an assisted living facility in January of 2019. And I moved on to two more one-bedroom apartments in Riverside, but always slightly uneasy, never settled. I never felt I could safely land or “get back to me.” Until now.

But guilt has made its’ home with me. Maybe it’s just part of the process. Part of watching a parent get older. Well, she’s 80 now. Let’s just say it. Watching a parent get old. I remember when she was 72 and so offended that some writer in a book she was reading used the word ‘elderly’ to refer to someone her own age. She’d be less offended now. 80 qualifies.

I feel guilty for not being able to take care of her from my wheelchair. “It’s not my fault!” I lamented to a friend one day. “That’s right, it’s not,” she said. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated, her eyes full of compassion. “It’s not your fault,” she whispered again. And right on cue, the tears welled up in my eyes, like we were on the set of Good Will Hunting and she was Robin Williams. Where was this emotion coming from? She had good-will-hunting’d me.

So I feel guilty, yes. And simultaneously relieved that my disability has gotten me off the hook. In the same way, I’m secretly (or not so secretly) glad to have found a way out of working nine to five. It’s another perk. If I were able-bodied, then surely I’d be taking care of her. And the seven-year chapter where my life is paused would be a whole lot longer. I think about Grey Gardens, the documentary, and then the movie. We are Big and Little Edie, but in my movie, Little Edie is in a wheelchair, so she escapes the falling-down mansion and taking care of her mother, and can live her own life. I dodged a bullet. But being relieved is just one more thing to feel guilty about.

For a while I looked at apartments out at the beach, just to be close to her. As usual, I had romanticized our entire mother-daughter relationship. I imagined myself living close enough to ride my power chair over to her place whenever I wanted. We could eat lunch out on the facility’s screened porch and watch movies together. I even looked at a community that bordered the same lake (retention pond) and pictured myself waving to her across the water. How ridiculous. The reality is my mom watches game shows now, instead of movies, and couldn’t make it out to the lake without assistance, much less see me waving.

The truth is, she’s declining. She fancies herself above it all when it comes to typical “old people activities,” like arts and crafts or bingo. She’s always been a little “too cool for school” and there’s only so much happy encouragement (she calls it nagging) I’m willing to do. After all, you can lead a mom to activities, but you can’t make her take part. My mom has always been strong-willed and a little difficult, but I give her a free pass. When I was growing up, she made it through single motherhood with a teenager, battled multiple addictions, and sought plenty of therapy for her own traumatic childhood. She holds a get-out-of-purgatory-free card as far as I’m concerned.

At one point, the ladies who clean for me proposed that my mom and I share another three-bedroom with a live-in to care for us both. I recoiled in horror at this suggestion. It seemed like the set-up for a bad sitcom. Golden Girls gone wrong. I didn’t want to be Dorothy to my mom’s Sophia. I wanted to star in my own show! But their suggestion just illuminates the cultural difference. The cleaning crew is from Mexico, a country that reveres its aging population. Families take care of their own. It’s commonplace there for multiple generations to live under one roof. In contrast to America, where I was told from an early age that dreams really do come true, all I needed to do was spread my wings and fly (parent-speak for go to college, move out, and pay my own bills).

So feeling a little lost and on a whim, I stopped by my old apartment complex in Riverside to see what they had available. They did have an apartment. And not just any apartment. The exact same apartment I’d had to leave back in 2017. My old “forever home,” complete with the wood floors and handicap bars I’d already paid to install.

Now granted, I am the kind of person who’s likely to look for meaning everywhere, but this seems like a pretty happy coincidence, no? The woman living there had given her notice months ago, but due to some technical glitch, the apartment wasn’t showing up on their website as available to rent. I’d like to think it was waiting for me. In hiding until I showed up.

Kismet aside, the rent was a bit high. So, trying to curb my impulsiveness, I decided to wait and watch the website, the glitch having been corrected since my interest. Moved by a slightly cooling housing market, the price then dropped by a few hundred dollars. I pounced and made it mine.

So this Friday, things will come full circle. Five years ago, I opened the door to my newly hired assistant, Gia, who would help me pack up and leave my forever home. I was in the midst of a personal crisis, I remember telling her, my mom still in the hospital. Who would guess that almost to the day, five years later, I would be opening the door to that same assistant, so she could help me move back. I’m shaking off as much guilt as I can and spreading my wings to fly again. And now I have a comfortable landing spot. Here’s wishing you all the same luck and good destiny. Remember sometimes when you’re lost, keep looking for meaning. Sometimes, it just may be that the universe really is conspiring to help you find your way. Behind the scenes. With a mysterious glitch. At least that’s what I’d like to think.

2

A Year of Questions

A friend of mine posted something on Facebook that caused me to reflect on 2017. This post said, “There are years that ask questions and years that give answers. Which was 2017 for you?”

I think politically speaking, I can safely speak for over half the nation when I say one of the year’s first questions was something like ‘WTF?’ After that, there is some variance. For me personally, the questions continued. ‘What’s next?‘ and ‘Now what?’ have been scattered throughout the year in relation to my writing. I’ve received plenty of ‘Whens?’ about the start of my next book. And I’ve ended the year with lots of ‘Whys?’ after my mom’s fall, i.e. ‘Why do we seem destined to live together, taking care of each other?’ and selfishly a little bit of ‘Why me?’

And since I have absolutely no answers, I can only assume that 2018 will be chock full of them. In terms of our politics, I have high hopes. I think generations of voters (myself included) needed a wake up call. A reminder to stay involved, active and informed. These things don’t just take care of themselves. Our way of life is not to be taken for granted.

I have an inkling that answer applies to my mom too. Something about change and not taking each other for granted. You see, it’s not all worked out yet. I’m in the thick of it and the ideas are still germinating.

Which brings me to the last of my questions, ‘What’s next?’ And I’ve decided I need to work out that answer unfettered by the responsibility of keeping up the same old blog. And since I like neat, wrapped up endings, I’ve also decided that the end of the year is the perfect time to close things and say goodbye. I will be writing. I think I identify too much as a writer to ever go too long without writing. But it’s time to fill the well. To write down snippets of life as they happen. To ruminate on future projects. Another book? To head back to my writers group and challenge myself. With a different style of writing maybe. Fiction? Who knows? A future me has the answers. Maybe me in 2018. Look for me. I’ll let you know what happened. Happy New Year.

3

Carlito

Sadness can be a palpable thing. It can fill up a whole house like dense fog. Days ago, it drifted around our apartment in thick curls of scentless cloud until it had permeated every inch of air and the only way to breathe was to get out of there. I felt sorry for my mom, who is mainly confined to the apartment since she left rehab, but then I realized, her sadness probably follows her around anyway. And will for awhile. You see, on Monday, we put her sweet cat, Carlito, to sleep.

Well, wait. If I’m going to do a proper remembrance, Carlito wasn’t exactly sweet. Not to anyone other than my mom anyway. He would just as soon hiss and take a swipe at you as look at you. I rarely even pet him. Except during his declining days. He grew mellow with age as even the grumpiest old men will. Or perhaps he just didn’t feel well. Being mean takes more energy.

Maybe he was just used to being alone, a cranky, forever-bachelor, when Bella and Frankie came along to pester him like rambunctious youngsters. Ugh. Maybe he could’ve gotten used to the girl. After all, she was his kind and a little more mature, but the boy? Always bouncing around the place like a happy idiot? Always sniffing butts, stealing food and trying to play? No, thank you.

My friend Matt and I used to joke that Carlito was out of sorts because he was in the minority. He was clearly a foreigner (being brown, with a name like Carlito) and stuck with a matched set. Matt said I needed to lecture Frankie and Bella on the importance of not bullying Carlito just because he was different. He laughingly warned them of the dangers of showing intolerance and feeling superior in their whiteness like white supremacists.

Kidding aside, I think Carlito preferred Frankie. I caught him grooming Frankie on several occasions. I’m not sure what Frankie thought was going on, but he tolerated Carlito’s sandpaper tongue raking over his ears with only the occasional twitch.

Bella and Carlito never groomed each other or slept together. The closest they came was eating out of the same bowl, but really that was probably just stealing each other’s food. It didn’t matter that they were eating the exact same thing, whatever was in the other cat’s bowl was better. Then Frankie would get in the mix because there is little he loves more than cat food (except, sorry to gross you out, umm … cat poo). Mealtimes would quickly dissolve into a game of musical bowls, with me rolling back and forth yelling at and trying to seperate everyone.

There was a problem sharing the water bowl, too. At first, I thought the reason there was water all over the floor instead of in the bowl was that I must have backed into it. Then, after this seemed to occur in several different locations, I decided the often bone dry bowl of water must be evaporating. Again, I tried repositioning the bowl away from all the air conditioning vents. Still empty. I was in the kitchen one day, when I heard all the splashing. Apparently, Carlito preferred to stir his water. He didn’t like to drink from a stagnant bowl. No, his water needed to be in constant swirling motion as he drank it. Of course, then he’d take his wet paws traipsing out on the porch, through kitty litter and what have you, all throughout the house.

The mess he made was only rivaled by the amount of noise he made. He would cry when he was hungry, which was pretty much all of the time. Therefore, being an early riser, I would try to be as quiet as possible getting up on the opposite side of the house. Not closing doors, not flushing the toilet, etc. It didn’t matter. I would inevitably run into something or need to turn the water on, and then there he was, suddenly appearing with a loud, demanding cry. Then it was just minutes before a sleepy-eyed Frankie and Bella would appear, the whole house then awake at five a.m. Only Mom slept through it. Or pretended to.

Sometimes I’d see the dark shape of him looming in the hallway and be able to get to him before he cried. I’d quickly set a bowl of dry kibbles down that I had left on the counter the night before. I called it hush money. Presented hurriedly to him like bankroll to a mafia boss.

In the end, it was determined the old man had diabetes, along with other unknown ailments. These days, I still awake and look down the hallway, expecting to see him there. I flush the toilet freely now, in the early morning hours. There are no litter paw prints tiptoeing throughout the house and the water bowls are always full. Life is a lot easier, cleaner, quieter. But we loved him. And we miss him.

 

5

Leave of Absence

Yesterday, I wanted to be a professional fisherman. Or not even a professional. Just a half-ass, novice, part-timer fishing for my dinner. I’ve been known to fall victim to “grass-is-always-greener” type thinking and these past months have been no different. I think it’s safe to say, that with my book finished and almost all subsequent marketing efforts put to bed, I’ve been a little depressed.

I’ve been warned about this. I remember my writing coach talking about it. It’s a real thing! Look it up. A kind of postpartum depression happens. It’s even listed in Urban Dictionary as Post-Series Depression for readers. But if readers can feel sad about an ending and miss the characters, then just imagine how the writers who gave birth to them feel! Granted, I didn’t create my mom, Frankie or myself, but the kind of self-examination required for memoir writing can leave you with a little self-doubt at the end of the process. And, much the same as anyone prone to even remotely deep thinking, I’ve been going through a “what’s-it-all-for-and-what-the-hell-is my-purpose” thing.

Yes, even me. Who, on most good days, feels my reason for being put on this earth is to impart my innermost neuroses and embarrassing foul-ups through the written word so that my readers (whoever remains anyway) can feel not so alone. Trouble is lately, there haven’t been all that many good days. Hence, my record-breaking hiatus from writing and daydreams of becoming a fisherman. Err … fisherwoman.

In the beginning of this unpaid leave of absence, say around May, I simply decided I needed another project. I dwelled on an idea for a children’s book starring a particular Pekingese pup, but that never got any traction. Then, I wondered if it was a relationship I was missing. And while my foray into the world of online dating provides lots of humorous inspiration, I’ve decided most of those mishaps are unpublishable under my real name, even for a self-deprecating writer like myself.

Then, in July, my mother took a tumble, hit her head and temporarily lost her mind. I mean for real lost her mind. At one point, she couldn’t have told you her name or how many kids she had. Long story short, it was a urinary tract infection. Turns out they can make older women crazy. I had no idea. Google it. Drink your cranberry juice, people.

Needless to say, my depression lifted. I now became consumed with hospitals, rehabs, medications and moving. The tables had turned. Or to borrow another cliche’, we had come full circle since my own debilitating ordeal. Now, my mother and I share a three-bedroom apartment. This is the important thing to remember about depression. It’s pointless. It’s futile to worry about the current state of affairs because things can always get worse.

I’m hopeful we’ve gotten through the worst of it. My mother has gotten most of her marbles back, but as many of you know, she wasn’t exactly playing with a full set anyway. And before any of you start feeling outraged on her behalf, just know I have her complete consent to write what I want. Which is good because there are some funny stories from rehab – where my mother, cooly and above it all, remarked from her wheelchair, looking at all the other old people in wheelchairs, “this is not my crowd.” She knows she is my greatest muse, just as I know and am grateful that she’s my biggest fan.

But as her fog lifts, mine begins to return. Truth is that aside from handling her finances, managing medications and removing the occasional dirty dish from the pantry, there isn’t all that much to do. I like the way my friend Matt theorized about it. My smart mind needs stimulation!

And as I gazed at the fishermen and took in the whole scene, I realized I was trying to come up with phrases to describe the way the sections of tattered seawall served as cutting blocks to their bait. Or to explain the impossible way the sun glints and sparkles off restless water using an analogy other than stars or diamonds. And so it came to me. I don’t really want to fish. I want to sit here and take it all in. Frankie relaxing on the park bench, snapping at unseen bugs, sniffing the coffee-filled breeze that rustles through the trees, the occassional train whistle or ambulance siren piercing the air.

So, I’m writing again. For now. And maybe it’ll help.

10

Still Speaking

In honor of this past weekend’s People’s Climate March, I’m re-running an old post. Or maybe I should say I’m re-re-running it.  It appears it’s such a personal favorite that this will be a third time viewing for long time readers. Nevertheless, now more than ever, it bears repeating…

Speaking for the Trees

I come from a long line of tree huggers.

Both my father and aunt were officers in local chapters of The Audubon Society. You know — the bird-watchers? Or, as I’ve been corrected — the birders? My grandmother is an avid birder. She has over 3,000 different birds on her master “Birds of the World” life checklist. This should impress you if you know anything about birding. I don’t. I was disappointed to find out that number is well below half of the 9,000 some odd total. Then she informed me it would raise a birder’s eyebrows. I guess I thought she’d have more. I mean, she is 94. And she’s been all over the world. Literally. She’s even looked for birds in Madagascar. The real place, not the movie!

The point is, my family likes birds. I’ve been in the car any number of times when my grandmother (or any family member, really) has hollered for whoever was driving to pull over so everyone could pile out and count the number of winged things flitting about in some ditch.

But it’s not just birds. It’s also bobcats, timberwolves, gopher tortoises, sea turtles, manatees or any other creature of the wild, particularly if it’s endangered. We like to save things. My father saved manatees attracted by the warm waters into power plants and relocated hawks or eagles off power lines when he headed up the environmental department of Florida Power & Light years ago. My stepmother is the director of a local nature center. She educates children at her nature camp and leads sea turtle walks on the beach so the public can see nesting females. She and my father have an owl cage in their backyard and frozen mice to feed it in the freezer. They were married in a swamp (nature preserve).

So with roots like these, it’s no wonder this past week’s DVD rental, The Lorax, had me in tears. A girlfriend called partway through it. “Are you watching a cartoon again?” For the record, it’s not a cartoon. It’s an animation.

And, in truth, as far as animations go — it’s no Pixar. The techniques weren’t new or unique, the writing wasn’t particularly clever and there were no catchy musical numbers. But, the message got me. I was boo-hooing by the time the last truffela tree was chopped down and the sad bears, hacking birds and oily fish were sent away by the Lorax (voice of Danny DeVito.)

I’m passionate about the environment, yes. But, unlike most of my family, I don’t feel it’s what I’m here to do. So, I’ll do the next best thing: write about it. The power of the pen.

The reason your children or grandchildren (or you yourself) should see this environmentally themed film is so we’re not raising a bunch of uncaring, money-hungry citizens of Thneedville. I see it coming in the recent Play 60 campaign done by the NFL. Children are so busy playing with Game Boys and Wii dancing that they have to be reminded to go outside! We had to be told repeatedly it was time to come in! I remember entire imaginary rooms where I played for hours in the giant ficus trees that surrounded my childhood home. How many trees are there in your neighborhood that are even climbable?

I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn’t get too political. But, since Superstorm Sandy, most sane people have accepted global warming as fact now, right? Even the cover of Bloomberg Businessweek reported, “It’s Global Warming, Stupid.”

So, I’ll end this post with a call to action. Get on the “going green” bandwagon. I’m not the Lorax, but I do what I can. Educate your children, change your ways. Volunteer your time or give your money. There are some great organizations like The Nature Conservancy or Environmental Defense Fund that are dedicated to protecting our natural places and its creatures. And remember the wise words of the good doctor…

“UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

~Dr. Seuss

1

Back to Balance

That’s it! I’m out!  Being outraged is exhausting. Last week’s baseless wiretapping accusation just about did me in, but this week’s clean up – Kellyanne preaching the dangers of kitchen appliances and Sean Spicer explaining the use of quotation marks – is finishing the job. Politics is becoming less must see, addicting TV and more like an episode of Jerry Springer. Pure ridiculousness.

Now I watch with the same sensation I used to experience when getting sucked into a storyline of The Real Housewives of New Jersey, that feeling that I’m wasting the day and rotting my brain. I long for the days when politics were dull and politicians were as professional as they were stuffy.  Maybe then I could go back to worrying about the routine of my day instead of the fate of everyone and everything on the planet.

But there I go, another melodramatic liberal, running around with her hair on fire. So, I want to wash my hands of it. I’m trying desperately to return to my zen, to life as I knew it before my political awakening. I want eight hours of sleep again, not late night news and Saturday Night Live. I want to focus on marketing my book, not organizing a grassroots Resistance group. And I need to get back to the gym instead of waving around signs at marches.

But here’s the thing. You can’t unring a bell. I’m like Leonardo Decaprio in Titanic, unlacing my boots. It’s too late. I’m involved now. But instead of saving Kate Winslet, I’m out to save the world. (Just kidding. I don’t really consider my involvement that important. Sort of. At least I think.) But I’m not ready to stick my head back in the sand.

So, once again I’m striving for balance. I’m trying to incorporate my new politically active and outraged self into my existing peaceful and “positive input only” self. I gave up a leadership position in my Resistance group for a membership role. I’m still involved, but not bogged down. I’m keeping my “first 100 days” commitment to be a thorn in the sides of my members of congress, but after April I’ve got my eye on a yoga class at the local YMCA. And I’m hanging on to MSNBC’s Morning Joe, but at night I’m back to vegging with The Voice See? I can admit it. I’m a work in progress. I can grow. I can change. I’m an adult. (Insert Trump dig here.)

So for those of you out there feeling worried, angry or anxious: yes, be outraged. There’s energy there that can be put to action. But don’t forget to switch off the news, too. Revel in your grandbabies, walk your dog in the park. Take a walk and just breathe. If all else fails, pop some popcorn and watch an episode of Real Housewives. Just remember not to look directly into the microwave.

 

 

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