When Doors Close ...

It shouldn't have to be said, but I really was joking about this being a place for eulogizing dead pets this past November when I lost Zoet. 

Meanwhile, (spoiler alert) Momo started acting off around Thanksgiving, turning her nose up at mealtime, a distinctly un-Momo-ish way to act. At first the vet thought it was just an infection and antibiotics were begun, to no effect. Eventual test results came back indicating that she had lymphoma, and without treatment she would swiftly decline. So 96 began her on a course of chemo, only then to realize that her decline would be swift and precipitous even with chemo, and he withdrew treatment in mid-January.

I was glad to be able to drive up to Boston for an overnight to say a proper goodbye to her. She's been a bit more than a cat to me; you may remember that purely by chance she came into our lives and took over our hearts the weekend after we lost C; and by even greater serendipity I learned she had been born the day after Tom died. Tom, of the infamous, "Linda, if I die I want to come back as your cat." That Tom. So while I don't believe in reincarnation, I also can't not believe in reincarnation, either, and little Momo, napper in chief, always had first pick of pillows at bedtime. The veterinarians at Mass Vet Referral Hospital, as always, were so kind and honest with us, and she crossed over the rainbow bridge in comfort in January. I'm sure Zoet was happy to see her familiar face as they were good friends, both always choosing a nap or a good meal over a run outside. Because outside ... there be monsters!

Momo doing Momo, but check out that lawn

96 even tried a feeding tube. No one liked that, least of all Momo.

Momo feat. Pixel

Where's the window opening, you might ask.

Say hello to Abigail (Adams) and Clara (Barton),  a mother/daughter pair that adopted me a month ago.

The clipped ear indicates her spay status

Abigail, a formerly feral cat who benefited from a catch/spay/release program run by PAWS of PA, is clearly  part meerkat -- but also part stubborn mule, which I learned the hard way when it was time for her first vet visit. She spent the next week under my bed, and I spent the next week checking for proof of life a few times each day. We'll get to the vet eventually, I hope. She's actually FIV+ so I assume we'll get to know the vets soon enough.

I've been leaving food for her (under the bed) and I tossed in a few of her toys. I will occasionally hear the  bock-bock-bock of a catnip chicken toy I did not realize (until 3 am the second night) came with sound effects, so at least I know she's entertaining herself under there. She's slowly warming up to me, I think.  She's started joining me for breakfast in the kitchen each morning and lets me pet her as long as I don't try any funny business like putting her in my lap.

  

Abigail not feeling too sure about any of this

  

Clara is doing her part to reinforce all the kitten stereotypes, chasing her tail, knocking any damn thing into the bathroom sink I deign to leave on the counter, attacking my toes at 3am. And posing for pictures.  So. Many. Pictures. 

Thank you Jen for clipping those claws before releasing her to me, but she's going to need a pawdicure again  pretty soon. 

Even before Abigail and Clara adopted me, I had decided to leave my Christmas tree up, lights and all, until I'm able to share a real holiday meal with the kids. I'm pretty sure Clara thinks I did this for her. (Don't tell!) If I'm known as that lady with the Christmas tree, so be it. I light my fake tree, and I ignite my fake fireplace, and I watch my kitten shimmy up the tree and eat my ornaments and something, at least for today, is right with the world. 

                                          

Now I can't take it down!

RIP, Zoet

I've come to realize I don’t actually post much anymore. But I keep it because it seems like at the very least I need a place to eulogize current and future pets. And the time has come that I have had to say goodbye to Zoet.

And maybe some day I’ll be travelling again. God, I miss travelling. Then I can inundate you with pretty landscapes, too.

But to Zoet. I hope she had as much fun in her last decade (she actually only had 1.4 of them anyway) with me as I did with her. It was only in retrospect that I realized I was trying to fit a dog-shaped peg into the Tom-shaped hole in my heart, but she became my shadow, and never said no to a car ride, even if that car ride was five minutes down the road to the vet, of which there were many. I might have been gone all day at the Dana; or I might have gone into the cellar to get a can of tomatoes, but each reunion was met with happy barks and jumps and great relief that I hadn't left forever. That kind of enthusiasm is addictive.

Great Falls National Park

It was during routine bloodwork prior to dental surgery that we found out she had something wrong with her liver; we never fully identified it but were able to control it for the most part with medicine. And no this was not related to the little weed Thing That Happened. And it only now occurs to me that she never did have that dental surgery.

When I originally moved to Virginia she stayed behind in Medford with 96 until I was settled in and back from Croatia (October 2019) but she joined me for that drive home from Boston. She very much loved our recent move to Springfield, VA, where she once again had a yard with plenty to smell, as by that point her vision and hearing were both failing, but her snoot remained astute.

Another very odd mystery I never solved is that, once she 

everyone's got a hobby

moved to Virginia, she never barked. Never, not ever, not even once. And for people familiar with Zoet's ... enthusiasm (and I'm looking at you and you know who you are, you) ... will be surprised to hear this. The only theory I've come up with is that once she moved to the Alexandria apartment she didn't feel territorial like she did when she lived next door to the Fells. She'd see a dog on a leash walk in front of the house, and begin barking at it there, and continue barking all the while running through the living room to the back of the house, up onto the back of the couch, to continue the coversation, on the off chance the dog walked into the woods through the easement adjacent to the house. And then repeat when her sniffer would sniff out dogs exiting after their walks. Okay, it was loud.

Of course most of this last year has been spent in isolation, which in the early days was a struggle for both of us. But once national and state parks reopened for visitors we devised a schedule to visit as many as often as we could. She even, at 14 years of age, learned that she loved swimming. My car still has that wet, old dog smell.

As these last months and weeks dragged on, though, I could see her decline almost daily. She eventually went into diapers (which, I’m sorry but she’s cute!) and even walks around the complex became too much for her.  I’m glad I had a little carriage to bring her outside, so she could ride in comfort to wherever looked like it had a worthwhile step-to-sniff ratio.

It became obvious late on her last day that she needed to let go; while I’m pretty sure she was in no discomfort I wanted to make things as easy as I could for her. I like to think I’m the last thing she saw before she crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I think Tom's beloved Maxwell will provide her a warm welcome, even if Ada is curled up in a corner hissing at her and Scruffy runs upstairs. Assuming heaven has an upstairs.

RIP Zoet. You will be missed. You already are.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

What's wrong with this picture?

If you said, "Oh, Linda, such a nice box window. Too bad you have to keep the rubbish barrel up there so the dog doesn't get into it and pull out all the kleenexes and rip them into a thousand pieces spread them all over the house" I'd assume you have a dog.

If you said, "Oh, Linda, what an unusual blossom on that pathos plant. My pathos plant blooms never look like men's boxer shorts. You're so lucky" I'd assume you didn't have teenage boys.

If you said, "Gross! You mean they reached past the rubbish barrel, which is right there at eye level so they can't possibly miss it, to put the used paper towel on the window sill instead of in the barrel?" I'd thank you for the empathy and give you a prize.

...

If you told me my windows really need to be washed I'd hella punch you in the head. Just sayin'.

I Wish My Dog Spoke English

I know she understands when I say, "Good dog, good dog," and I give her plenty of those, because she really is a sweet little thing. And I'm pretty sure she knows "Sit" and "Stay" if there's a milk bone involved.

But it would be much more helpful to me if she understood a few other colloquialisms:
 
"I'm going to bed after this, so if you don't pee now, you won't be able to go again until the morning." 

"It's a litterbox, not a snack bar."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I'm only going to the washing machine.   I'll be back in 90 seconds."  

"Your enthusiasm is flattering, but I've only been gone 90 seconds, just like I said."  

"Get away from that rubbish barrel, please."  

"Have you never heard of toilet paper?"  (The cats could stand to learn that one, too, come to think of it.)

... and the related ...  

"OMFG, Zoet, not on the mouth!"

Dogproofing Fail

I remember the days when putting a cup on the coffee table got it safely out of reach. I remember scrambling to move stuff to the end table, because suddenly the coffee table no longer meant childproof. Then, to the kitchen table, or higher and higher on the stairs; or, God forbid, I'd have to put something away in order to ensure its safety.

If I wanted to have to childproof my home, I'd have had another baby, thankyouverymuch. Said baby wouldn't have stolen my leftover orange chicken, though, or eaten my Burt's Bees lip balm, container and all. Admittedly, the baby might have chewed through a rattle or two, and maybe an occasional bag of dog treats. But really, Zoet? Pipe insulation?

This is a straggler I just found under the couch.  I really hope this was an open can she found and thoughtfully cleaned for me, and not a can she opened herself.  Have I mentioned the dog only gets dry food?  The cats eat canned.  Miraculously, this treat did not require a followup visit to the vet.  But I predict this episode did not involve any learning, either (by either one of us.)

About the only pristine stuff in my house anymore: dog toys.  Man, they make that stuff to last!  The orange ball and the bone? Those came with Zoet in August.

Oops - gotta run. Duty calls ...

No Dog Yet, You Say?

I started wanting a dog when Tom was sick. I'm sure the pain is the same whether your spouse has brain cancer, or heart disease or any terminal illness (Tom considered his cancer "terminal" with the quotes, having read much about long-term survivors. Few though they were, they were not non-existent.), but brain cancer had already robbed me of my hard-working, cuttingly-sarcastic, animal-loving, handyman-project-doing, car-guy husband, and my sense of loneliness was all the more acute because Tom was alive, but no longer, well, Tom. A dog would love me, and keep me warm, and fill the hole in my heart that I shouldn't have had because I should have just been grateful my husband was there, sleeping right next to me in the bed every night, drinking his coffee and reading his paper every morning. But that emptiness in my heart continued to grow, and my desolation darkened. And that dog? I really just wanted a dog to love me. I wanted somebody to love me. And for God's sake, at least the damned dog wouldn't die of brain cancer.

Then, Tom died. I don't know how else to explain it. Tom died, and the loneliness that I felt finally at least felt normal. My husband was dead, my sons' father was gone, and that the loneliness was expected made it somehow more tolerable. Getting from today to tomorrow became easier after Tom died, as I found myself already partway through the process of grieving his loss. The desperate yearning for a dog slowly subsided, replaced by the quiet belief that there's a place in our family for a dog.

So there we were today, at the Northeast Animal Shelter:  the place Tom took me on our second date; one of his memorial charities; and the place where the sweetest little  Belgian Schipperke x picked us for her forever family. She came with the utterly unacceptable name Skippette, so we're down to business picking out a name. I think her name is supposed to be Zoetje, dutch for "little sweet one". Any dutch speaking readers out there? Please advise.

And say hello to the newest Gentile, Zoetje.