Three On A Match

Sitting cross legged behind the shelter of the rocks and random driftwood, Betty Jean tossed her braids smartly and produced a filched pack of du Mauriers and a small box of kitchen matches.  Wrinkling her nose at the brief flare of sulphur, she lit Ruthie's cigarette, then mine, and finally her own, inhaling and exhaling smoke like a pro. 

Three on a match, Ruthie said in between coughs, S'posed to be real bad luck.

Old wives tale, Betty sneered at her unkindly.

It ain't!  Ruthie protested, It's from the war!

She's right, I said, remembering my daddy telling me about the origin of the idea, when the first solider lit his cigarette, the enemy soldier would see the light - when the second soldier lit his cigarette, the enemy soldier aimed - when the third soldier lit his cigarette, the enemy fired.  Besides, Betty Jean was being her usual know-it-all self and I felt the need to back up Ruthie.

I say it's an old wives tale, Betty scowled, but ain't smokin' some slick!

Til we get caught, Ruthie muttered and swiped at her watery eyes.

Don't be a baby!  Betty snapped at her, Ain't nobody makin' you!  Give it here!

Ruthie shook her head and determinedly held onto the du Maurier, squinting her eyes to avoid the smoke and trying not to cough.  Stolen cigarettes didn't come easy.

Betty Jean was fourteen, two years older than Ruthie or I, and she was citified, having lived in Halifax for a time and even gone to a fancy boarding school for a year.  She smoked openly and hung with an older crowd like the kids who would climb into the back seat of Pete Smith's old Chevy and drink vodka with orange juice for the thrill of it.  

She does other stuff too, Ruthie had said ominously yet with a hint of self satisfaction, with boys.  I heard the Sullivan boys say she's "easy".

I only had a fuzzy idea of what that meant but it seemed nasty.  I thought of how Nana got grim and tight lipped when Betty's name was mentioned and once I'd heard her tell my mother that Betty was Rancid!  Spoiled worse'n than bad butter!  I had to look up "rancid" in one of Cap's library dictionaries and it gave me a funny feeling.  I thought it might be one of those things I'd understand when I was older like when my mother said Nobody marries tramps like Betty Jean only I didn't have to look that one up.  

She couldn't have been more wrong, Ruthie wrote me years later when we were grown and I didn't get to come to the island every summer.   As soon as she turned eighteen, Betty had hit the road running with barely a word of goodbye.  For some time she dropped completely out of sight and was mostly forgotten, becoming one of those where-are-they-now girls who no one thought much about.  Four marriages and one misspent youth later, we heard about her death - homelessness and a heroin haze ended her life and she overdosed alone in a Halifax back alley - it was four days before anyone noticed and another week before she was identified. 

A hard, sad ending to a hard, sad life, Ruthie's letter read.

In the early years of my second marriage, I made - although I didn't know it at the time - what would be my last trip home.  On a sunny, sweet smelling afternoon I made my way to the old graveyard where Betty was buried and Ruthie soon would be.  I sat in the cool shade of the Memory Garden and thought about childhood and destiny and city life.  On my way back to the house at The Point, I stopped at the general store and bought a pack of du Mauriers and a box of kitchen matches.

It was a good visit and a good way to say one final goodbye.

At the Corner of Happy & Healthy

There’s no getting around it.  I miss the days when things just worked.

The pharmacy is deserted save for the surly old pharmacist, a nasty piece of business, as my British friends say, a man who clearly has nothing but contempt for his customers and who carries a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana.   He knows I’m at the drop off window but his eyes never leave his computer screen, hoping that if he ignores me long enough I might go away.

Excuse me, I finally say in as friendly a tone of voice as I can muster and hold out an empty prescription bottle, Can you please tell me how much it would be to fill this?

He sighs massively and I remember more clearly why I don’t patronize this particular pharmacy.

Have to look it up, he mutters but makes no move to climb off his stool.

Fine, I say, trying to keep an even tone but already tasting anger in the back of my throat.

He continues to type, scowling at the screen.

I’ll wait, I say helpfully and he glares at me.

Have to call the pharmacy that originally filled it for you, he says as if I’ve asked him to sacrifice a virgin, Takes time to transfer a prescription.  Another massive sigh.

Now afraid that I might throw something at him, I set the empty bottle on the counter and nod toward the row of chairs.

I’ll wait, I say again.

Twenty five minutes later when there’s been no word, I approach the counter.  He’s back on his stool, face locked in a death stare of perpetual resentment.  A third massive sigh.

They’re not answering, he tells me, Been on hold with’em ever since you came in.

This is so clearly a lie that I almost laugh.  When I say as much, his face darkens.  I reach my hand for the prescription bottle and when he hands it to me I snatch it like a hot rock.

You ought to try a different line of work, I snap, Something that doesn’t involve people.

A fourth and final massive sigh and as if I’d wished him a long and happy life, he returns to his computer screen.

About the pharmacy, I’m telling the store manager minutes later, You really need to up your game.

He looks at the floor and apologizes, explaining to me that this is a complaint he hears on a daily basis – and has been hearing for years - and that there’s nothing he can do.

It’s corporate, you see, he says sadly as if that explains everything.

And indeed it does. 

The following morning I take my prescription elsewhere – same company, different pharmacy – and am welcomed with a smile and a cheerful attitude.  Who says there’s no such thing as a geographic cure?

A House on Fire

Such a morning, Mr. Rabinowitz smiled as my daddy and I entered the dim little pawnshop, God is good, you should pardon my mentioning Him.  He leaned on the glass display case and winked at me, a shaggy haired little man with wire rimmed spectacles and a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.  He's neatly starched and pressed, just this side of elegant as a matter of fact, a regular Dapper Dan, I remember thinking.

Ida!  he called over his shoulder, Ida, come and see!  Guy's here and you should see he brings a lady with him and it's not his wife! 

Deaf I'm not, Rabinowitz, you old fool, a woman's voice calls back and it makes my daddy smile.

There's a slow, scraping sound and I see the top of a head coming through the doorway.  A midget, I think excitedly, but it turns out to be an old woman in a wheelchair.  She emerges from behind the glass cases, peering with sharp eyes and a curious expression.  Her thick silver-ish hair hangs long, straight and well past her shoulders.  A pencil is tucked over one ear and a pair of half moon glasses hang around her neck by a beaded chain.

Not his wife, you say? she demands, Oy, Rabinowitz, from your lips to God's ears, you should excuse the expression, where is..... 

Seeing me, her voice trails off.

Ida, Sy, my daddy says, still smiling, This is my daughter.  He looks down at me and gives me a gentle nudge forward.  This is Mr. and Mrs. Rabinowitz, he tells me, My very old and dear friends.

Shy you shouldn't be, bubbala, the old woman tells me encouragingly, Rabinowitz, bring the rugelach and honey cake!  Thin like her father the child is, you should pardon my saying so!

The four of us sat on wooden folding chairs around a scarred up card table.  I had my first bagel and my first taste of lox and cream cheese - the first became a lifelong love, the second something I've never again felt the need for - and then the honey cake and sweet pastries, all washed down with strawberry fruit punch.  It was a good day and it became a good memory.  I remember how at ease my daddy was, how he laughed and seemed so at home in the dim little pawnshop.  No one mentioned my mother until we walked back to the car and he suggested we keep the visit to ourselves.

She doesn't like Jews? I asked carefully.

She doesn't like different, he told me sadly.

A dozen years later, two young men - armed with handguns, high on cocaine and out of money for more drugs - decided to rob the pawn shop.  On a peaceful, mid-spring afternoon, they forced their way in, surprising Mr. and Mr. Rabinowitz and demanding cash and valuables.  Mr. Rabinowitz discreetly stepped on the silent alarm and opened the ancient cash register, calmly handing over the bills and still managing to shield his wife. They shot him anyway then pistol whipped the old woman right in her wheel chair and left her for dead.  According to the The Chronicle, the two thugs then made their way out the same way they'd come in and straight into a phalanx of uniformed police from the station directly across the street.  Rather than surrender, the drug dazed thieves fired on the officers and for a few brief seconds, Central Square turned into a war zone.  When the smoke cleared, both young men lay stone cold on the bloody sidewalk.  Inside the pawn shop, Mr. Rabinowitz was dead and Mrs. Rabinowitz was unconscious.  She died in the ambulance.

Until that April afternoon, I'd never known anyone who'd died a violent death.  I felt suffocated with shock and horror and my daddy, wrapped up in his own grief and devastated by the two bodies now lying in his morgue, could not offer much comfort.  It was a long time before I could walk those particular Cambridge streets again and even longer before I accepted the fact that life can be senselessly, unimaginably cruel.  I never came to terms with the random obscenity of murder.  Evil is sometimes in the luck of the draw.

We all live in a house on fire.  No fire department to call.  No way out.  

Tennesee Williams

Artificial Sweetener

Truth is, I've never much cared for chihuahuas.  It's their way or the highway.

They tend to be high strung and temperamental, snappish to a fault and often wildly unpredictable and impulsive.  Sweetie is all those things - much like her owner, I think but am careful not to say although Michael would likely be the first to agree - a tad schizophrenic, grimly hot tempered, likely to bite without the slightest provocation.  If one of the big dogs as much as passes by her, her lip curls into a thoroughly unattractive sneer and she begins to make what Michael calls chupacabra noises. One minute she is comfortably snuggled in my lap, content to be petted, tail wagging like a fan belt.  The next, her head whips around and she sinks her tiny teeth into my wrist and gnaws fiercely.  She's too small to do much damage but it does tend to startle me and not for the first time, I think how disasterously mis-named she is.  Michael has taken to calling her Artificial Sweetener.

She doesn't care for anyone who might be innocently walking past the house, apparently considering it a serious form of trespass.  Anyone waiting at the bus stop is a personal affront and God help us all should another dog appear - stray or leashed matters not - she flies at the iron fence like a demon and is only deterred by the fact that she's too fat to get through most of the bars.  The doorbell is a call to arms but far and away, the greatest threat and her most bitter enemy is the mail truck.  The moment she sees it, she's out the side door and running mindlessly up and down the length of the fence, barking non-stop and causing quite a chihuahua-ish scene. 

If she happens to come when called, it's a matter of coincidence and no amount of coaxing will get her where she doesn't want to be or conversely, get her away from where she does.  She terrorizes the big dogs out of their food and steals their toys, defends her territory fearlessly and loudly snarls at just the sight of the brush.  Michael's last attempt to give her a pill was a dismal failure and he nearly lost a finger trying.  She could out-stubborn a mule without breaking a sweat.

And yet.  

There is something undeniably adorable about watching her waddle down the stairs or grin at the prospect of a treat.  She rolls onto her back and burrows into the couch cushions, kicking her little legs like pistons, twisted like a pretzel and oblivious to having an audience, a bipolar ball of fluff with fangs.  Watching her trot down the hallway to greet me each morning makes me smile.

Even chupacabras need love.

The Wildebeest at the Door

I do my best not to laugh but the sight of my friend Michael, with his face screwed up as if someone had slipped him a dose of castor oil, is too much.  He's telling me a story about a fellow model from his runway days in New York - a beautiful boy, he freely admits - but bereft of style.

Common, he says with a grimace and a shake of his head, Just so very common.

There's no greater transgression in Michael's world, no greater fault or flaw.  He has just turned 50, nowhere near as thin and far less gracefully than he'd anticipated or intended and he likes to relive the glory days, the hard body, brooding good looks, on the prowl days. We argue constantly about age, weight, hair loss and plastic surgery - in short, we argue about vanity - as anyone who has seen The Devil's Advocate knows, Satan's favorite sin.  I never make much progress.  It's like trying to reason with the John Birch Society.

We also argue about politics, gun control, music, issues of race, social programs, how to housebreak a dog, Fox television, the worth of cats, Coke vs Pepsi, and how warm or cold to keep the office.  But vanity is always first on the list.  I despair of his obsession with it.  He dismisses my lack of appreciation for it.

Rummaging for aspirin in the upstairs bath, I have to make my way through a veritable black hole of cosmetics.  Night creams, day creams, wrinkle creams.  Jars of foundation and skin care products, face powder and false eyelashes.  Lighteners, darkeners, a cup of eyebrow pencils.  Astringents, blemish treatments, hair gel, pricey colognes.  Concealers, a dozen small containers of blush and bronzers, hair spray.  Spray on tanners and hair color, designer soaps, moisturizers, exfoliants and custom shampoos.  

It's revoltingly superficial, I scold him, and it's costing you a fortune.

Try some of this natural argon oil, he tells me absently, it'll revitalize your hair and nails. 

No, thanks, I say, I'm ok with un-revitalized hair and nails.

He gives me a critical look, appraising my hair and nails I'm pretty sure, than shrugs and steps on the scale. This is followed by a deep sigh.  Disapproval is written all over his face and I decide to avoid the inevitable debate and look for aspirin elsewhere.  I'm halfway down the stairs when the door bell rings and the dogs go wild, all three charging past me and barking explosively.

Gawd-dayum!  I hear Michael shout in frustration, his favorite expression in times of crisis, What wildebeest is here at this godforsaken time of day?

In the best of times, he's not what you'd call a morning person and without coffee and Prozac, he can be uncommonly bad tempered but it's almost eleven and I decide to ignore him.  The dogs are running in circles, barking furiously and feverishly assaulting the front door.  When I battle my way past them and slip out, I'm confronted with something straight out of a homemade People of Walmart video - all 200 pounds of her - in shorts and a skimpy tank top, fishnet stockings and patent leather heels, gold streaked dread locks past her ample shoulders.  What's left of her makeup is stale and doesn't do much to hide the scars and pockmarks and she smells like a brewery.  Instinctively I back up a step and try to hold my breath.

Dis be the model place? she wants to know, followed by Dem dogs bite? and finally a request for bus fare.  A single gold tooth glints in the sun and she actually reaches out a grubby hand toward me but her eyes keep darting to the behind me where where the dogs are now frantically howling and storming the door.  When I tell her I'm going to let them out and we'll see if they bite or not, she curses colorfully and waddles off, her sequoia-like legs scraping together like sand paper.  It's a truly cringe-worthy encounter.

Go sell crazy somewhere else.  We're all stocked up here.
Jack Nicholson, "As Good As It Gets"

Nothing Beats a Good Sulk

If she had'em, they'd be made of brass, I think as I watch the kitten walk confidently up to the small brown dog and nose her out of her own food dish.

Too timid to protest, the dog takes a few steps backward and then sits with a pitiful look on her face.  I shoo the kitten off, not once but several times and finally have to add a spray of tap water to make my point.  She retreats indignantly but not but a minute later is back, nonchalantly approaching the little dachshund and his dish.  This doesn't go quite so well - nothing happens for a few seconds - then I hear a warning growl.  It's very soft, very low and throaty, not menacing but not exactly frivolous either. The kitten looks up in astonishment then slowly backs away and the little dachshund gives me a quick glance as if he's expecting a reprimand.  When none comes, he sits back down and resumes eating. The kitten sits several feet away, pretending to groom herself but I know a sulk when I see one and I'm not buying. She's a quick enough study about many things but she also has a short memory and a wicked stubborn streak.  I have no doubt that this will happen all over again with the next meal.

Take a lesson from this, I tell myself thinking of the saying about insanity and expecting different results. Much as I know better, it's still something I struggle with.  In hindsight, the lessons I learned as a child all seem negative and I often find myself wondering why there wasn't room for this single, useful and positive thought. Maybe I crowded it out.  Alas, maybe I still sometimes do.

I'm not completely sure but I think as a learning ground, age whips youth's butt in the important stuff even if you're a kitten.  I'd never take on a teen or twenty-something about technology but ask me about the dynamics of addiction and I'll clean your clock.

Do you know how to (insert any computer chore that he doesn't want to learn) Michael says to me.

No, I tell him, And I'm learned out.

That's what you think, he snaps back smartly.

 I forget that Michael knows a sulk too.

The Weather Gods

In the early morning dark, a sudden and violent crash of thunder sets the walls to vibrating.   I nearly jump out of my skin, the dogs are startled awake and it sends the cats scurrying for shelter.  A few seconds later the skies open and the next wave of storms is unleashed. It's been the rainiest damn spring in anyone's memory - there've been days even weeks at a time of dark clouds, constant storms, a misery of cold - it's almost May and I've yet to turn on the central air even once.  The weather gods are clearly as displeased with us as we are with them and primitive as the thought may be, I'm beginning to think that some sort of human sacrifice might be required.  As it happens, I'm at no great loss for candidates.

It clears out and there's sunshine by noon but the slight chill in the air hangs on.  Then from nowhere there's a tremendous clap of thunder with a gunshot edge to it - it terrifies the work dogs who happen to be outside at the time and they trip over each other trying to get inside - this is followed by a brief but intense sun shower. The old pit bull mix, obscenely overweight and half crippled with hip problems, suddenly turns into a guided missile,  radar equipped to find his way under my desk where he cowers for the next hour and a half.  It would be comical except that his terror is so genuine.  I let him stay, talking to him gently and trying to calm his fear but I suspect it's mostly useless.  He eventually crawls out, looking pitiful and a little ashamed, awkwardly climbs up onto the sofa, buries his head beneath the cushions and after a few restless maneuvers, falls asleep. 

My own dogs, at about a tenth of his weight, are far braver and more manageable.  Loud noise gets their attention but as a general rule doesn't incapacitate them and they're more likely to try and comfort me than me them.  As threatening and imposing as the pit appears, on the inside he's just an old softy, as mellow as molasses, even tempered and dignified, hopelessly affectionate.

Unfortunately he's also the size of a small calf.  

The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances ~ Buddha

  

No Leashes, No Fences

From Uncle Willie's front porch, the view of the sunset was spectacular.  We all laughed watching the dogs tumble about in the tall grass - Lady, the boxer and Fritz, the dachshund were the best of friends - and summers were a time of freedom.  No leashes, no fences.  They spent most days sleeping in the sun outside the back door, snapping lazily at flies and watching the world go by.  My grandmother, not normally much of a dog lover, kept treats in her apron pocket - she denied this vehemently - but we all knew she regularly slipped them scraps in between good natured and often comical scoldings.  Lady, the more active of the two, had a lean and trim build but Fritz was a chubby sausage of a dog, inclined to be sleepy and slow.  They were fine dogs as my daddy told them often and much loved.

The dog days of summer had their ups and downs, of course.  Lady, small for her breed, was an even tempered and submissive animal.  She looked delicate for a boxer and had a definite timid streak - a raised voice would send her scurrying for shelter - she was well behaved and always anxious to please.  Fritz, on the other hand, was independent minded and fearless to the point of snappishness, stubborn to the point of obstinacy, clearly a take charge kind of dog in his stubby, short legged way.  Both were car chasers if either my mother or grandmother drove up the driveway but Lady was faster and more agile.  It was Fritz who my mother struck with the old Lincoln, breaking his back leg in two places and spending all one summer in a stilt-like cast so that he was forced to walk on his front feet and the end of the cast, one small, scruffy paw dangling in mid-air.  It was Fritz who raided the trawl lines and swallowed a fish hook, Fritz who chased - and followed - Old Hat's sheep off the breakwater at high tide.  And it was Fritz who stumbled onto a feral mama cat and her new litter, not quite completely concealed beneath the woodshed, and unexpectedly turned would be serial killer. Nana flew out of the kitchen at the commotion and the mama cat stood her ground to protect her young - the old dachshund was scratched, bitten and lacerated within an inch of his life - even so, one kitten was killed. We buried her in the blackberry patch and I cried for days, not understanding what had driven my dog to do such a dreadful, cruel thing and not certain I would ever forgive him.  I had never witnessed a violent death before and it was a hard lesson.  Sometimes, and it's been more than sixty years, I still dream about it.

Mostly though, the dogs thrived as did we, on sunshine and freedom and salt air.  In the first few days they might run their pads raw and bleeding to keep up with us but they never stayed behind.  My grandmother would patiently clean and disinfect their paws just as she cleaned and disinfected our scrapes and bruises, always beginning with a mild scolding and ending with a hug.

Without leashes or fences, we all ran free.  

Everybody's Got Troubles

School had just let out so the line at the cash register was longer and rowdier than usual.  Two people ahead of me was a stern looking, quite tall man with the look of a preacher.  He shifted from one foot to the another, appraising his fellow consumers, watching the cashier with hawk-like eyes.  He turned to look at the lost soul between us, a weaving, much younger man - clearly intoxicated but bothering no one -  in a sweat stained t shirt and ragged blue jeans, and frowned.

You alright, son? he asked.

Yes, sir, the young drunk nodded, Thank you, sir.

How much have you had to drink today?   

A lot,  the younger man admitted and stared determinedly at the floor.

Because you reek of whiskey, son, I can smell it on you.

Yes, sir, the younger man whispered, Thank you, sir.

Have you eaten today?

Not since breakfast, the younger man said, Mama fixed me eggs.

The tall man cleared his throat, delivered a short lecture on the evils of liquor - meant to be kind, I was almost sure, but failing miserably - then began telling him about AA meetings within walking distance and suggesting that he might drop in one.

You're a child of god, son, you ought to take better care of yourself, he finished and left.

Yes, sir, the younger man kept repeating, Thank you, sir.  His eyes looked everywhere except up.

When he reached the register at last, he asked for a lighter, A cheap one, he added to the clerk.  He held a single cigarette in one grimy hand, a dollar bill and some loose coins in the other.  The clerk handed him a plastic wrapped $1.19 Bic and took his money, returning some extra change and smiling.

Hands don't work so good, the younger man said, fumbling with the shrink wrap yellow lighter, dropping the cigarette and the extra coins in the process.

Here, the clerk said gently, let me.

Yes, sir, the younger man tried and failed at a smile, Thank you, sir.

I watched him make his unsteady way toward the door, eyes downcast and nearly colliding with the newspaper rack.

That was a nice thing you did, I told the clerk.  

Everybody's got troubles, he shrugged.

On my way out, I passed the younger man who was leaning against the industrial sized trash barrel and struggling to light his cigarette with his new yellow lighter.  His hands were shaking and he did indeed reek of liquor, it was pouring off him in waves.  I didn't want to but couldn't help notice his dirty hands and missing teeth.  He ran his fingers through his long curly hair in an almost desperate gesture and the lighter clattered to the concrete,  Without thinking, I reached and picked it up, flicked it and lit his cigarette for him.  

Yes, ma'am, he said so softly I almost didn't hear him, Thank you, ma'am.  Hurt my feelings.

For a second I thought he meant me then I realized he was talking about the tall, preacher man.

He meant to be kind, I said tentatively.

Yes, ma'am, but he was shaking his head, Thank you, ma'am.  Hurt my feelings though.

I still had a couple of dollar bills in my hand and I tucked them and his yellow lighter into his t shirt pocket.

He immediately protested and his eyes welled up.

You don't need to do that, ma'am, I have money.

Well, now you have a little more, I told him, Take care of yourself.

What's your name, ma'am? he asked, trailing behind me as I walked to my car.

I told him.

I'm a good person, ma'am, my mama says so, he said quietly, My name's Ryan.

Nice to meet you, Ryan, I said and shook his extended hand.

You didn't have to do that, ma'am, he repeated.

I know, I told him, Everybody's got troubles.

Maybe it was because he was young.  Or dirty and ashamed or vulnerable.  Or so painfully polite.  Maybe it was because I didn't think he needed religion or another well intended lecture.  Maybe it was just because he didn't ask.

Ridin' the Rim

There's a yowl of protest from the dining room as I'm trying to organize the evening feeding.  When I look, I see the little dachshund with the the kitten by the neck and pulling violently.  The small brown dog has one of her hindquarters in her mouth and is tugging just as violently but in the opposite direction.  Before I can intervene, the kitten breaks free and delivers a sharp smack to each dog before executing a lightning fast 180 degree turn and gaining the kitchen counter in one hair raising maneuver.  The whole thing takes no more than a few seconds but it's still pretty impressive little drama.  The kitten is unharmed - as usual - although she does give me a disapproving look and feeling guilty, I give her an extra portion of 9 Lives and shrug off the vague suspicion that I've been had.

Less than an hour later, the botched drawn and quartering is a lost memory and both dogs are sleeping peacefully with the kitten contentedly snuggled up against the little dachshund's belly.  The part of me that so loves romantic notions thinks I might be witnessing a lesson in forgiveness but the rational side knows it's no more than feline forgetfulness.  I find myself envying her natural ability to move on and not hold a grudge.  It's a process I myself am still working on.

At a year and a half, the kitten is the youngest and the most filled with energy and mischief.  Although in this particular incident she's blameless, it's a rarity that she's not the eye of the storm, churning up her own chaos and bringing it down on her own head.  She's a great trial to the older cats but the vast majority of the troubles  she gets into are self-inflicted.  It's hard to understand how such a small, short legged little feline can bring about such mayhem.  But then I think of the human equation and how much drama we manufacture on our own.

The entire scene is reenacted at breakfast the following morning but this time after she breaks free, she darts under a free standing corner cabinet and is immediately trapped between a rock and a hard place.  The dogs can't reach her but by the same token, she can't get past them.  The standoff continues until I fill the dogs' dishes and they decide they'd rather have full bellies than keep on with the game.  With them safely preoccupied, she slinks out from under the cabinet and makes a swift but discreet run for the counter where she skids to a stop, sending her own food bowl over the edge and glaring at me as if it's my fault.

What goes around, comes around, I tell her philosophically as I retrieve her food dish, Remind me to explain to you about karma.

She ignores me and cleans her plate then starts on her paws and whiskers.

Trust me, I say, You can be as innocent as the driven snow and still end up in a world of hurt.

She gives me her best put upon expression but I am stoic.  I am unmoved.  I am the grown up in this situation and it takes a full five minutes before I scrape what the other cats didn't eat onto her plate.  Naturally, it's too little, too late.  She pretends not to notice, jumps from the counter and makes a dignified exit.

Later that same day, my words come back to haunt me.  Driving down a secondary road that features ditches as opposed to sidewalks or curbs, a shiny black SUV suddenly veers directly at me.  There's no time to do anything but react - I lay on the horn and swerve violently, risking life, limb and the ditch - the SUV driver misses me and roars indifferently off.  Somehow I manage to pull back onto the pavement but one tire is demolished and another, though I don't know it at the time, is punctured and develops a slow leak.  It's an incredibly close near miss and I'm too shaken to do much except curse as viciously as I know how.  Then I get a grip, offer up a small thank you prayer that it's only a tire, and ride the rim back to the service station.

All things truly wicked start from innocence ~ Ernest Hemingway

Spiders on the Wall

There are worse things than dying.

The old woman sees spiders on the wall and screams in terror and rage.  Ghost children steal her snack cups and tease her mercilessly.  Hard hatted construction workers clinging to the ceiling are bringing her world down around her ears.  Her deteriorating spine aches relentlessly, her bed is wet and for the moment, she's forgotten her name.  It's cold in her cheerless little room and the blankets are thin.   She's convinced the weary nurses are stealing her possessions and she protests but no one hears.  She still recognizes her family when they visit - nowhere as often as she likes or thinks they should - but for how much longer, they wonder.  She pleads with them to let her go home.

They don't use restraints here so at night she climbs over the bed railings, wraps her faded hospital gown around her and stumbles around her room.  She's battered and bruised for falling and can detail every black and blue mark on her frail old body.  Her bones seem to break on a whim here, that she can still walk at all is pretty much of a miracle.  Her family is amazed that she's survived this long and some of them have begun to think that death might actually be a blessing.  It's hard to know which is a heavier burden, keeping her alive or the guilt of almost wishing she would go.

During the days, she whines and cajoles and complains.  They manage to get her into a wheel chair and bring her near a nurse's station where she can be watched.  She picks at her food, spits out her pills, and sits miserably.  Bored, in pain, querulous and delusional, she buries her pale hag-like face in her hands and weeps.

In just a few short months, she's worn out her caregivers and exhausted her savings.  Her medications don't seem to help much anymore and no one has the courage to tell her that her house will soon have to be put up for sale or that they gave away her raggedy ass cat.  What she doesn't know can't hurt her, they tell themselves and meanwhile she longs for her dignity back and again begs them to take her home.

My own grandmother died a few days after suffering a fatal stroke and I wasn't there for any of the last days of my parents so I was spared this particular dismal slice of reality and while it may be an uncharitable thought,   I can't help feeling grateful.  No one prepares you for the horror end of life can bring.  More to the point, no one deserves it.