Here's something you might be interested in.
My year-old pup, Red, rests in the same spot on the porch that my old dog, Katie, did. He looks out over the neighbor's yard with his eyes half closed, just like her. They've both looked like they were contemplating the universe. Same porch, different time, different dog.
I bought this battered, double-wide mobile home, or as my friend, Teddy, calls it, my "tin-dominium," in '94. Leila, my six-year-old daughter and I were escaping her abusive, heroin-addicted mom. It became our refuge, our security, our first safe home.
With dysfunctional family ties, the animals became our family. We could count on them to be balanced. I welcomed the Blue Jay that was ever-present in our backyard. My dark-haired little girl got excited when she'd spot the striking blue bird perched high on a bare branch. "Papa, there he is!" she'd say as if she had discovered the eighth wonder of the world.
Sometimes, he'd call to me from out in front. I liked to think he enjoyed my company so much, he was following me from room to room. I bought bird seed, put it a pie pan, and left it on the ground for him.
Leila and I came home from the Del Mar Fair one night, to find blue feathers strewn about my bedroom. They led to the Blue Jay's body under my bed. I had forgotten about our cat and how her instincts would dictate that birds were things to kill. My stomach churned as I cried in the bamboo chair out on the porch. I had the remorse of somebody who has committed a felony.
As I sniffed and wiped my runny nose, a distant memory came to me. As a child, I had been visiting my grandmother in Santa Ana, when she pointed out a friendly Blue Jay sitting in her orange tree. She told me that he visited her every day. About two weeks later, she called my mom in tears. She had put out a pie tin full of bird seed, and the neighbor's cat had killed the Blue Jay. She found its body under the orange tree.
I learned a painful lesson from George Santayana who wrote, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Karma paid a visit to our cat a year later. I had paid several hundred dollars for surgery that didn't take. I woke up one night to find her covered in blood in the bath tub. The vet at the urgent care, a mere girl, urged me to pay for additional surgery to the tune of $3,000. "I don't have it," I said. "I've been laid off and my credit cards are maxed out. She hasn't been herself since the last surgery anyway." I thought about how she had raked her claws across my forearms, leaving bloody tracks when I tried to pick her up. It was totally unlike her. Maybe, hopefully, putting her down was for the best.
"She is a very nice cat," the doctor insisted. "She's purring." I looked down at the towel-wrapped cat in my arms and noticed that she was purring, but I didn't have anywhere to turn. Even the rich people we knew had gone broke. The vet passed around a box of tissue and even plucked one for herself, before taking the cat to the back. Unable to bear witnessing the procedure, I handed Teacup over tearfully, mindful that after 14 years, my fingers were touching my friend's warm body and soft fur for the last time.
A box containing her ashes arrived on the porch two weeks later. I retched when I saw it. I had Leila keep it in her room.
Big tears rolled down Leila's cheeks when we drove by a scampering black cat. "I miss my little sister," she said. Days before Teacup got sick, Leila had taken a happy picture of me holding the cat in the bamboo chair. Just before snapping the shot, she picked up the ceramic angel I keep next to the front door and put it in the picture. I find that rather prophetic.
This year, I gave the bamboo chair to some Mexican caretakers and bought sleek new patio chairs with a small, glass table that fits between them. Now my porch looks neater, but it doesn't have the casual, friendly character it once did. And it certainly doesn't evoke memories of my daughter's childhood. For one crazy moment, I had forgotten how secure I feel when everything stays the same.
Looking at the furniture rankles me. My new wife picked out the chairs and one is shorter than the other. But as I sit at my desk, gazing out at my old porch and the glistening sunset behind it, my eyes come to rest on our silly boy, Red, who is asleep with his nose resting between the bars on the wrought-iron railing. This assures me that there are plenty of good memories yet to be made.
My year-old pup, Red, rests in the same spot on the porch that my old dog, Katie, did. He looks out over the neighbor's yard with his eyes half closed, just like her. They've both looked like they were contemplating the universe. Same porch, different time, different dog.
I bought this battered, double-wide mobile home, or as my friend, Teddy, calls it, my "tin-dominium," in '94. Leila, my six-year-old daughter and I were escaping her abusive, heroin-addicted mom. It became our refuge, our security, our first safe home.
With dysfunctional family ties, the animals became our family. We could count on them to be balanced. I welcomed the Blue Jay that was ever-present in our backyard. My dark-haired little girl got excited when she'd spot the striking blue bird perched high on a bare branch. "Papa, there he is!" she'd say as if she had discovered the eighth wonder of the world.
Sometimes, he'd call to me from out in front. I liked to think he enjoyed my company so much, he was following me from room to room. I bought bird seed, put it a pie pan, and left it on the ground for him.
Leila and I came home from the Del Mar Fair one night, to find blue feathers strewn about my bedroom. They led to the Blue Jay's body under my bed. I had forgotten about our cat and how her instincts would dictate that birds were things to kill. My stomach churned as I cried in the bamboo chair out on the porch. I had the remorse of somebody who has committed a felony.
As I sniffed and wiped my runny nose, a distant memory came to me. As a child, I had been visiting my grandmother in Santa Ana, when she pointed out a friendly Blue Jay sitting in her orange tree. She told me that he visited her every day. About two weeks later, she called my mom in tears. She had put out a pie tin full of bird seed, and the neighbor's cat had killed the Blue Jay. She found its body under the orange tree.
I learned a painful lesson from George Santayana who wrote, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Karma paid a visit to our cat a year later. I had paid several hundred dollars for surgery that didn't take. I woke up one night to find her covered in blood in the bath tub. The vet at the urgent care, a mere girl, urged me to pay for additional surgery to the tune of $3,000. "I don't have it," I said. "I've been laid off and my credit cards are maxed out. She hasn't been herself since the last surgery anyway." I thought about how she had raked her claws across my forearms, leaving bloody tracks when I tried to pick her up. It was totally unlike her. Maybe, hopefully, putting her down was for the best.
"She is a very nice cat," the doctor insisted. "She's purring." I looked down at the towel-wrapped cat in my arms and noticed that she was purring, but I didn't have anywhere to turn. Even the rich people we knew had gone broke. The vet passed around a box of tissue and even plucked one for herself, before taking the cat to the back. Unable to bear witnessing the procedure, I handed Teacup over tearfully, mindful that after 14 years, my fingers were touching my friend's warm body and soft fur for the last time.
A box containing her ashes arrived on the porch two weeks later. I retched when I saw it. I had Leila keep it in her room.
Big tears rolled down Leila's cheeks when we drove by a scampering black cat. "I miss my little sister," she said. Days before Teacup got sick, Leila had taken a happy picture of me holding the cat in the bamboo chair. Just before snapping the shot, she picked up the ceramic angel I keep next to the front door and put it in the picture. I find that rather prophetic.
This year, I gave the bamboo chair to some Mexican caretakers and bought sleek new patio chairs with a small, glass table that fits between them. Now my porch looks neater, but it doesn't have the casual, friendly character it once did. And it certainly doesn't evoke memories of my daughter's childhood. For one crazy moment, I had forgotten how secure I feel when everything stays the same.
Looking at the furniture rankles me. My new wife picked out the chairs and one is shorter than the other. But as I sit at my desk, gazing out at my old porch and the glistening sunset behind it, my eyes come to rest on our silly boy, Red, who is asleep with his nose resting between the bars on the wrought-iron railing. This assures me that there are plenty of good memories yet to be made.