Nothing Gold can Stay

I believe Robin, my almost-twenty-one-year-old cat is nearing the end of his life. He was born on my parents' dining room floor. His mother was a skinny Siamese named The Lizard, Liz for short. She went into heat before she turned one and escaped one day. Days passed. We thought she was a goner, but since she had the loudest voice of any creature we knew, my father and I walked around the block, the next block and the one down by the railroad tracks, yelling, "Lizzzzz! Lizzzzz!" At home, she would call back, "Wowwwww!" But there was no reply, and we believed that since she was so enchanting and otherwise bizarre in appearance (when she was an infant, she seemed more reptilian than feline; hence, her name: The Lizard), that perhaps someone had swiped her, and if we just called her named loudly and often enough, she might hear us and go to a window inside someone's house and call back, "Wowwwww!" But she did not.

Several days later, we heard "Wow! Wow! Wowwwww!" outside the screen door in front of the house, and there she was, dirty, bedraggled, hungry and overjoyed to be returned to her kin (as she knew us). Several days later, the outcome of her prior disappearance made itself known as we noticed that her shape had changed. A bit more time passed, and it appeared as if Liz had swallowed a cantaloupe whole; her cat belly protuded on both sides. Some more time passed and my parents became grandparents of seven half-Siamese/half-unknown kittens. One of those kittens is my Robin.

In his prime, Robin was a big sleek cat, a large sinewy black version of a Siamese--with his mother's voice and desire to converse. In my third year of law school, I acquired him when I moved to an apartment in Wayne. At my present age, I cannot imagine what I must have been thinking, but I was much younger then....and it seemed only right to adopt another cat so Robin would have a "friend" to be with when I was away. At the animal shelter in Teterboro, I adopted Annabelle (named after Jerry Garcia's daughter or was it Edgar Allen Poe's love interest?), a smaller version of Robin with a round face. They enjoyed each other at first, slept in a heap, bathed each other and all that. Things were good the first year. But during the Summer I studied for the bar exam, I one afternoon left the sliding door open to the balcony and something strange happened. The cats often sunbathed together on the balcony. In fact, when I played tennis on the town courts beneath the balcony, I would often look up and shout, "Hey, Robin!" and he would cheerfully respond, "Wow!"

So one afternoon, I went into the bedroom to take a nap and Robin awakened me, jumping on the bed and screaming, "Wowwwww!" I pushed him off the bed and turned over. He got back on and screamed again. Finally, I got up and groggily followed him into the living room. He trotted out to the balcony and looked down, screamed, "Wow! Wow!" and ran back in. And out. And in. Hysteria! I followed him out to the balcony and looked down as he was and saw, three floors down in front of the back door to the apartment building, a little black cat in the road . She was crying. How odd, I thought, that someone would leave their cat out there. So I went down to check it out and, lo and behold, it was Annabelle. She had managed to jump off the balcony, survive a three-story fall and somehow knew to wait by the back door.

After that, I sent her to stay with my parents for a month until I completed the bar exam. When she returned to Robin and me, she was grateful, but Robin had no interest in her at all. Although she was a member of the pack, she became merely one to be tolerated. He only had eyes for me.

In 1996, the three of us moved to a big house in Kimberton. Many changes. We acquired a man named Jim and an Australian Shepherd puppy named Colin. We lived together for some time, the five of us, and everything was pretty good for a while. A few years later, there came yet another addition, a baby boy, and then there were six. Jim and I reached a breaking (up) point, so then there were five. Several years ago, on the same day in April, Jim and Annabelle died. I buried Annabelle in the kitchen garden in the back yard. Jim was buried in Valley Forge. So then there were four. Last year, Colin died at age ten from lymphoma. For a while, there were only three of us in the big house. After a few months, I missed having a canine companion, so I adopted a Catahoula Leopard Dog, named Cat. Once again, there are four of us.

During the years Colin and Robin lived here, the two were inseperable. They followed me everywhere, around the yard and to neighbors' houses....I remember looking out a neighbor's screen door only to see Robin and Colin sitting on the front step, looking in, waiting for me. And Robin obviously thinks he is a dog. He loves dogs. He comes when he's called. He happily made appearances at every one of Colin's birthday parties so he could socialize with the other canine guests. After Colin died, Robin was never the same. Something was missing. Something big. His best friend was gone.

He doesn't mind the new dog; he accepts her, but she is still somewhat a puppy....boisterous and exuberant. He can no longer play those puppy games. He's wobbly now, spends most of his time sleeping on a heating pad and makeshift bed I made for him on the dining room floor. He no longer goes up the stairs and jumps on my bed. He can't. He tolerates when Cat licks him from head to toe. I believe she thinks she is comforthing him.

I wish I could comfort him. I wish I knew what to do. I hold him often. He purrs. I kiss the top of his head. He purrs. I talk with him. He leans against me now....just walks up to me and leans against my legs.

Today, he had no interest in food....I bought him treats....roast beef and crab sticks....and various cat treats....I gave him milk....he wants none of it. He is tired and so old. I can only wait and see.

Cave Men

Threw together an impromptu bonfire in our backyard tonight. Four parents, five sons and two dogs. The boys roasted marshmallows, setting them on fire and joyfully running amok with their flaming "torches." After some debate, they settled on a name for their new boys-only club, "The Cave Men," which is a good name because their fort is created anew every Spring when the leaves appear and the vines grow together to form a hidden green cavern in our back lot. Cat, the dog, being a female, was admitted but only as an honorary member.

I hope that one day, long into the future, when these sons have sons of their own, they won't forget this fraternity of five and the warm nights their parents sat idly by, watching, admiring and secretly hoping they wouldn't get too close...to the fire.

Note Taking and Giving

These are the notes I took this afternoon while attending a lecture given by Joe Carroll, the Chester County District Attorney.

I also passed notes to my friend sitting next to me. One asked, "What's wrong with that woman sitting in front of us?" She was dressed like a man and had her legs extended and her feet up on a chair during the entire lecture. She also brazenly read from a novel while the D.A. spoke. How bizarre. After the D.A. finished his lecture, another attorney gave one about civil litigation. This time, I took no notes but did write one to my friend: "He has a very small head."

All this note passing reminds me of eleventh grade, when my friend Caroline Beaumont and I passed notes back and forth while sitting in Mr. Rork's American history class. Mr. Rork was a colossal man with bushy red hair and mustache. One day, Caroline created a "BOYCOTT VEAL" sign and pinned it to the bulletin board next to her seat while Mr. Rork looked the other way. Days went by without his noticing the sign. Delighted, we experimented with other signs (such as, "Greenpeace, an organization to be revered" and various quotes from the Communist Manifesto), but these signs were always removed. Once, we posted a sign which read, "PLEASE DON'T REMOVE THIS SIGN." It was gone by the next class. Another time, when Mr. Rork sported emerald green trousers, Caroline passed me a note which asked, "Can you imagine mounting him?" Gosh, no.

The Veal sign was the result of my being an anti-vivisectionist and pseudo-vegetarian for about one year. On the afternoon we won the the girls' state basketball championship, my parents took a bunch of us to The Fireplace in Paramus. Momentarily forgetting my convictions while being caught up in the whirlwind of emotions brought on by that momentous athletic victory....and wanting neither onion rings nor fries, I ordered a strawberry milkshake and a hot dog, both of which I devoured while wearing my suede fringe coat (which I still have), and my vegetarian days were apparently over. After that first bite, there was no turning back.

To this day though, I won't eat veal and disparage those who do.

Cat and Addie

Cat (on the right) and Addie (on the left), who are best friends, were very bad girls last week.....Apparently, one afternoon, Addie was in a mood....she tried to instigate fights with the other dogs at Hickory Springs. She poked at them incessantly to try to get a good dog fight going. Her best friend stayed by her side. A very small white dog, who was boarding for several days at the kennel, was put into the daycare mix for "group play." The girls decided to bully the new dog, show it who is boss down at doggie daycare. Addie attacked it immediately, and Cat joined in. Linda thought Addie would destroy the little dog and shrieked for human assistance. The little dog survived but had puncture wounds and was taken to the vet. Addie was expelled. Cat was suspended. Cat was humiliated and spent the next day in disgrace on my bed. Cat misses Addie. Addie's mother said Addie misses Cat. Both my child and my dog get suspended. Misfits everywhere. Strange.

Gun Control

Yesterday was "Wild West Day" (or whatever it was called) at school. The children dressed up as cowboys, outlaws, gold miners and "Women of the West." One of the teachers told the children they could bring toy guns to school. Accordingly, James brought a toy gun as part of his "bad guy" outfit. As soon as he arrived at school, his teacher--who continues to remain seriously opposed to guns (even toy guns) in her classroom--confiscated his gun and put it in her desk drawer.

Well, James really wanted his gun back. At 7:00 p.m., when I went to school with my outlaw son to see his evening presentation, James importuned me to get his gun from his teacher. When I entered his classroom, I saw Drew's father wielding a plastic rifle. Well, now....He asked the teacher for some scotch tape because the plastic stock had cracked. As soon as she saw me approach, she opened her drawer and handed the gun to me. I believe this was a kneejerk reaction to my saying "I think you may have overreacted" during our nighttime telephone conversation following the "offensive" magazine incident a couple of weeks ago. She told James he had to keep the gun in his pocket for the rest of the evening. I said, "But...how realistic is it for an outlaw to not have a gun?" She gave me the "oh, brother" look.

After the presentation, the boys ran out of the building, hollering...throwing their cowboy hats in the air, chasing each other with guns drawn...generally whooping it up....good ol' boy stuff. Isn't that what boys have always done?

Sure, you can take the (toy) guns away from the boy, but the more you forbid something, the more he wants the thing that is forbidden.