Fools Rush In...

I wasn't planning to publicly share this story. I was going to protect the innocent. But a newspaper article changed all that.

I wasn't going to share my story of getting attacked by my cat because I was concerned that people would focus on the fact that the cat attacked me, not the fact that it was my fault. But then a friend gave me a newspaper clipping of a story almost identical to my own (only mine ends better), and I decided that I'd share after all. Consider it a public service announcement to all you cat people out there.

It all started when our three-year old kitty, Mr. Pankey, suddenly died last autumn. Following his death we went to the shelter and got a new cat whom we named Oliver. Oliver inserted himself into our family and acclimated reasonably well with the other two cat residents. In all, the transition was pretty seamless. But, for whatever reason, a couple of months later Anna found a cat who needed a home and she had a powerful need to meet him. I said no. Truly, we are borderline on the whole crazy cat people thing as it is. We did not need a fourth cat. She was, however, a bit relentless.

I held firm to my conviction that three cats were plenty until Steve said, "Oh, we have three cats, what difference will four make."  Turns out a lot. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

We met the homeless boy and really, he didn't have a lot going for him. First, he was old. Second, he was bony. Third, he was plain. And fourth, he just didn't have much in the way of a personality. But, he needed a home and with the cages of the shelter packed with much cuter cats with a lot more to offer, it was highly unlikely anyone would choose him for their pet. A sucker for the underdog...or undercat in this case...I fell prey to the tug of sympathy. He came home with us.

We named him Willie.  Well, William Alexander Jenkins the Third, technically. But he goes by Willie which Steve said is apt because in light of our recent series of cat deaths we can say, "Willie live or won't he?"  Clever guy that Steve.

Anyway, things got off to a rough start with Willie. And then they declined. Willie is a little grumpy. Okay, Willy is a lot grumpy and he hates Oliver. He doesn't just find Oliver annoying. He hates him.

Fast forward to the fateful day of the attack.  It was early Saturday morning and I heard the usual hissing in the hallway. Only this time the hissing turned into horrible screaming. I went into the hallway and shooed both cats downstairs. Oliver ran into the kitchen and Willie, having been provoked over the edge by Oliver, followed and then went about cornering him, slapping, hissing, and screaming. It wasn't one of Willie's finer moments. Nor Oliver's for that matter.

Irritated that all of this was sort of a ridiculous way to wake up on a Saturday, I followed them into the kitchen and impulsively decided to remove one of them from the scene.  Willie was closest. Just as I reached to pick him up I thought it was a bad idea.

It was.

I scooped Willie into my right hand and turned to leave the kitchen when he attacked me. At first it didn't seem a big deal but then he just kept attacking. He kept biting and re-biting. His legs were wrapped around my arm and I couldn't get him off me. I screamed. Loudly. Somewhat from pain but mostly from fear that this cat was never going to stop biting me. Steve came running down the stairs, Willie let go and ran off, and I stood in the kitchen with several deep, painful, puncture wounds in my hand.

The pain was intense. I knew cat bites were dangerous because of the liklihood of infection so I immediately washed the wounds. And then I nearly fainted. I also knew I had to get medical help so I went to a nearby Urgent Care. There my hand was soaked in iodine, I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for antibiotics, and instructions to soak my personal pin cushion in salt water five times a day. I uncharacteristically followed the instructions (out of fear of dire consequences if I didn't) and for a few days watched carefully as my hand got swollen and red. Even with aggressive and prompt attention a cat bite can get seriously infected. 

In the end, mine did not. It hurt badly for several days, throbbed at night when I tried to sleep,  but eventually the swelling went down, the wounds closed up, and the pain gradually reduced. This is where my story and the newspaper story diverge. The author tells a nearly identical story of intervening in a cat argument, but she didn't seek medical attention until her hand and arm were so badly infected she had to be hospitalized with strong IV antibiotics. Her hospital bill exceeded $14,000. Because she too had picked up an angry, agitated old cat who was new to her home.

So, I know cat haters gonna hate and assume all cats are demon possessed. They aren't. But humans need to be smarter than I was. And smarter than the woman in the newspaper article and the seemingly hundreds of other well-meaning humans who insert themselves into cat disputes.

Don't do it.

When they are upset cats lash out. Sort of like humans. Lacking the ability to hurt with words, they use their teeth.

For those who wonder if we got rid of Willie. No, we didn't. He didn't attack me randomly, and while he is a bit of curmudgeon, he deserves a loving home just like anyone else. Willie and Oliver are still working out their issues, but now if the squabbles intensify, my body parts stay far, far away.

Lesson learned.

I'm innocent, I promise!

The Soul of a Home....

I'm pretty sure my house has a soul.

Not in a creepy, scary, Amityville horror sort of way. But in a sweet, warm, we've lived here a long time sort of way. It is a comfortable, cheerful, maybe a little garishly decorated house. The only thing really creepy about it is the carpet. That has gotten a little terrifying.

We've lived in our small house in a modest neighborhood for over 22-years now, and it has served us well. Within these walls we've raised three kids, sheltered numerous cats, shared our space with a couple of additional young men in temporary need of a roof and family, and hosted countless parties, holiday celebrations and guests, including several from a variety of countries. It has been a busy, crowded, loud, house and it has certainly heard its share of laughter, fights, tears, and prayers.

But lately the carpet has been suffering. A lot.

Gradually, as time and money have allowed, we've been putting it out of its misery. A few years ago we yanked the carpet out of the main level and replaced it with wood flooring. In the middle of the process, after the old, nasty carpet was out and the absurd amount of dirt and God-knows-what was swept away, I took a Sharpie to the plywood and wrote the story of our family. I listed our names, birthdates, year we bought the house, cats, and other tidbits. As the flooring went down, it covered my historical account of our family, hiding it from view but preserving it in a way that, someday, someone may find interesting.

Eventually we will leave this house, either to an eternal destination or to wherever our next life chapter takes us. Someday this will be somebody else's home and another family will grow up and make memories within these walls. Walls upon which I've painted a bright, cheerful yellow and meticulously hand stenciled quotations, aptly describing who we are as a family. Walls upon which I've hung Steve's beautiful and evocative watercolor paintings. Walls which carefully protect us.

Sometimes I worry that one day a beige family will live here. I fear they will come in and cover my colorful surroundings with tan and taupe and off-white. The only color will be boring sky-blue accent pillows. They will hang benign, mass produced, lobotomized artwork and my home's soul will cry for lack of passion. But then I remind myself I'm being a teeny bit melodramatic. Besides, it won't be mine then. They can paint whatever color they want.

Regardless, there was something special about secretly preserving our family history in the floor. So much so that last summer when Parker moved out of the house and I pulled the carpet out of his room, I took my Sharpie to the plywood flooring again. I wrote about how the room had been used over the years, first as an office, then a nursery, the boy's shared bedroom, Parker's solo bedroom, and finally, coming full circle back to an office.

And later in the summer, when we removed the carpet in Anna's bedroom, I wrote the story of how we used that room over the years, adding the bittersweet reality that her time in the room is limited as her life story has her leaving for college soon. They each take a little bit of our home's soul with them when they go. Or maybe it is just my soul. I'm not sure.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago we removed the carpet from the master bedroom.

Well, okay. We didn't do anything. We were lying on the couch barely moving and contemplating what death from flu would feel like. Steve removed the carpet.

I did, however, manage to stagger my way up the stairs with matted hair and Sharpie in hand, to write a brief history on the raw, spattered plywood floor. Fortunately that room has only been used as a master bedroom so I didn't need to write a lot. Nevertheless, with each room, I add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle of our story, forever embedded in our individual and collective memories but now, secretly hidden in the floors of our house creating an amalgamation of love, heartbreak, joy, pain, anger, and hope.

A family.

Who will find our story someday? I have no idea. I only hope they handle our family history carefully and nurture the soul of this house made of so much more than wood, concrete, and nails.

Flu School...

I'm baaackk! After an inadvertent break, I am rejoining the world in 2013. 

I started the year in a stupor of illness and antibiotics and narcotics which left me unable to form complete sentences. I think I might have even drooled. I probably don't need to mention that being one of the zillions of people who caught the flu is not how I wanted to start my year. But I did.  And I promise the rest of this post won't be a long, whiny, sob story about how awful I felt.

Not all of it anyway.

I did feel awful. But, I mean, here it is mid-January and I've already learned a bunch of stuff from it. What is life if we aren't learning, right?

On a practical level, I learned that if you start coughing during a New Year's Eve matinee showing of Les Miserables, you should not assume that you are just having a sympathy reaction to all the people dying on-screen while belting out heartfelt songs just prior to leaving this earth. No, you should assume you are coming down with something. To all those who were sitting near me, I apologize. I thought I was relating to the characters.

Mostly I watched the whole movie in awe. I mean, yes, it was well done but really, I had a macabre fascination with the idea that these people were all dying but still able to hit a high E. Is that what dying well is all about? I decided I should think about singing on my deathbed. The timing on all this was good. Within a few days I truly thought I was dying.

I also learned that once you realize you are actually coming down with something and the world is in the midst of an influenza epidemic, you should not assume it is nothing. This would be the downside of being an optimist. You should go to a doctor. Had I done so, I could have taken Tamiflu, the miracle drug, and gotten over it much sooner. As it was, I waited until the window of Tamiflu opportunity had closed and the only thing left to do was suffer. And, having laryngitis meant I couldn't even sing on my deathbed.

While prior to seeing Les Miserables I hadn't ever considered singing and dying,  I have always envisioned myself as someone who, upon being diagnosed with a terminal illness, would live in a cloud of grace and gentleness. I'd lie in bed, serenely, dressed in a white, fluffy, gown. Glistening a little bit. I'd be someone who does all she can to make others around her feel comfortable about her impending death. Of course, recently I added singing to the scenario. I've always envisioned a charming death.

Fantasy.

If my behavior during  a bout of flu is any indication...well, let's just hope I don't have any lingering illnesses.

I complained. A lot. I whined even more. I learned that being sick does not bring out the best in me.

Nevertheless, I learned that I'm loved, even at my worst.

Despite my less than charming self, several friends faithfully checked in to see how I was doing. My mother even called several times to check on me and didn't even make it about herself! When I developed a secondary infection and my stomach was wrecked by antibiotics and my brain was addled by narcotics, my friend Debbie brought me a stack of novels to give me something to do when I wasn't sleeping. Working, writing, and thinking were out of the question.

When I couldn't pull together a celebration for Anna's 18th birthday, our whole family cheerfully cancelled original plans and pitched in to cook and clean and make her celebration at home special, after all.

And when my Christmas tree was still up long after 2013 was in full swing, Debbie came over, once again, to help me take it down.

That all may seem like ordinary stuff, but it wasn't. It was important stuff, and it let me know that I am loved no matter what.  Even while hacking, coughing, and whining I am lovable, if not pleasant.

So often we think we have to be or do something to make ourselves lovable. In much the same way singing on our deathbed is unrealistic, so is the idea we have to make ourselves lovable. We don't. We are lovable because people love us. We are lovable...just because we are.

It is good to be loved.

And healthy.