Last Ride

It's a cold day for a last ride.

I line the carrier with towels and a thick fleece blanket and gently lift the old cat out of his basket. I expect the usual dissent and disapproval at the confinement and the general indignity of being in a carrier, but he doesn't make a sound, not a single sound, instead sitting motionless and quiet the entire way. His silence is unbearable, far worse than any protest he could make.

I have always believed that animals, cats especially, are keenly intuitive and I can't shake the notion that he knows what is coming and is accepting it with grace and courage.

Due to a computer failure and the fact that it's their first day back after the holiday, the clinic is crowded, loud, running late and a little chaotic. A half hour passes before I can even check in but the old cat still doesn't stir or make a sound. It takes everything I have not to break down but he just watches and waits. Eventually they call his name and we make our way to an exam room, away from the commotion of the waiting room. The vet tech talks to him soothingly, strokes his roughened fur, hugs me fiercely. I give up my resolution not to cry. She sedates him, catheterizes him and wraps him in a blanket. The doctor steps in. It's very peaceful and very quick. In a matter of seconds, his heart stops and his body goes limp in my arms. I let go.

He hadn't been much to look at 15 years ago when my friend and vet brought him to me during a routine visit for another cat. She'd found him in a school parking lot, dirty, hungry, uncared for and fending for himself in a not very kind world. There was nothing special about him, he was just one more scrawny, stray black cat in need of a home.

“I'll have him neutered for you”, she'd offered, “And get him all his vaccinations. What do you think?”

“I think the last thing in the world I need is another cat,” I'd sighed, “But what the hell, if you think he'll fit in, I'll give him a try.”

And so 15 years passed. He adapted and minded his own business, got along with the dogs, never gave me a lick of trouble or worry. He was a quiet and private animal, came when he was called, sometimes slept with me but mostly not. A low key, low maintenance cat if ever there was one and there were days when I hardly knew he was here.

There won't be any days that I don't miss him.

Stand Off

If there is a heaven and if I get there, all I ask is that my animals be with me and it be warm.

It's late December and I'm a vertitable fashion statement of winter wear. Two pairs of socks,

longjohns and jeans, a flannel shirt over a heavy sweatshirt over a North Country insulated top,

a muffler wound 'round my neck and a knit cap. The thermostat is at 75, the space heater is purring steadily and I'm still cold. Not freezing cold, mind you, not even really uncomfortably cold, just somewhere down deep and fundamentally cold. My mind and body need the heat and humidity of a southern summer like an addict needs a fix. Where's a decent hot flash when you need one, I think bitterly.

I come by it honestly enough. Despite my daddy's Nova Scotian/New England roots, after about September, he was always cold. I can still see him layered up in thermals and bulky sweaters with a blanket tucked around him and sitting close to the fire. He slept in flannel pajamas over thermals and wore a snug wool hat pulled down over his ears. It took all he had to leave the house on those bitter cold winter mornings seven days a week and he quietly worried all winter long - although it never happened - that the furnace would go dry before the next oil delivery.

My mother, on the other hand, thrived on lowering the heat and repeatedly telling us both that it wasn't that cold, it was our imagination. We were being melodramatic, she liked to say, making a federal case of it, not really suffering. The house was barely 6o degrees in the dead of winter but she wasn't cold and that settled that.

“Grow up, for Christ's sake,” she sneered, “Stop being such babies!”

Over the years, the cold became a sort of symbol for all that was wrong in the family, all that was irreconcilable and angry and finally estranged. Cold vs hot became a metaphor for every raging argument and every act of verbal violence. There was to be no peacemaking. My mother won the battles for years only because of the misery we knew she would inflict on us if she lost. The cold overwhelmed and then buried us.

“Not no more,” I tell the thermostat and ease it to 78.

After a few hours of sunshine, when it warms up enough to be tolerable. I cautiously shed a layer, turn down the heat a few degrees and lower the temperature on the space heater then reverse it all shortly after the sun goes down. In between times, I trek to the home improvement store to puchase a new space heater for the office and stop at the grocery store to stock up on soup and hot chocolate. As weapons go, they may not be much but every bit of resistance I can muster helps. The cold is a determined enemy and I have no intention of fighting fair.  I won't settle for a stand off.

Making Peace

It's that time of year again and I can already feel my mind restlessly shifting into low gear.

The Christmas decorations are up downtown and my neighbors have put up their Christmas tree and frosted their windows. Coming home after dark, the whole block is ablaze with colored lights and there are Santas in hardware and grocery stores. The Salvation Army elves are ringing their bells on every corner and I can't seem to go anywhere without hearing Christmas carols. For most people I know, tis the season. For me it's a day I can stay in bed.

I don't think much of Christmas.

When I was a kid, it was about presents and all that mattered was how much you could rake in.

Later it became about shopping and spending.

Still later, it was about outdoing each other with gift giving. Family came in a distant 4^th and Christ wasn't even in the running.

And in my family, there was always the nervous anticipation of my mother's drinking herself into dizziness and the game of pretend that inevitably followed. It was Christmas so we all played - overlooking the slurred speech and the unfocused eyes, the lurching into furniture and

the final slip into a sodden, sullen sleep – even my grandmother, tight lipped and disgusted, went along. The general consensus was that it was Christmas and not worth making a scene.

The past, so I've heard said, is a place for learning not living. These are memories, I remind myself, they have no power over me. And yet they reach across time and the temptation to listen is sometimes irresistible.

So I revel in the music and bypass the rest. We all make peace with the past in our own way.

A Chore of Charity

There was a decidedly dreary aura to the Old Sailors Home and in spite of Nana's grim smile, it gave me the willies. I hung back, not wanting to climb the crumbling concrete stairs, and most certainly not wanting to pass through the shabby doors with their grimy windows and peeling paint. A half dozen old men were clustered on and around the veranda and I was certain I could already smell the mustiness and decay. I suspected one or two might already be dead and just waiting to be discovered.

My grandmother, of course, would have none of it.

“Get a move on, child,” she ordered, sharp but not really harsh, “Reckon those baskets gon' walk they's selves in alone?”

What I reckoned was that if'n one of those ancient, decrepit old men reached out a hand as I passed, it'd have dirt-rimmed talons and be likely to draw blood - just the prospect made me queasy - but there was no way to tell that to my distracted grandmother, now giving me an impatient glare and thrusting two crinkly, saran wrapped baskets into my hands.

“Go!” she admonished firmly, “I'll be right behind you.”

We'd worked on them for a week, carefully rationing out equal quantities of everything from soap to shaving cream, toothpaste and Old Spice, chocolate bars and chewing gum. The Ladies Auxillary had collected an array of everyday items - packets of coffee and sugar, nail clippers, dog eared paperbacks and puzzle books, blank postcards and ball point pens – Miz Clara had personally knitted a dozen pair of wool socks and it'd had taken a half day to sort through and clean the second hand eye glasses and magnifyers. We sat around the dining room table and divvied it all up into the twelve baskets Miz Hilda had donated, then sealed each one in saran wrap and added the bows Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi had made from leftover Christmas ribbon. When we were done, the women drew straws to see who would make the delivery and Nana won.

“It's a chore of charity,” Aunt Vi told me as we loaded the old Lincoln, “Them that has is meant to see to them that hasn't.”

“Yes'm,” I said innocently. I had no suspicion what lay ahead or that them that hadn't would be so tragically without.

“Mind me, child!” my grandmother was saying irritably, “We ain't got all day!”

To my dismay, it was worse inside. I could feel the damp from the water stains on the walls and ceilings. I caught one sneaker on the threadbare hall rug and nearly lost my balance. The air was stale and smelled faintly like our two seater in the garage but with a healthy dose of bleach that stung my eyes and scratched at my throat. I could hear the sounds of crying and coughing and shouting. Just as I was thinking I might lose my lunch and wondering how could she have brought me to such a dreadful place, I felt my grandmother's knee in the small of my back.

“Go!” she hissed, “Eyes front! The room at the end of the hall!”

I lurched forward, past the once ornate but now cloudy mirrors, past the sea scape pictures hanging crookedly on the walls, past the row of dusty wheelchairs propped against the staircase,

past the closed doors of closed rooms on either side, and finally into the light at the end of the hall where a covey of nurses in antiseptically white uniforms and starched caps were at work.

“I declare,” one of them called out, “If it's not Miz Watson with the Canada Day baskets!”

There was something normal and reassuring in the nurses quarters, something that put some distance between them and the horrors of the rest of the place. I quickly began to feel less trapped, less at risk, and when they offered to have the remaining baskets brought in for us, I felt positively welcomed and in good hands. I was eight or nine, easily spooked by own vivid imagination but just as easily able to recover, especially when one of the nurses offered to let us leave by the back door and through the garden. The flowers were in bloom and there was a sweetness to the sea air that no house of horrors could take away.

Them as can do, has to do for them as can't. And someone has to speak up for them as have no voices. - Terry Pratchett

Killer Kitten

Cautiously scanning for any sign of the killer kitten, the old tabby slowly slinks through the bedroom and onto the loveseat in the sunroom. She settles in behind the cushions, still wary but not outright fearful, and after a minute or two of watchfulness, closes her eyes and goes to sleep, peacefully wound around the tiniest dog's warm body. Seconds later, there is a maniacal yowl followed by a vicious hiss, a yelp, and the thunder of little cat feet in flight. The killer kitten has struck again.

The tabby streaks for the kitchen with the kitten hot on her heels and I deposit the terrified tiny one on the bed and then follow, snatching my trusty fly swatter off the door handle as I pass. There's no sign of either cat in the kitchen but I can hear growling and when I follow the sound, I discover the tabby backed into a corner by the bookcase, back arched, hackles raised and outraged. The kitten is calmly watching her from a few feet away, looking as innocent as new fallen snow but betraying herself with her whiplash tail switching. She spies the fly swatter and makes a hasty retreat, just a small gray, guilty blur passing me with lightning speed and a loud, defiant meow.

The tabby recovers quickly and finds safe haven in a basket atop the refrigerator. The kitten, mean as a snake at times but not stupid, is nowhere to be found. I discover the tiny one, still trembling, hiding between the little dachshund and a nest of bed pillows. He anxiously climbs into my arms and burrows under my chin for rescue and reassurance.

To be fair, I remind myself, this is not always the way it is. She reserves her sweet side for the dogs, particularly the little dachshund, and I often find them sleeping together or grooming each other. She and the tiny one can be absolutely playful at times, mixing it up on and around the furniture until one is knocked off or they wear each other out. He yaps, she chirps, nobody is terrorized. The mean and mayhem side of her personality is aimed only at the other cats.

“You should've come with a warning label,” I tell her when she reappears, jumping into my lap and making herself comfortable.

Her only answer is a contented purr.

And though she but little, she is fierce ~ Shakespeare

Close Enough

Maybe, I told myself after I'd repeated the story to the fourth customer service specialist, maybe he meant it as a joke. I couldn't convince myself.

The previous week, I'd spent the better part of a day in a frustratingly near futile search for 9X12 presentation folders for our model portfolios and was worn down by the effort but proud of my efforts when I finally found and ordered them. They arrived promptly, as promised. They were purple, as promised and two pocketed, as promised. And they were exactly 9 and one half by 11 and one half inches in size, an essential half inch too short to accommodate our photographs.

“Will they do?” Michael asked.

“They will not!” I said testily and snatched the 'phone to begin what I suspected was going to be a long, involved and probably painful process to correct.

I was patient with the first thickly accented and casually indifferent representative.

I was reasonable with the second whose English was marginally better although her grasp of the situation was fragile.

By the third, I was starting to feel my blood beginning to boil and by the fourth, I was exasperated and angry.

“Listen and listen carefully because this is the last time I'm going to explain it,” I warned him, “You advertised these as 9X12 presentation folders. I ordered 9X12 presentation folders. You sent me 9 and one half by 11 and one half presentation folders.”

“Well, that's pretty close, don't you think?” he said and I could practically hear the snicker in his voice. I paused to let that sink in, not quite able to believe what I'd just heard. That's when I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and failed miserably.

“Seriously?” I demanded, “Is that supposed to be funny? Is that what passes for clever in customer service?

He backtracked at once, offering up a half hearted apology, an unconvincing tap dance about a listing error with Amazon, followed by the promise of a quick refund. As an afterthought, he assured me righteously, there was no need to return the wrong folders, they'd be happy to absorb the cost. Considering we were talking about a grand total of $18.11, most of which was shippping, and knowing it would be more trouble than it was worth for them to deal with a return, the offer was based on practicality and not generosity and I suspected he thought I wouldn't put it together.

Not able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, I started to tell him how kind he was being, changed it to magnanimous, and hung up. I was hoping he'd have to look it up.

We used the purple folders but had to trim the pictures which were already cropped to the bone and we lost feet on the full length shots but it was the best we could do in the time we had left.

I mourn for the days when close enough wasn't good enough.

Poisonous People

Caught in the act of selling cigarettes they'd stolen from my mother and grandmother, both my brothers chose the hard way out and flatly denied the offense. They refused to explain the half dozen packs of Kent 100's and Parliaments found in their pockets. They couldn't account for the extra money stashed in their underwear. The fishermen witnesses who had turned them in were all lying. They hadn't done it, they each defiantly swore. Disgusted and at a loss by this cold, brazen and laughable denial, Nana confiscated every dime and grounded them for a week.

“You'll be sorry!” the older one spit in her face and my mother went white with rage. She delivered an unexpected and vicious slap that rocked him back on his heels and brought tears to his eyes.

“And you'll watch your mouth, you filthy little thief!” she snapped, “Go to your room and stay there until you're called! Both of you!”

It was a remarkably satisfying moment but I knew better than to say so and I slipped quietly out before she could notice me and redirect her anger.

The following week was surprisingly calm. There was very little discussion of the incident and in a rare show of unity, my mother and grandmother stood firm. The boys were allowed to come downstairs for meals but otherwise they stayed banished and late at night, I could hear their hushed laughter and whispered conversations through the walls. I was sure they were plotting and scheming their revenge. Amazingly enough, my grandmother and mother thought so too and after three days, they sent the younger one to a separate room. The laughter and late night conversations, now solo, continued though and on the third day, I hesitantly asked my grandmother if I could sleep downstairs. She gave me a narrow eyed, hard edged look, thought better of asking any questions and nodded. If my mother was curious about the move she never said and the dogs and I settled into the room off the kitchen for the rest of the summer. It was next to my grandmother's bedroom and that, combined with the added distance from the upstairs, made me feel marginally safer.

On the morning of the fifth day, the younger brother had had enough. He admitted the theft, made his apologies and swore he'd learned his lesson. Nana released him with a fierce warning that the next infraction would not only send him home on the first plane but that he'd never be allowed back.

“Makes no difference to me whether you're here or not,” she told him, “But I reckon you like comin' so there'll be no more trouble else this gon' be your last summer. Mind me, boy, I mean what I say. Is that understood?”

“Look at your grandmother when she's talkin' to you!” my mother said sharply, “Answer her and be polite about it!”

“Yes'm,” he mumbled and just for a moment I thought he might actually be sincere. Just for a moment he looked as if he might be about to cry but the moment evaporated as soon as I saw his eyes. A shiver went up my spine and I hurriedly snatched up my jacks, made my way to the sunporch and closed the door behind me.

Two days later, the older brother remained defiant and was sentenced to a second week of solitary. My mother, pale and shaken, managed to bargain it down to three days provided he promised to behave himself and steer clear of Nana. My grandmother, by then feeling more like a jailer than a relative, reluctantly agreed.

“Only because it's less trouble than keepin' him locked up,” she told my mother with a weary sigh, “But mark my words, Jan, the boy's a bad seed and you'd best be watchin' him like a goddam hawk or I'll be washing my hands of the both of you.”

Some of the most poisonous people come disgused as family - Anonymous