We've Got to Stop Meeting Like This

Originally published 8/25/21I remember as a young kid, maybe 7 or 8 at the time, bemoaning to my mom my inherent ordinariness. "I'm so ordinary, mom. There's nothing special about me. Jimmy's special: it's right there in his needs!" (My oldest brother, Jim, had Down syndrome.) "Jeanne and Jack are twins, so that makes them special. Andrew's special because he's the baby. But there's nothing special about me."

Feigning shock, Mom replied, "Not special? What? You're special because you're the best and only Linda in our whole family! We'd be so sad if we had a family without a Linda in it!" And somehow that satisfied my 8 year old ego and I took my rightful place on the special pedestal. 

That memory came back to me one day a few years ago when 96 mentioned that, while he was sure I liked him fine, he feared I didn't think there was anything special about Pixel. It was an easy misundertanding to explain:  C was, well, C! And tiny Ada was a gorgeous weirdo, with her ear tufts and her beautiful long coat, and her habit of demanding to be let out the front door, only to walk around to the back and immediately howl to be let back in. One hundred times a day. Momo might have been Tom's reincarnation (based on their shared love of sitting in the warm sun I was never able to fully rule this out), while Scruffy had those crazy paws and that glossy coat. All, by definition, special. Pixel was "just" that tabby I pulled out from under someone's porch.

But Pixel? Ordinary? That was a bridge too far, and an accusation I could not let stand.  Pixel and his siblings, Alpha and Gummitch, had come to us under somewhat false pretenses: A friend put out a call on social media in the summer of 2006 that a cat had abandoned her four calico kittens under their deck. I volunteered my Havahart trap for the low low price of taking two of the kittens. Tom approved, and looked forward to meeting our newest family members. 

Gummitch in back; Pixel front left, Alpha, right

So imagine my surprise when, one by one, we pulled kittens out of the trap that afternoon. Tabbies, one and all. Two grey, two orange, but not a calico in the mix. "Oops," my friend said, upon my commenting something along the lines of, "These aren't calicos at all. They're just ordinary tabbies" because I'm super gracious like that. 

My friend took one of the orange tabbies (she named him Lanai), but what was I going to do with not one, not two, but three POTCs (plain old tabby cats)? I tossed the two kids and the three cats back into the car and headed home, stopping unannounced and panicked at another friend's house with the hopes she might want one or two. Or three. Lucky for us, she wasn't home.

I prepared Tom as best I could. "They're cute," I said. "They're sweet. I'm sure they'll make great pets. But they're not calicos," I told him. I didn't mention that there were three of them. Oops.

Alpha had a brief stint at at a neighbor's house, but their Pomeranian pulled rank and after a few days we were back to a family of four humans and five cats (Scruffy's origin story was written a few weeks later.)

I came to appreciate the charms of all the kittens, and their personalities showed through early. Alpha was the adventurer we predicted on Day One, having escaped the nest I had made for them before any of his brothers. And Gummy was the lap cat, always ready to burrow into a lap or under a couch cushion. 

And I quickly came to see just how special little Pixel was. He had the silkiest, smoothest coat. And a personality that far outsized that tiny kitten body. He was a "woolie," a term I had never heard before, but it describes a cat who, for cat reasons (often momma's sudden departure), sucks on fabric that has some kind of nap or texture to it. It might be a bathmat, or it might be a towel, or it might be an electric blanket. In Pixel's case it was all of these things and more. He chewed through two of electric blankets, right down to exposing wires, before I finally discovered heated mattress pads, which are far more cat-resistant, although anyone who has ever owned a cat knows that nothing on the planet is actually cat-proof.

Poor C learned to tolerate Pixel suckling on him, too; and the others climbing Mount C for play and excercise. Poor, put-upon C. Ada just lurked in the distance, snickering silently, all the while thinking, better you than me, dude. 

When I moved to DC in 2019, Zoet came with me, but the cats stayed with 96; and by this summer it was just him and Pixel. When 96 moved to Oregon a few weeks ago, Pixel accompanied him as a carryon in the passenger cabin, joining Hannah her cat Ezra to began building their own little cattery in Eugene.

A few weeks ago Pixel was feeling under the weather, and his new vet uncovered an array of issues, including diabetes and diabetic ketoacidosis. Further testing also revealed lung tumors, and with sad memories of my having likely extended Scruffy's suffering by trying to treat his cancer a couple of years ago, 96 made the wise decision not to treat, to minimize his discomfort and to euthanize. 

So I've had a bit of time to remember just how special Pixel was, and how he was the softest, blanketiest, best damned Pixel in our whole family. Ours would have been an incomplete family indeed if we had not had our special Pixel rounding out menagerie. 

RIP Pixel, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in peace and comfort, with his humans by his side.

Serendipity

Meet the newest Gentile, Momo. When one cat crosses the Rainbow Bridge on a Thursday, and the following Monday you heed a call about a kitten that’s about to be returned to the shelter because the new owner is hopelessly allergic, how can you call it anything but serendipity? How could we just up and adopt a new kitten so quickly? Let me tell you, it was easy. Mostly white with grayish markings at the top of her head, rump and tail, she is a dirty white snowball of boundless energy, enthusiastically trying to befriend her feline housemates, but sadly rebuffed at every turn. Not so with the humans. She takes turns sleeping with all of us: a few hours with 98, then on to 96’s room, settling in with me by the time I turn out the lights. I try to keep her away from the other cats' favorite spots, but she has taken a liking to Pixel’s bed by the window and Ada’s towel on the couch. Heaven help her the first time she jumps up into the kitchen box window, the one with the shelf I specifically cleared off so the cats could view the backyard unimpeded by pottery and spices. Pix will go ballistic.

Ada, as expected, hisses at every encounter. Scruffy is more curious than the others, tentatively sniffing, and even allowing Momo to share the dinner plate with him. Pixel runs, terrified by the tornado-vortex-like nature of Momo’s friendly advances, but even he is slowly coming around. I walked into my bedroom today and they were both on the bed. In opposite corners, they could not have been further from each other and still both have been been on the bed, but there they were, on the bed “together”.

Everything's a toy when you're a kitten: anything tied to a doorknob, anything that makes noise ... any bit of paper or a hairband or a dust bunny or an ant on the floor is there for the entertainment - or nutrition - or friendship - of our little Momo. We thought about renaming her after a comet, but Momo suits her, so a momo she is, and a momo she shall stay. 

I hope Momo's first human companion is feeling better, and that her allergies are subsiding. And I hope she knows how much we already love her little peach.

RIP, C

If I’m in your Facebook newsfeed, you already know that we lost C recently. He’d been on the decline for many months, and while I didn’t want him to suffer (he didn’t), I mostly just didn’t want C to die before Tom did. They were great friends, Tom and C, and I didn’t want Tom to endure that loss. So we did what we could and we did what we had to: we brought C to the vet when he had the symptoms of his recurrent UTI (he always had a UTI, and you’re welcome for me not explaining in excruciating detail why he was so prone to them) … We brought him to the vet when we noticed maggots falling out of a small wound on his backside … We brought him most recently for an overgrown claw. Since he was slowing down, he simply wasn’t wearing down his claws, and it had grown full circle, impaling itself in the pad below it. It didn’t seem to cause any pain, and we wouldn’t even have realized anything was wrong except that David was playing with him on the bed and noticed it. Not even so much as a limp.

That vet appointment fixed the claw, but uncovered several other troubles: congestive heart failure and a pancreatic mass, for starters. We opted not to treat the mass, put him on Plavix ($50 for 7 pills, and that’s with the AAA discount –  and no, C didn't have health insurance) and some other heart meds and antibiotics, and commenced with another round of “hurry up and wait”. Dr. Zanotti didn’t have to say it when we had our scheduled follow up visit: I knew we were looking at days, maybe weeks; certainly not months. We would keep C’s days as pleasant as possible, and that meant a lot of American cheese and chicken scraps. Just a few hours after that appointment we noticed he was unable to walk, and brought him back to the vet. He had thrown a clot, not unexpectedly, and his suffering would soon begin. So while the decision was hard to make, we really had no choice. C had lived a long and happy life. He had eaten his share of treats, pee’d his way into the cellar floor hall of fame, and barfed with the best of them. He’ll be cremated and added to my little “collection”. And when the time is right, and the ground is dry, and the air is warm, we’ll take Tom’s ashes, and C’s, and Mr. Gibb’s, and Yeti’s, and Neko's, and those good friends will share a very pretty spot high in the Fells behind the house, watching the planes and stalking the birds.

We owe a sincere thanks to Stephen Zanotti, VMD,  and all the vets, techs, medical and support staff at Winchester Veterinary Group for everything they’ve done over the years to help us care for the pets we so dearly love, as well as all the animals that are lucky enough to cross their threshold.

To Catch a Bird ... or a Snake ... or a Vole ... Doesn't Matter, Really: Where's the Food?

C came home recently from a nearly weeklong hospital stay, and he's not doing very well. With seventeen years under his belt (Tom and I met when C and Ada were about a year old) I have taken a stroll down memory lane with him this week. What a lovely stroll it was.

I learned early in my relationship with Tom that the way to Tom's heart was through C's stomach. At nearly 20 pounds when I met him, C rarely met a treat he didn't like. On my way to Tom's I'd stop at the deli counter at the Purity Supreme and buy C one slice from the cold cuts section ... bologna one day, roast beef the next. The deli guy knew it was for my new boyfriend's cat, and never begrudged me his time, even though we both knew it was his smallest sale of the day. C, whom we considered a dog trapped in a cat's body, greeted me with enthusiam. Evil grin ... my plan is working! The only time he turned up his nose at my Friday night special was the one time I brought him a single jumbo shrimp. He wouldn't have anything to do with it. Neither would Ada, for that matter, or Mr. Gibbs. Tom had trained his minions well: Don't. Eat. The Fish.

C also liked to supervise household projects. Tom installed the box windows in the sunroom, and they were - are - lovely. Don't look too closely at the window seat, however, lest you notice the pawprints left in the wet polyurethane. They're still there, still visible, and not going anywhere anytime soon. Also in the house repair department was the time that C was so interested in house trim painting (we had a black-and-white cat for a while after that). Not satisfied with climbing the ladder to join Tom, he proceeded to climb up and over Tom on the ladder, positioning himself in the gutter - where he didn't quite fit but thought he had found the best seat in the house. It took an hour to get him down.

Even on his best days now, he never brings home a snake anymore: Ada was into chipmunk and bird inventory control, but C could never resist a garter snake; and I can't say I miss that particular aspect of sharing a house with a pet, or two, or six, but I hope that C continues to enjoy his daily constitutional, a few minutes of sunshine and fresh air, for a long time to come. Then, at the end of the day, that he'll climb the stairs to the second floor, and then climb the stairs up into the bed, so his still-bellowing purr can keep me awake. Enough with the peeing on the cellar floor, though, 'kay?

Me, 2 Boys, 4 Cats, 1 Turtle, 1 Frog, No Dogs Yet

Geoffrey was a wee bit miffed that I didn’t mention his turtle in the title of my new blog, so this entry is dedicated to King Arthur, who joined our family just before Christmas. Geoff knew he wanted a turtle, so we went to Petsmart to have a look, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that the one he wanted was $109, and an appropriately-sized terrarium was another $119. I mentioned this to my friend Lynn, who suggested I look on Craigslist.


I had never been on Craigslist before, but I thought I’d give it a try. I looked in the Boston listings for “box turtle” … maybe even plain old “turtle” since I don’t think we had it narrowed down by species at that point. Sure enough, up pops ONE listing: a box turtle and container, with food and water dish, for $25 in Hamilton, MA. So I contacted the person who placed the ad, and after two or three emails back-and-forth we worked out that I would come to her house, since it was a rather cold December day and I didn’t want to expose the turtle to any more outside air than was necessary … but I made sure to mention that I’d have 3 teenage boys with me. (Might this be some murderous whackjob, trying to lure his next victim with the irresistible promise of a turtle and terrarium for $25? – remember, I was under a bit of stress at the time.) I still don’t quite get why it didn’t occur to her that we might have been some murderous whackjob gang, picking our prey based on their “for sale” ads on Craigslist. But it all worked out in the end, happily.

We gathered up a towel and small container so Geoff could hold the turtle in his lap, and piled into the car with Geoff’s friend John, and headed up to our rendezvous point. The seller, Sarah, was an architect whose grown kids were no longer interested in Lula the box turtle, and was thrilled that Lula would be going to a home with kids who would pay her the attention she deserved. And she wasn’t the least little bit offended when we changed Lula's name to King Arthur, rather arbitrarily changing his gender in the process. Sarah was making seasoned olives as Christmas gifts that day, and her kitchen smelled fantastic. She even sent the recipe along, so act surprised if you get lemony olives for Christmas next year.

Then we piled back into the car for the ride home, and it wasn’t until we got to our driveway that we realized that Geoff went the entire ride home with his seatbelt unbuckled.

So we are, officially: me, two boys, four cats, a turtle, a frog, and no dogs yet. And I haven’t actually considered what I’ll do if we ever find that loyal, smart, friendly dog who doesn’t smell when he’s wet and doesn’t ever poop. Will I have to change the name of the blog then?