A Decade of Adoresixtyfour

Today marks the 10th anniversary of this blog.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

I mean, I guess it's pretty awesome that I've been writing and/or posting photos here (and at this blog's predecessor site, which had a dedicated URL that, for some insane reason, I paid for instead of using Blogger's free, easier service) for so long. As mind-numbing and eye-blearing as my day job can be, it's good--healthy, even--to have an outlet for my more creative impulses.

This blog has also been a great venue for expressing emotional traumas of varying degrees--from the deaths of close friends like Kaytee and Gretchen, to the passing of beloved pets like Lottie and Ms. Christopher (who left this world three years ago today--anniversary convergence), to the continuing lack of love/dating/sex in my life (trust me--anyone reading this, no matter who you are, has gotten some more recently than I have) and the related woes of Valentine's Day, to the slow-but-certain vanishing of the city I grew up in to the personal reaction to the national tragedy of 9/11--much has been vented here. Also good. Also healthy.

But what has that decade amounted to, really?

Am I in a better mental/physical/spiritual place than I was in October 2001? Not really.

Has this blog attracted thousands or hundreds or, hell, a dozen regular readers? Despite attempts to pimp it out on MySpace, then Twitter and finally Facebook, no, it has not.

There were several individuals who, that decade ago, urged/pushed me to do something with whatever writing/photographic talent I may/may not have, and most of them--most notably JB and Jessie--are still here. Others, though, are no longer friends while still others, as noted above, are no longer even alive.

So where, 10 years down the bumpy, toruous road, does that leave me? I don't know.

Does this blog matter in the great scheme of things? does it even matter that much to me anymore, given that, most days, I only post photos here, usually without comment? Where do I go from here, if anywhere?

On. I go on.

Treading water can be fine exercise, but it doesn't really get you anywhere. Far better to lean forward or lie back, start kicking my legs, and head for shore, even if shore is nowhere in sight and my legs are already tired--likely from the weight of this cumbersome metaphor.

(Oh...and for those wondering why I have the photos of a sunflower at the top of this entry and a sunset at the bottm? No particular reason. I just liked them. Hope you do, too.)

My April Fool

Olivia turns five years old this month.

OK, so I don't know with iron-clad certainty that Olivia turns five this month. I do know, however that, as far as my mom's vet could ascertain, Olivia was about seven months old when I brought her to La Casa del Terror back in November of 2004. That would put her birthday somewhere in April of that year, so celebrating that happy occasion on April Fool's Day seems entirely appropriate.

Not that I'm saying Olivia is a fool. I'm not--not really, anyway. She's incredibly smart--often too smart for her own good.

Like that time she figured out how to get behind the shelving unit in the northeast corner of the dining room, only to find that she then couldn't get out and had to scream for help.

Or when she and I swatted at each other around the headboard--until she decided to take the game seriously and charged at me from behind the headboard, slammed into my left temple and kept going straight across the bed and out of the room, never breaking stride.

You get the idea.

It must be said, though, that since Ms. Christopher died in October, Olivia's personality has shifted. Not to the extent of taking on Chris's personality traits, as sometimes happen with cats (and which did happen, to a certain extent, to Chris after her sister, Lottie, had to be put to sleep), but now Olivia is more inclined to jump up into my lap and stay there for a while--something she'd rarely been inclined to do before. She's also a lot more attentive, playful and even downright cuddly than she had been before--again, not a wholesale personality change, but more a function of being alone all day and craving attention once I finally get home from work.

Tonight, I'll drag my ass back to La Casa del Terror. Tonight, I'll rip open a pouch of Friskies for Olivia, pop something in the microwave for myself and fall into my living room chair to watch "Countdown with Keith Olbermann." And after a few minutes of eating and watching, Olivia will join me, parking at my feet, asking permission to come aboard, waiting for the hand slap at the thigh that signifies consent, and jumping up to curl and purr there for a few minutes. And I will be grateful.

Happy birthday, little one.

The Ghost of Christmas (Stockings) Yet to Come

There's a lot to be said for after-Christmas sales,especially if you can be patient and wait until January or even February to cash in on the deals to be had on holiday tchotchke.

Example: On my lunchbreak today, I wandered away from my office--or, more accurately, I wandered as far as the still-frigid temperatures would allow me--and wound up in one of the big-chain DVD/CD stores.

I had no intention of buying anything--next payday is a week away, and this past payday was the rent check--but one shouldn't walk into such places if one doesn't intend to buy; it's rather like walking into a restaurant without the intention of eating. Nothing caught my eye as far as DVDs or CDs, but I did notice the small island of lingering Christmas items--a few action figures and lunchboxes, but mostly stockings.

At Christmastime, it's traditional for me to hang stockings in La Casa del Terror for me and the kitties. The tradition was more of a melancholy exercise this past holiday season, though, since Ms. Christopher passed away in October. I hung her stocking up anyway, but there was little joy or celebration in the action, but not hanging it up would have been even sadder.

The island before me it seemed, presented possibilities for change--especially since everything was 90% off.

I chose two new stockings: One shaped like "The Leg Lamp" from A Christmas Story for me, and a Hello Kitty-themed stocking for Olivia. They'll be hung from the closet doorknobs with care come the day after Thanksgiving.

That doesn't mean I'm going to dispose of the stockings I'd used in the past for me, Olivia, Chris and Lottie. They'll still be used as decorations around La Casa--reminders of small, warm friends no longer with me, but never completely gone from mind or heart.

Tigger

Not long after Dad died, Mom took a job as a cashier at a neighborhood grocery store.

It wasn't so much because she needed the income, although the extra cash didn't hurt, but because she didn't want to sit at home, thinking about the fact that her life partner, the man she'd been married to for 30-plus years and raised two children with, was gone.

The store she worked at wasn't one of the national chains, but a much smaller local chain that had a couple of locations in the city and at least one location in the suburbs, which apparently still exists. The two city locations, including the one Mom worked at, are long gone. (One was razed ro make way for a Dominick's; the other is a parking lot.)

She didn't work there long--something under a year--before moving on to another cashier job, this time at a large drugstore chain, where she's been ever since. In her short time at the grocery store, though, she came away with something most people don't get on the job: a cat.

The cat in question, a female tabby, was small and young--perhaps a few months old--but evidently quite loud. She had gotten into the grocery store's warehouse, and other, less feline-incline employees were planning on capturing the kitty and, at the very least, throwing it out, if not removing it in a much more permanent fashion.

Cats, though, are, for the most part, smart critters. They know when someone likes cats and when they don't. Mom was able to coax the tabby to her, earn its trust, and eventually bring it home.

Mom named the tabby Tigger--not the most imaginative name, I know, but our family will never be renowned for our ability to give intriguing appelations to pets (examples: our Black Lab mix was named Blackie; my Russian Blue, Gray Cat).

She almost wound up being my cat. When I moved out of the apartment on the second floor of my parents' house and into the first La Casa del Terror, I definitely wanted to have cats with me, but Gray Cat was quite elderly by that point and would need more attention than I could give her; Mom and my brother would be home much more and could keep a better eye on her. (She lived a couple more years, to the ripe old age of 20.) Mom very much wanted me to take Tigger, a very personable (and now much better fed) feline, and another recent acquisition, a female gray-and-white kitty called, er, Kitty-Kitty. (See what I mean about the names?) I had already committed to take on Lottie and Ms. Christopher from JB, though, so I got the Girlish Girls and Mom kept her two new furry friends.

Mom wasn't too thrill about that at first. Or so she said--she'd agreed readily to the idea of me taking Olivia off her hands, but when the day came, she had tears in her eyes.

It didn't take Mom long to get over "being stuck" with Tigger, though, as she found that the young kitty was friendly, affectionate and, unimaginative as her name was, appropriately bouncy. Other cats came as older cats went away, but Tigger and her new friend, Kitty-Kitty, made Mom smile many, many times, as beloved pets always will.

In the last couple of years, Tigger had her medical challenges, as all elderly kitties will. Her joints were creaky, her kidneys were less than bouncy, and her weight, never great, dropped noticable. However, Mom often said, as long as Tigger ate, pooped and was in no obvious pain, there was no reason to have her put to sleep.

I visit Mom's house for dinner as often as I can--weekly if possible, though work and weather sometimes get in the way. Last Saturday was Mom's birthday--no way I was missing that. I brought dinner (Mom's meal of choice, Popeyes chicken) and two pair of brand-new gloves (she'd requested one pair, but the sales in the department stores are so "pleasepleaseplease!" this year that I was able to buy her two pair for less than the regular price of one). We ate dinner and watched TV for a while, and various cats paid me visits, including Tigger. She was walking unsteadily, reminding me uncomfortably of Christopher's uncertain gait in the couple of days before I had to take her to the vet one last time, but she managed to jump onto the loveseat, walk tentatively onto my lap and stay there much of the evening.

Mom regarded Tigger sadly. "She going to be the next to go," she said.

"I think you're right," I replied, stroking the kitty's head and trying to feel her purr--it was there, barely audible.

When it was time for me to head for home, I gently lifted Tigger out of my lap. "Put her on the warm spot," Mom instructed, pointing at the ass imprint I'd left on the blanket covering the loveseat. I placed the elderly tabby there, and she immediately curled up and went to sleep.

On Monday, Tigger seemed to be having even more trouble walking, and Mom decided to take her to the vet Tuesday morning to see what, if anything, could be done. Monday night, Mom was in her bedroom, watching a bit of TV before retiring for the night, as is her custom, when she heard a cat pawing at the closed door and crying. She got up and opened the door. It was Kitty-Kitty making all the noise, but she didn't come in. Instead, it was Tigger, also standing there, who made her way into the bedroom. Kitty-Kitty then turned and walked away. She hadn't wanted into the bedroom at all; she just wanted her longtime friend, too weak to ask for herself anymore, to be able to go where she wanted to be, to go sleep with Mom, who picked her up carefully, placed her on the bed and kept her company until they both fell asleep.

Tuesday morning, Mom got up early to take Tigger to the vet. There was no need--Tigger had passed away peacefully in her sleep. She was 14 years old.

The Christmas Stocking

I violated one of my hard-and-fast rules this week: I put up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving.

I justified the rules violation thusly--for one thing, we have fewer days between Turkey Day and Santa's sleigh this year than normal (less than a month), so the decorations won't be up for long anyway; for another, I needed the emotional boost that colored lights and shiny glass globes can sometimes give.

So I rummaged through the closets and brought out some of the Christmas things. Not all of them--I have more ornaments and garland and lights and figurines than I could ever display at one time anyway, but this year I didn't want to do anything intricate or sprawling. Something (relatively) simple for the living room windows would suffice.

When I was finished, the sills were filled with decorations acquired from various places:

A porcelain white pine tree found at the Brown Elephant, a second-hand store in Boystown (it didn't come with a light, but I borrowed one from a Halloween skull);

Two ceramic angels from Marshall's, one with a broken halo (I've always thought that's exactly the kind of guardian angel I'd get);

A very Seussian Grinch doll from a Hallmark store;

A tin snowman tealight holder from a former workplace (the company was moving and he was being thrown out, so...);

A plush snowman from Walgreens;

Peppermint Kitty, a gift from a then-supervisor that I actually liked;

A large, well-articulated, flocked Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer found at Quake, the best toy store on the whole planet;

A spiral, chrome-plated tealight tree bought at a Walgreens while on the way to take care of Dee's kitty, the fabulous Gigi, while Dee was in Hawaii doing the AIDS marathon a few years back;

And, of course, the little fake pine that graced Grandma's living room window for many years and has graced mine for nearly as long (about 30 years in all, I'd guesstimate).

I also set up a few decorations that only I can see, like a ceramic Christmas tree bought at the same Brown Elephant as the white porcelain one, the glittery angel VB gave me last year, and Angelique, the little ornament that usually sits atop my tree, but since I'm not going through the bother of setting the 3-foot-tall faux pine this year, she's resting on my TV, keeping watch over the scene.

A couple of the internal decorations, though, were hung with, I must confess, some reluctance.

I don't remember when exactly I started hanging Christmas stockings for myself and the Girlish Girls. I know I didn't put one up for Lottie, so it must have been sometime after she died five years ago. In the bag in the closet, there were three not-so-neatly-folded stockings, all bought in different years from the same Target. The forest green one was Olivia's. The corduroy one with the embroidered snowflake was mine. And the burgundy one with the white trim and dangling balls? That one belonged to Ms. Christopher.

It's been just over a month since that sad morning when I woke up early, played Christopher the Johnny Cash/Fiona Apple version of "Bridge Over Troubled Water," took the slow cab ride through rush-hour snarl and, in the small examination room at the vet, softly told her that it was okay, she'd put up a good fight but it was over now and it was okay, she could let go now. And before the vet had a chance to administer a second "just to be sure" injection, she checked Christopher's pulse one more time and found there was no need for that second injection. She had let go.

It might as well have been yesterday, though. I still expect to see her come around the corner in the morning for her tin of Friskies. I still her her clawing at the side of the box spring, asking to be lifted to the bed. I still see her at the dining room window, resplendant in the afternoon sun. I still miss her. Olivia does too, after her own fashion. She stopped looking for Chris after the first couple of days, but is all over me when I come home in the evenings, especially after I've been gone for a long time at work or out shoping or whatever. She's lonely without me, but when I settle in to eat dinner or watch Svengoolie; she keeps me company, and I do the same for her.

I decided not to hang my own stocking--not much I expect to find in it this year, though my Amazon wishlist has a few goodies that might well fit and would certainly be welcome. I did hang Olivia's up where I'd put it last year--on the doorknob of one of the closets in the short hall between the living and dining rooms--but I left Christopher's stocking in storage.

It didn't look or feel right though, seeing only one stocking dangling from the doorknob like that. So out came the burgundy stocking, slung over the protruding hinge of the same door from which Oliva's dark green stocking already swung. Christopher was with me for a lot of years, and this first Christmas without her will have its hard moments. But I'm thankful for all the warmth and unconditional love she gave me all that time, and the stocking will remind me, when the sadness threatens to overwhelm me, how happy she mad me so often and how grateful I am that I had her in my life for so long.

Ms. Christopher is gone in body from La Casa del Terror and will never return (though tufts of her fur keep turning up and likely will for some time). But she's not gone in spirit. Never in spirit. And for this Christmas at least, the stocking will help me remember that.

The Thanksgiving Cat

The feline in my brother's arms was small--probably only weeks past the point where she would still be considered "a kitten"--with shiny black fur flecked with beige and gold (what some people call "a tortie") and large yellow-green (green-yellow?) eyes that were, at this particular moment, darting in all directions, trying to soak up unfamiliar surroundings without panic and/or fear being absorbed as well.

He'd found her in Mom's backyard, running for her little life from very loud, very animated, very pissed-off squirrels. (Think that's funny? Consider: When you've seen or heard a squirrel perched on a fence or a telephone pole yelling its fuzzy head off, did you run up to it and offer a hug? No, you more than likely steered clear of the little rodent until it calmed down a bit. Now imagine that the angry/upset squirrel is actually charging you. You'd probably back away from it, at least. Now imagine that you're roughly the same size as the charging, pissed-off squirrel. Not so funny now, is it?)

Once he's rescued her from the fury of the nut gatherers, my brother carried her inside, where her reaction to the presence of Mom's cats was almost as extreme as her reaction to the squirrels had been--it appeared that she hated other cats, or at least hated seeing so many other cats in one place at one time. So he brought her upstairs to his apartment (which had been mine for about a decade before I moved into the original La Casa del Terror) and kept her there. He also gave her a name: Peanut. (Because she was attacked by squirrels. Get it?) Now, he was showing her to me--with a purpose in mind.

It had been over a year since I'd had Lottie put to sleep. In that time, Ms. Christopher and I had more or less adjusted to harsh reality: her sister was gone, and we were on our own. I knew, though, even as we were becoming accustomed to being alone with each other, that I wanted to add another cat at some point, if only to have company for Christopher on those days when I got stuck at work until whenever. And my brother wasn't enthused about the prospect of Mom bringing in another stray, no matter how pretty that stray might be.

So, for all intents and purposes, I was conducting an interview with this cat.

My brother explained her idiosyncrasies to me--not only her apparent aversion to other cats (a possible complicating factor for bringing her into a home with a kitty already in it), but her hatred of toes (she attacked them constantly, whether they were covered or not, which may have lead to her being thrown out by Mom's next-door neighbors for being "too mean") and her love of chasing pieces of paper (crumple up a receipt from Walgreens, toss it across the room and watch her bat it around for hours, sometimes even bringing it back for a game of "fetch"), though she also enjoyed catnip-filled mice, little puffy balls and shoestrings as much as the next feline.

After he'd told me everything he felt he needed to, he handed the little calico to me and I lifted her to my shoulder, where she propped her tiny black paws, her claws digging through the fabric of my shirt and into my skin ever so slightly--not for defensive purposes, though she probably was at least a little scared to be held in the arms of a stranger, but to keep from falling, though I had no intention of dropping her. I stroked her smooth, soft fur and scratched her chin. She began purring hard enough to rattle my fillings out.

I wanted to take her home right then and there--if this had indeed been an interview, she'd have been hired on the spot.

Of course, it wasn't that simple; nothing ever is. She needed to be spayed, and Mom volunteered to pay for this (a point which I didn't argue). Mom also had her front claws removed--I'm not the biggest fan of declawing (Ms. Christopher still has all of hers), but given her toe-attacking tendencies and love of "sharpening" against the furniture, it's just as well that Mom went there.

The cat would need at least a couple of weeks (maybe more) to properly recuperate from the operations in the relative privacy and comfort of my brother's apartment, then I could take her home--most likely on Thanksgiving Day, when I would have the whole four-day weekend to watch how she interacted with Christopher and to keep her from wrecking the joint.

I wound up picking her up the day after Thanksgiving, though I did make a point to spend time with her the night before. I brought the large orange crate that we used for toting cats in (with a clean blue towel tucked into it for comfort), and my brother brought the little calico down. Once again, her eyes were wide and darting, but this time when I took her she was not purring, but shaking--panic and fear had set in and taken a firm hold.

As I put the kitty in the crate, Mom came out. "Bye, Peanut," she said, obviously sad and seemingly fighting back tears, "Sorry you can't stay." Maybe Mom had set her heart on keeping the cat, or thought I would back out of the deal for whatever reason. She didn't try to talk me out of it, though, as I walked out the door, headed for the nearest major street and flagged a cab.

Once in the cab, I did my best to keep her calm, reaching through the holes in the crate to stroke her forehead or rub her chin. For the most part, that worked--she only cried out a few times on the long ride home, and each time I was able to quiet her down again. I also started calling her by her new name: Olivia.

It wasn't that I had anything against the name Peanut...okay, I had plenty against it. I thought it was a stupid name, and I've always liked the name Olivia; if I'd ever had a daughter, that would have been her name. Instead, it went to a small, thin and, at this particular moment, frightened little cat.

I hauled her up the three flights of stairs to La Casa del Terror, set the crate down on the kitchen floor and popped the door open. Olivia slowly came out, low to the linoleum floor, carefully inspecting her new surroundings with what appeared to be interest rather than dread.

Then Olivia came face to face with Ms. Christopher, who had come out from her resting place in the living room to see what was going on in the kitchen--and found a trespasser on her turf. It was not, as you'd imagine, love at first sight. There was a great deal of hissing from both cats, and Olivia retreated to the safety of the crate, where she settled on the blue towel and did not move again until Christopher left the room.

The same scenario played itself out from time to time over the next few days: Cats meet; cats hiss (sometimes even exchanging blows); cats separate. Lather, rinse, repeat. You might expect that Christopher, being more than twice the size of Olivia and still having front claws, would win the majority of these bouts. And you would be wrong--Olivia, being younger, faster and more aggressive, soundly thumped the older, more passive fluffball each and every time, then retreated to her crate in the kitchen until I finally closed the door and put it away.

Some of Olivia's personal quirks faded with time. Her obsession with attacking feet went away, although there were mornings when she would reach under the bathroom door like some '50s sci-fi monster to try and take a toe or two. She still doesn't get along with Ms. Christopher, though--they rarely are found in the same room and only sit on the same piece of furniture if they've called a truce because I'm sick or sad. Even then, they don't sit together; they'll bookend me on the couch or sit at opposite ends of the bed. When feeding time comes, though, they each attend their own bowl and don't even notice the other's existence.

Olivia is no longer a small, scared kitten, though. She's filled out a bit--not fat necessarily, but not skinny anymore, either--and walks around La Casa del Terror like she owns the joint. At the Halloween Movie Bash, she's the cat who comes out and works the room, rubbing up against the legs of guests and perching on the arms or back of the couch while Ms. Christopher hides under the couch until she gets hungry or needs to use the litter pan.

Olivia likes to cry loudly for my attention, whether it's first thing in the morning when it's time for me to get up and put a tin of Friskies down, or in the evening when I get home and she gets vocal before I even put my key in the front door. When friends drop me off after an evening out, they can usually hear her calling me from the living room window.

She's also become quite the cuddle kitty, often curling up next to me while I watch TV in the evening--much to Christopher's chagrin. The old fuzzball still gets attention all her own, though; since Olivia isn't really a lap cat, Christopher can claim that territory, even if she's still a good deal more than a lapful. Christopher would get that attention anyway. She's 14, and even though her appetite is hearty and she gets around just fine, jumping on and off my tall bed with relative ease, I know that she'll be joining Lottie at the Rainbow Bridge sooner rather than later, so I pet her and hold her close whenever I get a chance--much to Olivia's chagrin.

The younger cat gets more than her share of attention, though, and rarely has reason to complain (though she often does so anyway). Whenever I crumble up a piece of paper or cellophane wrapping, her eyes widen--with eager anticipation, rather than fear or panic--and when I toss the paper down the hall, ricocheting it off the walls, Olivia races after it, muscles flexing, coat shining, clawless front paws batting the freshly minted plaything back and forth until either she loses it under some piece of furniture that she can't reach under or, more likely, she pins it down, picks it up in her mouth and trots back to me with her prize, smiling with pride all the way.

The Rainbow Bridge

One advantage I've found in having cats is that there's really no reason to set an alarm clock. They know when they're supposed to be fed, and they won't let you forget it either. Olivia parks beside my bed and, spying the slightest movement, begins to yowl like she hasn't been fed in weeks, months even. And Ms. Christopher? She usually hangs out on one side of my head or the other and begins to bark the moment my eyelids flicker open.

There's no use trying to ignore them or argue the point; I have to get up and go to work anyway, right? (Except for Saturday or Sunday, of course, but it's easier to pop open a tin of Friskies, throw it in the matching bowls and head back to bed.)

One morning, not long ago, I was getting ready for work, stumbling through my hallway to get some clothing, when I spotted something on the hardwood floor. I didn't have my glasses on, so I assumed it was just a lump of Ms. Christopher's fur (she leaves them everywhere, being a n enormous puffball of a cat).

Until I touched it. It was wet. And and close up, I could see that it had a tail.

It was a mouse. And it was dead.

After washing my right hand half a dozen times, I covered the mouse with tissue, got a plastic bag and picked it up. Only Olivia showed any interest in this operation, so I assume she was the one who caught and killed the little rodent.

This is new for me. I've never had a mouse in the house before--at least while living on my own. (We used to get them occasionally at Mom's house, which was pretty suicidal, given how many cats she has.)

Could have been worse. Cats love to show off their trophies. And love to bring them to you. I could have found it in a shoe. Or on my bed. So...the hallway's not so bad, really.

It turned out that this wasn't Olivia's first kill. Before I brought her to La Casa del Terror, she lived with my mother and brother for about three months. She stayed upstairs with my brother, since it seemed that she didn't get along at all with other cats and most of Mom's cats were (and are) elderly. She was allowed downstairs for short periods, though, and in one of these, she chased down and killed what must have been a mouse with an especially powerful death wish while the other cats either sat and watched or paid the rodent (and Olivia) no attention at all.

"You worthless sacks of fur!" my brother yelled at the other cats. Maybe that was unfair. Maybe they'd lost their hunting instincts after so many years of life as housecats. Whatever the case, Olivia did what they either wouldn't or couldn't then, and even without front claws (Mom had her declawed before handing her off to me), she was still able and willing to do it now.

One of those "worthless sacks of fur" was Monkey, a black-and-white tomcat whom Mom had brought in ages ago. He was the kind of cat only an owner could love. He had clumps of fur all over his body. He was snaggle-toothed. His head was enormous and his body thin, so he looked like a walking, fur-bound bobblehead. And he smelled awful. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck, and maybe he had.

The other cats couldn't stand Monkey and regularly took turns beating his ass. Mom loved him, though, and he was utterly devoted to her. Rare was the night when he wasn't curled up next to her--for protection, sure, but also for the attention she lavished on him and the affection he returned to her.

Nobody, including the vet, knew exactly how old he was. He was an older cat when Mom took him in, and she had him for about 15 years until one recent Friday night when, after having spent much of the night with Mom, he cried at her bedroom door to be let out, probably so he could get some water or use the litter pan, and didn't come back the rest of the night.

Saturday morning, a couple of the cats went up to my brother's bedroom window and began meowing. That's something they just didn't do--something was wrong downstairs. He got up and followed them downstairs. Monkey was lying perfectly motionless. My brother woke Mom up to tell her he was dead. When he returned to Monkey, though, his body had shifted position; he wasn't dead, but had the look an animal does right before its time has come, with an unsteady head and sightless stare. He passed on later that morning.

While Monkey was being laid to rest, another cat belonging to someone close to me was seriously ill as well.

Jessie had two cats named Ernie--unusual, you might think, weird even, until you know that she owned one Ernie, a large tabby, before acquiring the second, a gray-and-white tomcat, from her sister, who had to give her Ernie up because she was moving into a studio apartment and didn't have the room to keep him. So she brought him north to Chicago from Ft. Lauderdale, and here he happily lived with Jessie, her husband and Ernie the First (also known as Ernest) for several years.

Ernie always hissed at me at least once whenever I visited Jessie, probably because he could smell the Girlish Girls on my clothing, my shoes, my backpack. But he never bit me or took a swing, and he always let me pet him at least once per visit and even take his picture.

A few weeks ago, Ernie became seriously ill--his eyes looked funny (and not in a "ha ha" kind of way), he stopped eating and going to the litter pan, and he constantly cried, as if in pain. Jessie didn't know what was up; she thought he was having a relapse from the illness he suffered during the tainted pet food scare a few months back.

Then Ernie, without explanation, went blind.

Jessie took Ernie to a specialist in the suburbs to determine the source of the blindness and pain and, when she visited the day before he was scheduled to have an MRI, she brought out his favorite toys, CDs with soothing sounds and even, Ernest, who was not happy to be stuffed in the cat carrier, but was perfectly happy to spend time with his old partner in crime.

The attention seemed to soothe Ernie who, for the first time in weeks, closed his eyes and took a nap. According the vets, this should have been impossible--his eyes were paralyzed open. But sometimes, if only for a few blessed minutes, the impossible is possible again.

Unfortunately, the MRI yielded the worst possible results: Ernie had cancer of the nose (who knew there was such a thing?). It had spread to his brain. It was inoperable. There was nothing Jessie could do but ensure that her friend would not be in pain any longer. She gave the specialist the needed authorization; Ernie never woke up.

When I called Jessie that night, I didn't know what to say. The situation reminded me so much of when I had to have Lottie put to sleep--both the same age (10), both with inoperable cancer (Lottie's was in her abdomen), both owners receiving that horrible call. Even after four years, I can't talk about Lottie without breaking down. By the time I got off the phone with Jessie, I was crying, both for her loss and my own. I continued for a good while after.

When Lottie died, both my regular vet and the 24-hour facility I took her to sent me sympathy cards. In the one from my vet was a photocopy, several generations old but still legible, of the story of the Rainbow Bridge. It pretty well matches what Jessie posted on her MySpace page:

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.

I hope that Lottie was there to greet Ernie and Monkey at the Rainbow Bridge and that she keeps them company until their "very special" persons--or hers--are there, ready to escort them to the other side.

The Move, Part Four: The Long Goodbye

I had thought it would be better to spread the move over several weeks. That way, I wouldn't wear myself out on any given day and could get the whole thing done with little trips after work and on weekends.

But I was wrong. Sweet flamin' Jeebus, was I wrong.

Instead of moving everything in one day and wearing myself (and all of the friends I would have needed to recruit) out just that once, I wound up being worn out every damn night.

Part of the overall problem was work-related. It's been getting busier and busier, and I've been leaving later and later. And who wants to haul boxes and bags and furnishings after a 12-hour shift? That's right: nobody. Much of the work was thus shifted to weekends, which meant that the time I would normally spend resting up for the coming workweek was spent lifting and carrying and dragging and shoving.

Another part of the problem was sheer volume. Even with everything I threw out or left behind (more on that in a moment), I carried enough over to the new place for three people, and I'm still unpacking (and likely will be well into the new year).

But even interminable moves must end, and so did this one.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. The only things remaining to be moved out were my bicycle (which I haven't been on in years, and which now sits unused in the basement of my new apartment building) and my helmet (which, should I ever ride my bicycle again, I'll definitely wear). Everything else that remained--books, DVDs, videotapes, kitchenware--was being left behind for my now-former landlords, a couple in the midst of an unpleasant divorce, to keep, throw out, sell, whatever. (Of course, my now-former landlord called me a few days later and asked, "Um, you've still got a lotta stuff here. I just wanted to know if you're renting for another month or what." Never mind that everything I left behind put together wouldn't have filled half of one closet; yep, that makes it worth renting for another month. Except...not.)

I rolled the bike into what had been the living room and parked there for a minute. The place looked strange with next to nothing in it. Sad. This had been a large part of my life. And I could still see it as it had been for so long:

Over in that corner sat the faded fuchsia recliner, left there by the previous tenant, where Lottie used to curl up for naps. By the windows sat the futon, sold to me by a then-friend, The Duranie at a steep discount as payment for watching her cats over the holidays. (She later dumped me as a friend without explanation--not the first time that's happened and, unfortunately, not the last.) Against the walls were the loveseats, bought at Ikea and drivel home for me by Mr. and Mrs. Fluffy, on which many a Halloween Movie Bash was enjoyed. In the middle sat the coffee table my brother made me as a present. On the walls, the shapes of the posters for The Blair Witch Project and The Exorcist were still visible, along with the holes where the nails had held them aloft.

All gone now.

I don't mean to oversentimentalize (is that even a word?) this whole experience. This was, after all, just my apartment. It wasn't perfect, by any means. The kitchen sink leaked, the ceiling was cracked, the bedroom windows were drafty, the linoleum in the kitchen was badly cracked, the wiring was ancient and both the front and back doors were a pain in the ass to open. But it was home for more than a decade. I can't just shrug that off.

And it's not like my new place is Nirvana, either. The toilet leaks at the base (I put way too much putty on it, which is how I repair everything that needs putty). The wainscoting doesn't always meet the floor, the hot water is really, really hot. There lots of spiders in in the building--I don't mind seeing one every once in a while, but I shouldn't wake up in the middle of the night to find one standing on the forehead of the Christopher Lee Dracula figure atop my TV, should I? And the boiler just beneath the living room floor not only keeps the pace toasty warm without any of the radiators on, but it roars either like a plane taking off or a nuclear explosion in the distance, depending on my mood at that moment.

But it's home now. This bare and desolate place wasn't anymore.

While I was taking that last, long look around, I thought I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It wasn't the first time that had happened during the process of moving out, though this would certainly be the last time. I couldn't tell you what it was. Maybe it was the shadow of a tree branch waving in the breeze outside. Maybe a bird flew past the window. But in the corner of my eye, for that briefest of brief moments, it looked like Lottie coming around the corner from the kitchen as she had so many times--and as she should have many more.

I looked down at my watch. I'd been standing there for 15 minutes. Enough. Time to go.

I put the helmet on my head, rolled the bike out the front door (my now-former landlady was out back, and I didn't want to talk to her again if I didn't have to), and said "Bye, Lottie," trying to wrestle the door shut before the tears could get a chance to start flowing.

Then I turned, picked up the bike and walked it down the stairs, not looking back again. Not even a glance.

The Move, Part Three: Green Windows

I'm accustomed to living above it all.

I don't mean that in terms of wealth--I'm not independently wealthy, nor am I ever likely to be--or in my attitude toward my friends, family, coworkers or people I pass on the street--I wouldn't have them treat me with disregard or contempt, so it would be hypocritical to treat them so.

No, I mean that, in terms of the physical proximity of my living space to the street below, I haven't been anywhere near ground level for quite some time.

As previously noted, La Casa del Terror was a three-story walkup. Before that, I lived in my parents' house in the second-story apartment. Before that, we lived in a three-story walkup with a panoramic view of downtown Chicago. (I've long lamented that I wasn't into photography then--the shots I could have taken!) And before that, we lived in an apartment on the second floor of the same building.

My point? I haven't lived in a first-floor apartment since I was in elementary school. So this new place is...different for me.

First of all, I can't exactly prance around in my underwear, now can I? Not that I did much of that before--I mean, who would really want to see that? Hell, I don't want to see that. But people walking past my windows can see whatever I'm doing unless the blinds are down, and who wants to live with the blinds down all the time?

There are compensating factors, though. My bedroom--which I actually use for sleep, rather than for storage like I did in La Casa--faces away from the street rather than toward it, so it's quieter and doesn't have streetlights or headlights shining into it. Also, it's a lot easier to see and hear what's going on at street level. So when the guy who lives up the street gets drunk/high/whatever and starts spewing racial epithets at the top of his besotted lungs, I can make out every word (instead of just the offensive ones).

It's not just me, though--this is a whole different deal for the cats, too.

Both Ms. Christopher and Olivia reacted poorly to the move itself. After I'd gotten out all of the big stuff (couches, dressers, that evil heavy chest), I decided to move the Girlish Girls. I put Christopher in the cat carrier--actually a tall, orange, reclosable milk crate--and tucked Olivia into my left arm. (If she had tried to wiggle free or tear me up, I'd have just taken her back, moved Christopher over and brought the crate back for a second trip.) I walked over to the new place, turned them both loose and watched as they walked gingerly over the hardwood floors, crying and inspecting and crying and jumping on window sills and crying and clawing at the furniture and crying and looking at me with a mix of confusion and contempt and did I mention the crying?

It took them a couple of days to calm down, but calm down they did. They now love sitting in the windows, watching the world pass by. Olivia loves the windows in the bedroom and kitchen, which look out onto the bushes alongside the next-door-neighbor's house--which make those back windows look green from the inside--where sparrows like to gather in the afternoon. She talks back to them, her jaw quivering and her tail switching back and forth and back again, but the sparrows, rather wisely, stay away.

(While I was moving in, I ran across an opossum trundling along the fence. Since I saw it ass-first, I thought it was a giant rat--an oddity in my hood, even if they're common in Mom's. I tried to wait politely while it made its way to wherever, but I finally lost patience and walked right past it, popped open the back door to my building and carried in whatever; the opossum hadn't yet reached me when I went in.)

The move has also made both cats more affectionate. Christopher has her moments as a lap cat, especially after her sister, Lottie, had to be put to sleep, but now she's taken to hopping up in my lap regularly, as well as coming into the bedroom when I lay down for the evening and tucking herself under one of my arms for a few minutes of attention, then off to some dark, soft corner of the new apartment for the rest of her night's sleep. And Olivia, never a cuddle kitty unless scared (thunder, fireworks, etc.), now curls up on the couch next to me, purring quietly while I stroke her shiny, smooth fur.

Maybe the cats are concerned that I'll uproot us yet again and haul all their familiar stuff to yet another unfamiliar place. Or, maybe, they've realized that this is home, they are safe, I am there to feed and take care of them, and they don't have to sleep in the same room with me (or each other) if they don't want to.

Maybe they've settled. Maybe I have, too.

The Move, Part Two: Ghosts Never Die

A long time ago--seems like another lifetime now--I wrote a short story about a young woman who came back to her hometown, Chicago, for the holiday season and experienced the usual arguments and angst that usually accompany such events (in most fiction, movies an sitcoms, at least, if not in what passes for reality these days).

At the time, the story, entitled "Ghosts Never Die" (because they're already deadÑhey, it sounded clever and profound then) seemed like it would be a pretty good starting point for a novel that, of course, never got written. (I've only written one novel, and that was back in high school. No, you can't read it; given my sloppy handwriting, then and now, neither can I.)

In the novel-that-was-only-in-my-head, the protagonist, Kelly Waterhouse, is, at one point, walking with an old friend across their childhood playground at night as Kelly laments that past events in her life won't leave her alone. The friend replies, "Look up and tell me what you see." Kelly does so, but all she can see are what few stars are visible through the pollution and streetlight haze that hang over the city like the glass dome of a snowglobe that hasn't been dusted in ages. "No," her friend explains. "Those are the ghosts of how those stars looked a hundred years ago, more or less. One of those babies could go supernova this exact moment, but we wouldn't find about it for another century or so."

"Your point?" Kelly asks.

"The past is all around you. Over your head. Under your feet. In your hair. Everywhere. It's never going to just go away. You have a choice of dealing with it, or letting it deal with you."

I thought about this idea as I hauled boxes and bags and crates from my old apartment to my new one. It's been said that disturbing a grave can raise the vengeful spirits of the dead. I assume the concept applies to the upheaval inherent in a move as well. In the process of packing and unpacking, you find things you didn't even know you had, artifacts of past phases of life, mementos of those no longer in your life, reminders of happier or sadder times.

Here are just a few of the things I ran across while moving:

A GE portable radio that I don't remember owning (it's much nicer than one I'd buy for myself).

A small, square pillow Mom made for me from an old black coat when I was ten.

A large teddy bear I rescued from the foundation of a building that had been demolished.

A plaid metal lunchbox given to me for my birthday by Red Secretary.

Unfiled photos of Lottie.

Bits of stone excavated from the remains of Riverview Park.

A poster for the movie version of Tank Girl.

The laminated holy card from my father's wake.

A terra cotta leopard.

A framed AIDSwalk poster.

My collection of Lorri Jackson poetry. (Has she really been dead almost 16 years? Damn. Time flies, whether you're having fun or not.)

One Wiener Whistle.

Two decks of tarot cards.

Three life-size plastic skulls.

A gunmetal-colored picture frame that used to hold the picture of a woman I loved, sitting on a couch with three other friends I no longer hear from.

The small, lighted, plastic pine tree that my grandmother put in her living room window every Christmas--the same tree that will sit in my living room window this Christmas.

An Eliza Dushku action figure I bought in Dallas.

The same copy of Ulysses that everybody seems to have, but no one has actually read.

My first camera--a boxy little Kodak that takes film that's no longer manufactured.

A pair of sunglasses that look like something out of The Blues Brothers.

A large booklet of 78s that also holds the death announcements for my godmother and uncle.

The head of a wooden bird toy Mom played with as a child.

Porn tapes I'd misplaced.

A clock depicting the Last Supper that plays the Hallelujah Chorus at the top of the hour, "won" at a Christmas in July party in Dayton.

A small carboard horn with Captain Marvel on the side.

Half a dozen pairs of cowboy boots.

A rubber shark I've had since the original Jaws came out.

Three Cindy Crawford calendars and two Heather Thomas calendars kept safe in a WGN portfolio.

A Star Trek communicator.

More action figures and model kits than I could ever display, even if my new apartment were the size of Graceland.

And much, much more.

Each object evoked at least one specific memory, if not a torrent of them. Sometimes, I smiled. Sometimes, I winced. Sometimes, the object in question didn't make the trip to the new apartment, though usually it did. Sometimes, knowing what was in the boxes--the (re)discoveries made, the pleasures and acquaintances renewed--made carrying them that much easier. Sometimes, it made them weigh twice as much.

I guess that's what happens when you live in one place for so long. The memories themselves, whether good, bad, ecstatic or somber, can weigh more than the furniture. And the ghosts? You may not be able to kill a ghost, but you can, at least, give it a polite nod and move on.

The Coldest Stare

Tonight, I sat out on the top stair of my building's back porch--a gray, decaying thing that shakes violently whenever I cart a load of laundry up it or a load of trash down and has somehow escaped the notice of city inspectors, despite an allegedly stepped-up effort by the city to check out such structures in the wake of a porch collapse last summer that killer 13 partygoers in Lincoln Park--and looked up at the stars.

You can't see very many stars in the city. Only the brightest ones can cut through the haze of street and alley lights that hovers over Chicago like a permanent cloud. When I worked in Evanston at the Evil Publishing Company, I could stand on the El platform, waiting for the southbound Purple Line train, and look south to the metropolis, covered in yellow-gray gauze. Not that Evanston was that much better for star-gazing; its proximity to Chicago virtually makes it as difficult to study constellations as it would be standing at State and Madison, even on the most crisp winter night.

I never realized how little I could see above until I got away from the city.

A decade ago, my girlfriend at the time had an invitation to go to a wedding in Livonia, Michigan, just outside of Detroit. We took the South Shore electric train to South Bend, were picked up by her parents (who lived--and live--in Berrien Springs), had dinner, then drove off across the state. Or maybe we spent the night and drove the next day. My memory--sometimes a remarkable thing, sometimes a Rubik's Cube of images that never quite fit onto one side--doesn't have that one in order. But she drove her parents' Ford Taurus across the state of her birth and fiddled with the radio dial, desperate to find something only moderately awful in the air.

And I? Just. Stared.

The night sky had slid over Michigan and brought friends with it. Burning white points of light. Thousands of them. You couldn't properly make out constellations, because they brought the rest of their galaxies with them. I'd been to the Adler Planetarium and read about the stars, but this was the very first time I'd actually seen how many I couldn't see at home. Upon a subsequent visit to my girlfriend's parents' home, I walked out after dinner and stretched out in their gravel driveway. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I couldn't count all the stars I saw--the arc of the whole Milky Way lay before me, revealing points of light as they looked before the hundred or more light years it took them to travel to this little, angry world, to my wide brown eyes, and no amount of time spent flat on that gravel would have let me take it all in.

Tonight, it's pretty clear in Chicago. And like I said, the brightest stars still do cut through the city lights, and I've spent many a night out here. Sometimes with a Red Dog dangling from between fore and middle fingers, getting killed too quickly for the good of my body or my mind. Sometimes with a cigarette or two, when the burning of my lungs and nostrils was welcome distraction from the rest of my life. Sometimes just listening to the brass windchimes I bought at a Pier 1 years ago and kept wrapped in red paper, waiting for the day when I'd hang them outside my first house. But I never bought a house--never had that kind of scratch, and likely never will--so I gave up, cast away the red paper and let the windchimes sing. The past couple night have been breezy indeed, so they've had a lot to sing about.

Last September, I was sitting out here, staring up at the evening sky or out at the pear tree a couple yards north or down at my bowling shoes, when the wooden storm door behind me rattled. Without getting up, I leaned back, turned my body halfway, and yanked the door open. Lottie was standing in the doorway, eyes wide, meowing to come out. Most nights, I'd just shag her back in and tell her she was being silly. I'd done that with the Girlish Girls ever since Ms. Christophee managed to sneak out and spent the night on the street, only to be found the next morning, huddled against the mottled brick of our apartment building, shaken and dirty but otherwise unharmed.

That September night, though, I didn't shag her back in. Instead, I patted the peeling surface of the porch, beckoning her out.

On all of the other occasions lottie had taken to explore the porch, she'd stalked every inch of the landing, sniffing out rival cats or squirrels or possums on the prowl for my next-door neighbor's discards. But on this night, she walked right up next to me, sat down beside me, and watched the stars with me. Maybe because she didn't search the porch because she was sick, hadn't eaten in a couple of days, and just didn't have the energy for it. Or maybe she knew what the vet would find the next day. Maybe she knew she was dying. Maybe I knew it, too.

We sat there together for a long time. I looked up at the stars as I had so many nights before, and spoke the words I'd spoken so many times before that I had ceased to be certain that I was speaking aloud at all: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight." On previous occasions, I'd wished for mundane things, like a new job or the love of a woman. But that night, with this large, loving tabby beside me purring hard enough to shake this old porch to splinters, I wished as hard as I'd ever wished for anything for her to get better. To be okay. To not suffer any more than she already had. And the stars looked back at me with the coldest stare and didn't answer.

Three days later, she she had to be put to sleep. There was nothing else to do.

Tonight, the door rattles behind me again. I stand, turn, open the door. Ms. Christopher looks up at me, pleading for the opportunity. No, the dimwit hasn't learned a thing from her experience with getting lost. But I don't shag her back. I open the door and welcome her to sit with me. And she does (after a lengthy search of the premises, of course). And we watch the stars together.

I still wish on stars from time to time, though maybe not with the same level of conviction displayed in wishes past. But I keep in mind a line of dialogue from an episode of M*A*S*H, in which a wounded soldier believes himself to be Jesus Christ and army psychiatrist Sydney Freedman asks him if it's true that God answers all prayers.

"Yes," the wounded soldier answers, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Sometimes, the answer is 'no.'"

A Girlish Girl Goes On

The night of the first new episode of 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter after the death of John Ritter, a cold, wind-driven rain came down on Chicago, swaying trees and rattling windows all over the metro area. I'd worn a leather jacket to work that day, so when I got home the upper half of my body was tidy and dry, but from the waist down I was soaked. I squished when I walked. I wasn't a happy camper.

When I came in the back door, I put my foot out, as I usually do, to keep Ms. Christopher from dashing out. She still tries, after all these years, even though the one time she succeeded she spent a day outside and was eternally grateful to be found, brought in, cleaned up and fed.

But this night, she didn't come to the door. And with all that had happened--with her sister Lottie having died just weeks before--I immediately thought the worst.

I needn't have. Neither of the Girlish Girls ever liked storms, and even though this night's event lacked sufficient sound and fury, it was still enough to make Christopher hide under the couch beside the phone--the same couch Lottie liked to hide under those last few weeks she was ill. I pulled back the denim-colored cover to find Christopher there, blinking at the beam coming from the forest-green Maglite, letting out a "meep" and pretty much looking like she wanted to be left alone. I gave her a stroke or two on her forehead and went back to the kitchen to make dinner.

After a while, when the storm had passed and I'd had my good cry, Christopher came out from under the couch, pushing her head and front legs from under the cover first, then pulling the rest of her body through. She stopped in the kitchen first, no doubt to grab a bite to eat from the can of Friskies Senior Ocean Whitefish I'd put down earlier, and to make a stop at the litter pan. Then, she returned to the living room--and jumped up into my lap.

Ms. Christopher had never been a lap cat, really. She liked attention as much as any housecat does, but preferred to get it in the form of pats on the head while standing atop the radiator cover in the kitchen or reclining in the cradle of the Kitty Kondo. She rarely jumped up and demanded attention. Lottie was the sociable one--the one who butted you with her enormous head and jumped up on the couch (with amazing ease, given her size). She wanted to be a lap cat, but was far too large to properly fit on a lap--even one as wide as mine has become in recent times--so she'd either drape her front half over my lap or, more likely, curl up next to me and continue butting, purring hard enough to shake my glasses off.

After Lottie was put to sleep, I cried for days. Talking about her for more than a few seconds would start the waterworks right up again. (And it still happens: at lunch today, I was in a used bookstore, looking through the Children's section, when I ran across a copy of James Herriot's The Christmas Day Kitten--which, aside from being a very sweet book with lovely art, features a scene in which the kitten's mother dies. Yup. Lost my shit right in the basement of After-Words.) I was sad, angry, guilty...you name it, I felt it. What I found after a brief search on the Web, though, was that what I was feeling wasn't unusual at all. In fact, it was expected.

What's more, I learned that other pets in a household where one has died grieve as well. Not in the same way as people do, true. Cats don't get death. They just know that their companion--or, in this case, littermate--isn't there anymore. And, in many instances, the surviving pets take on personality traits of their deceased partners in crime.

So it is with Ms. Christopher.

She butts me with her head when she wants attention. She clambers up into my lap--which, being somewhat smaller (if noticeably fluffier) than her sister, she actually fits in--and often continues up onto my chest, kneading my much-too-substantial gut with her talons and yanking up threads from my sweater. She's become much more personable. I even have witnesses. At this year's HMB, she approached everyone in the room for a petting session. In past years, she'd peek out at the gathering of strangers in the living room and maybe--maybe--come out and cry piteously, but she wouldn't work the room the way Lottie did. This year? She was belle of the ball, even though she damn near lost it when Sailor J tried to pick her up and cuddle her--Christopher wasn't quite ready to be held by a total stranger. Not yet. Maybe next year.

Christopher has also taken up other habits of her sister's--like licking plastic bags to get attention (even in the middle of the night, when I'd much rather sleep in a tightly curled ball than play with jingly catnip toys), sharpening her claws on the Kitty Kondo (Christopher used to prefer the couches or the corners of rooms, especially when she was pissed at me) and sitting in the desk chair (which has been in the living room since HMB) and watching me watch TV. When I work at the iMac, she either sits at my feet or stretches out on the futon behind me. Either way, she meows and wants to be petted.

She still does many of the same things she always did--tucking herself into my right armpit at bedtime, reaching up to lightly pat my nose and lips with her paw as I try to fall asleep, complaining loudly about the lack of fresh food about an hour before the Bettie Page Bondage alarm is supposed to go off--but she's become more outgoing, more talkative, more visible in the past few weeks.

I'm sure part of the change is the lack of competition for affection, food, space to recline and just be pretty, etc. Christopher has me all to herself--when I'm in La Casa del Terror, that is. The rest of the time, she's on her own. Cats are solitary creatures by nature, but she was used to having Lottie around--to play with, to fight with, to snuggle on the futon with. Now she's alone for long stretches of the day. For the first time since she came out of the womb. And it's freaking her out a bit. Me, too.

(I'll get another cat at some point. Not as a replacement for Lottie--no cat, no matter how sweet or smart, will replace my Girlish Girl--but because I don't think Christopher should have to spend her days in solitude. The extra company would do her--and me--good.)

But I think that, more than anything, Christopher has started to do what Lottie did so well: pick up on what I'm feeling and try to comfort me. She knows I'm sad and wants me to feel better. And she wants assurance herself, wants to know that I'm not going to leave and never come back. So she sits in my lap, on my chest, kneading away and ruining my best sweaters, rubbing her head on my chin and purring contentedly. And for those few minutes, I do feel better. Neither of us is alone. Nor need we be.

We've got each other. And, for now, that's enough.

Lottie

I had planned to write about death this week, but of the celebrity variety--Warren Zevon, John Ritter and Johnny Cash passing in one week (the latter two on the same day, 9/11) was too concentrated a dose to let go by without comment.

But I don't feel much like talking about death right now. I don't feel like talking about much of anything, really. Not now that Lottie is gone.

Maybe someday I'll go through the blow-by-blow of what happened over the past weekend. Not this minute, though. This hurts too much for me to go into detail. But, when boiled down to its essence, the story is this: It looked like Lottie had a nasty case of diarrhea, but it turned out to be a bowel obstruction caused by a large growth in her abdomen; exploratory surgery on Sunday revealed that there was nothing that could be done for her and rather than make her suffer any more than she already had, I gave the surgeon permission to have her put to sleep (or, more accurately, not to let her wake up from the surgery).

This all happened in a short amount of time--just over a month from the day I noticed anything was wrong with Lottie to the day she died. The brevity of the situation doesn't make it easier to take.

Parents will tell you they love all their children equally, even when it's obvious that they have favorites. Pet owners will tell you the same thing about their dogs or cats or ferrets or whatever. But there is usually one more dear to them than the others. Their favorite. Their baby. Lottie was my baby.

I love Ms. Christopher to pieces and have been doing my best to be there for her these past few days--petting her, throwing rings from milk cartons past her head, getting her loaded on catnip, etc. She's been wandering La Casa del Terror, looking under couches, behind doors, in the litterpan, wherever for Lottie, her sister, her friend, her constant companion since leaving the womb ten years ago.

But as much as I love Christopher, Lottie was the one I was closest to. The more sociable one. The more intelligent one. The more intuitive one. Lottie picked up on my moods and would appear at my feet, rubbing against my legs, butting her head against my hand, looking up at me with eyes huge and bright and meowing as if to ask, "What's wrong, buddy? Why so sad? Anything I can do to help?"

As I sat in the lobby of the vet hospital, trying to occupy my mind with anything but the poking and prodding that was no doubt going on a few doors down the hall, one of the attendants brought Lottie out and gave her to me. "The doctor thought she'd be more comfortable out here with you," she said, straining not to drop Lottie on the floor as she handed the big girlie over. Lottie sprawled in my lap, butting her head against the cradle of my arm, purring loudly enough to feel through the leather jacket, looking up at me with those same intelligent eyes and meowing as best she could. The damn cat was dying, but there she was, comforting me because she could see, could feel, that I was sad. That made me cry that much harder.

But that's just how Lottie was.

Rest in peace, my Girlish Girl.

P.S...My thanks to everyone from all over--Chicago, Pittsburgh, Dallas, Orlando, Minneapolis--who either called or e-mailed condolences or expressions of sympathy and support. It really does help.