It’s almost time.
She’s been fading, fading, for months; I wasn’t sure she’d make it this long. But we are nearing the end.
I see her hunched-up walk and my breath catches in my throat. I scoop her up and hold her against my chest and tuck my chin into her fur and whisper No, not yet! I’m not ready.
And I set her back down and she walks fine and it’s clear that she’s not ready yet, either.
But it’s coming, and when she’s ready I’ll have to be, too.
Even if I’m not.
My beautiful Bean. . . !
My beautiful Bean is sick.
Not desperately so, and perhaps not-imminently-fatally so, but she is ill, and it likely that this illness will at some point result in her death.
It pains me to say this, because I do not want my sweet old kitten to die, but I cannot ignore her decline.
Cannot. Will not.
I did ignore what was happening to Chelsea. It’s so clear, in retrospect, that she was sick for years, dying for months, and almost gone by the time I saw that gone was the best place for her. I spent money I didn’t have on a delusion that at 18 what little life she had in her was enough for a few more years.
It made the ending harder than it had to be for both of us.
So I won’t do that with Bean. I will see her, as she is, an old and sick cat. Oh, I’m doing what I can, within reason, to slow that decline, but at 15 1/2, ‘within reason’ amounts to home care and wishes.
Whether that decline is weeks or months or even a year, I have no idea.
But I’ll be ready, or readier, this time. Chelsea taught me that. Wishes or no, I have to see Bean clear.
Penises are trouble.
You may recall a recent post in which I noted the odd-cute manner in which Jasper approached the litter box and his business therein.
I even posted pictures.
Well.
There have been developments since then, none of them good. Some cat is no longer confining his or her elimination to the litter box.
At first I thought it was Bean who, tired of being ambushed by the dauphin, went outside of the enclosed box so as to observe better the movements of the said ambusher. I therefore removed the top, thinking this would solve the problem.
It did not.
I reconsidered: What if the matter were not that of a female cat squatting outside of the box, but of a male cat perched on the edge and overshooting? What if the puddle were produced by a poorly-pointed penis?
This seems to be the case.
I’ve had a conversation with Jasper about his aim, but he gives me the blank look of a teenager bored by everything an adult has to say. If he could, I’d bet he’d stick his paws in his ears and sing la-la-la-la-la-la over my remonstrations.
Boys!
Jasper is an odd cat.
When I pour my cereal in the morning, he hops on to the table and rubs himself all over the boxes and me in a kind of ecstasy. He then closely inspects the poured cereal.
He seems particularly to like Grape Nuts.
(For all of you non-critter owning folk who are now gagging at the thought of a cat on a table or a whisker in a bowl of cereal, hell, you’re probably right: it is unsanitary. I also think it’s funny.)
(This may be among the reasons that you don’t have critters and I do.)
And no, excepting the just-poured pre-milk cereal, I don’t let him stick his face in my food. As I tell him, that’s just rude.
He does generally like to lounge on the table—which I wash off before I prep any food. My tolerance for kitty dirt does have its limits.
Whaddya mean this isn't a kitty bed?
He also has this thing with the litter box: He climbs halfway inside and pushes the litter around with some vigor.
He then perches on the edge of the box to do his business.
Then, back inside for more vigorous litter-shovelling. Which leads to litter all over the floor.
Which explains the broom in the bathroom.
C. wondered if he doesn’t like the lid. Possible, but given that he has no problem crawling all the way inside to scratch at every last bit on the box—minutes, he does this, honest to pete—I think it’s more about Jasper than the box.
Oh, and have I mentioned how well he’s training me? In addition to lulling me into thinking the breakfast routine in endearing, he’s also learned how to sucker me into comforting him—even when I don’t think he’s really all that upset:
The steam pipe in the bathroom knocks like hell, which makes Jasper squeak out a pathetic little cry, which leads me to say ‘C’mere Jasper. It’s okay. C’mere. . . .’ So he’ll squeak a little more, then jump into my lap for a round of head scratching. (And if I stop before he’s done, he’ll shove his head under my hand and wriggle it a bit.)
I gotta admit, I doubt he cries when I’m not home. I bet he just rolls over on whatever surface he’s snoozing and dreams of new ways of manipulating me.
That is, unless he falls off. Boy has no edge-sense whatsoever.
Well. Given that this is his first winter, I thought I’d introduce him to snow. It started promisingly:
But any attempt to lure him on to the fire escape ended at the sash:
Jasper was not impressed with snow.
Bean, of course, is still unimpressed with Jasper.
She’s tolerant enough of his presence, but I have seen them lying next to one another—briefly, it must be said—only twice.
He’s very interested in her, but he can’t seem to figure out that her unwillingness to hang out with him might just be related to his penchant to pouncing on her back or swiping at her with his paw or chomping on her neck.
Bean don’t like it.
In any case, as successful as he’s been in charming me, he’s not yet achieved that Zen state in which he can simply claim any space as his own.
Such as the middle of my bed.
Yes, Jasper may be the Odd Prince of Prospect-Lefferts Garden, but Bean remains Queen.
My attitude toward 2009?
Don’t let the calendar hit your ass on the way out the clock.
I don’t usually care much one way or the other for end of year/beginning of year ruminations; my biggest issue is remember to write the correct year on any documents I have to date.
But two things happened this year which affected the absurd household.
One (tho’ the second thing, if you insist on chronological correctness):
Yes, the Odd Boy, Mr. Jasper himself, came to live with Bean and me. He’s been a sweet pain in the ass and a darling demon. I’m glad he’s here.
Bean continues to withhold judgment on the issue.
The second, of course, is the first:
My beautiful Chelsea died.
It was time. She’d been in a slow decline for years, but the end came quickly. She was in no obvious pain, and she purred to the last.
Still, even a good death is a death, and this was the end of a remarkable creature.
I miss you, Sweet Pea.
~~~
There would be no Jasper without Chelsea, of course, no entrance without the exit.
It’s not that Jasper replaces her (duh), but that the space left by Chelsea opened a space for another.
Would I rather have Chelsea than Jasper? I’d rather that Chelsea had stayed healthy for a few more years, that she had continued to fill her own space. Had she done so, I’d have never gone to Animal Control, never met that smelly little critter chomping on my fingers (shoulda been a clue) through the cage bars.
In other words, there’s no comparison between the two. One departed, the other entered. What was Chelsea’s will remain so; Jasper is creating his own way.
My sorrow at Chelsea’s death coexists with my pleasure at Jasper’s presence.
Time falls away, and leaves Chelsea, Bean, and Jasper. They all came, they will all go; they are all here, always.
Posted by Hemant Mehta October 21st, 2009 at Friendly Atheist
(h/t: Goldblog —who usually pisses me off, but this is funny)
Now, if only there were a religion based on frozen Oreos, black coffee, sleeping in, psychopathic kittens, and deep fried cheese.
And gin, of course. Gin. (With generous dispensations for the substitution of any old-school liquor.)
That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?
Jasper’s apprenticeship is proceeding on schedule. I expect he’ll have earned full membership by the time he turns one.
Cats, in case you don’t know, have a union—global, strong, and utterly unbreakable. It is, of course, mandatory, but I’ve met to meet a cat who objects to the basic obligations of the union. And no wildcat strikes, either: the duties are immanent in all cat activities, such that there is no space or contradiction between the feline condition and the union.
Marx could have learned a thing or two from cats.
(It is also important to note the union is basically syndicalist, owing in large part to cats’ anarchist predispositions. No vanguard parties, here.)
There are various tasks which all cats must perform prior to initiation into the union (Indoor or Outdoor Division)—in Jasper’s case, Feline Union Local 226, ID (Brooklyn-East Flatbush)—as well as a selection of electives (to establish a speciality).
Jasper has mastered the following:
Disrupting bed-making
Among tasks to be completed:
#While apprentices cannot be held responsible for failure of humans, they are nonetheless encouraged to manipulate humans so that tasks may be completed.
Jasper has shown a particular ability in the specialty of Technology Disruption:
To complete certification in his specialty, however, he’ll have to
Once he achieves full membership, he may not only pursue as many specialties (including but not limited to Nighttime Disruption, Meal Disruption, Theft & Disappearance) as he wishes, he is free to innovate in the development of new specialties.
Bean became an emeritus member (Feline Union At-Large, ID) upon reaching her 15th year this past fall. Any participation in paper-blocking and bag-diving is therefore strictly voluntary and meant solely for her enjoyment.
We humans, of course, have zero control over and only limited bargaining power with this union. They are united and strong, and we, weak and scattered.
Which means they’ll win every time.
I may have mentioned once or twice my. . . displeasure with summer.
Displeasure, hah! Fear, loathing, hatred—you know, the normal responses to sun and heat.
But fall, ah, blissful fall: crisp air, brisk winds, long nights, prelude to winter and all its bluster.
Who could hate the impending onset of weather which chases you down the street and into your apartment? Which welcomes your boots and mittens, gives way to your willingness to test yourself against its cold?
Winter: time of laughter and ease.
Unlike summer, which teases you outside and seduces you into believing the sun is your friend. The sun is not. It tolerates you in June, turns contemptuous in July, and, along with its collaborator, humidity, tries to kill you in August. The only way to survive is to hunker down in a dark space in front of a fan or air conditioner.
Winter respects its denizens; summer mocks them.
What set off this (rather pedestrian) reverie? The heat in the apartment has kicked in.
I don’t even have radiators, but the steam knocks so horribly in the bathroom pipe that it’ll wake me up—and has already freaked out Jasper. (Bean, used to noisy heat, barely stirs in her sleep.) Still, the sound signals the onset of warmth, the invitation to cozy up with. . .all right, I don’t have a companion, but a book or a cat. With a whiskey.
Waiiiit a minute, you might ask: You spent how many words bitching about the heat of summer, how it traps you inside, and here you are rhapsodizing over. . . indoor heat?
You’re clearly missing the point. It’s about an attitude, a set of possibilities, of the ability to carry one’s warmth outside and thus the freedom to move about, unlike in summer’s tyranny, which makes no allowances for bringing the cool with you.
Oh, never mind. You’re a summer person, aren’t you?
Confessions of a cranky old broad:
I never think I’ve slept too much. I’m suspicious of the notion of too much sleep.
However. I used to think there was no such thing as too much coffee, garlic, or salt. I no longer do.
Never ever ever tell me I think too much. Never. Ever. NeverEver.
Ever.
Because I don’t.
Although I do talk too much.
Anyway, my friend B. came up with an insight that I’ve repeated to others over the years: I drink Tab so I can eat more Snickers bars. Unimpeachable, really.
Never tell me what I think—unless you want me to sever your head. If you want to know, ask.
If you don’t, don’t ask.
Tits forward is a fine substitute for balls forward.
I’m not a badass—but I like that I give off that impression. (Now, why is it again that I don’t date?)
I only do things which are a hassle for two reasons: 1) they’re necessary; or 2) I get paid. This explains why I’m not on Facebook.
This may also explain why I don’t date.
Academic journal publishing is a racket. Your competitors—oh, excuse me, your colleagues—review your work, and then, if the piece is published (sometime in the next year), not only only do you not get paid, you have to pay for reprints.
And no one will read the article anyway—possibly including your reviewers.
I’m using a couple of books in my classes which argue for a moral approach to political problems. How about a political approach to political problems?
I am a fair-weather Packer fan. If, however, I lived in Wisconsin, I would almost certainly hate them.
Still wouldn’t root for the Vikings, tho’.
Bad taste is good if it’s funny.
You can get away with almost anything if you’re funny.
But woe unto you for offending without eliciting a laugh.
A good protest has humor, music, and an end time.
New York is a pit. I kinda like that. Except in August.
I sometimes wonder if I moved to New York because I figured this would be the place to be when the world ends.
You can die in a dream without dying in real life.
I don’t think chocolate is candy. Especially dark chocolate.
Coffee is the elixir of life.
(Another anecdote, this time from Linda Ellerbee: She made note of reporter Andrea Mitchell’s response to the question of what she did to relax. I drink coffee!)
It’s sweet that people think I became a vegetarian for health reasons. As I like to point out, Doritos are vegetarian.
Another bit of wisdom from B.: Tell people you’re 10 years older than you are. They’ll think you look great for your age.
I will steal words and phrases from other people if I can get away with it. Most new slang is off limits, however, since as an old white woman I most definitely cannot get away with it. (Although I’m still trying to work in mad as an adverb or adjective.)
When people tell me I spoil my cats I think, Duh. Why else have ’em if you can’t spoil them?
I look forward to claiming the title of ‘crone’.
But not just yet.
AbsurdBeats 