Cats

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I Really Like You

Early October brought yet another bad night with cats, this one involving the mini-blinds and an unbearable racket as I was trying to fall asleep. I kept losing my patience and tossing Duckworth and Marvin into the bathroom, followed by a loud, satisfying (to me) slam of the door. When I had to pee in the middle of the night, I let them out, and soon heard a loudish crash: a pretty blue ceramic pot given to me by my sister, falling onto the hardwood floor. Fortunately (for the cats), I could detect only one small sign of damage, and that might have been there before. Into the bathroom went the cats once again.

Before my alarm went off, I leapt out of bed to do something I’d decided would have to be done: I moved nearly all my books to the two bookshelves in the living room and moved a bunch of small items and pieces of paper to the bookshelf in the walk-in closet, which is off limits to the cats. I don’t necessarily want anyone who comes in here seeing all my books, or touching them (cooties!), let alone asking to borrow them, but I was sick of having papers knocked to the floor and then used as toys, and I could see that Marvin was very close to hopping up onto a shelf where there were a lot of little things I really didn’t want disturbed.

In my saner moments, I reminded myself: Whatever it is, it can be repaired, replaced, repainted, restored to its former condition of cleanliness, or, if all else fails, remembered.

While on call I received a request to visit a patient who had just been diagnosed with the same kind of cancer his mother and grandmother had had. The patient’s grandmother, with metastatic cancer, declined chemotherapy and lived on for many years, eventually dying of something else. The patient’s mother’s cancer was also advanced and she had survived it. My patient, alas, was just in his early 30s and said his diagnosis was completely unexpected. He knew he was experiencing some pain; that it was cancer never crossed his mind. The COVID pandemic delayed medical visits and tests.

I had two long visits with this (not spiritual or religious) patient where we talked about nothing in particular. He was determined to “fight,” and he was concerned about the effect of his diagnosis on his family. Our second visit was taken up almost entirely with discussing the feeding tube that was scheduled to be placed that same day. We did not discuss anything particularly deep or personal, but the patient seemed to appreciate having company.
 
The very next day, the patient ended up in the ICU, and when I went to see him, he was intubated and unresponsive. I learned that his team did not expect him to leave the ICU alive. The next time I went to see him, he stared out the door at me with no expression. I wasn’t sure if he even remembered me, or if he wanted me to visit or would prefer I didn’t. He was unable to speak, and also unable to shake his head “no,” but he could slightly nod his head “yes.” He could also make the “thumbs up” gesture, and used this to indicate that he would like to communicate via writing. I asked his nurse about this, and she said he had tried, but not been able to.
 
I gave the patient a pen and paper and he labored repeatedly to express himself, making a mark or two, after which his hand fell weakly away. At times he pointed at himself and then at me. Clearly he was writing “I,” which he did over and over, but I couldn’t make out anything else. A speech therapist came in and figured out that the next word was “really.” After the speech therapist was gone, I finally figured out what the patient was trying to say. I asked him, “Are you trying to say you really like me?” The patient nodded, and I nearly wept: This patient, with whom I had discussed nothing in particular, felt connected to me and was willing to expend a huge amount of his little remaining energy to express this. Even though what we discussed had seemed mundane, it had indeed mattered that I—that the chaplain—was there.

In the end, his family decided to say their goodbyes and leave, after which he would be transitioned to comfort care. If they had discussed this with me, I would have affirmed their decision. I would have said that the patient could feel their love from any distance, and I would have meant it. I would have said whatever decision they made was the right decision, and I would have meant it. But inside myself, I felt a bit shocked, and sorry that he would likely die alone, even if he didn’t know it. On his final day, I sat with him three different times, for as long as I could.

Bottles

 
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Loogie-Free Zone

One day in mid-September, Tom and I walked around the block to talk to one of our neighbors about a couple of practices of his that had been causing us some dismay. This is the fellow who for years stepped out his back door several times a day, took a hit off his bong—filling my place with secondhand smoke, if my windows were open—then coughed his head off. The grand finale was when he coughed up a giant loogie and spat it onto the ground. I was grumbling about this to Tom and was surprised when he said he really hated the spitting, too. I thought he was going to say, “What guy who smokes weed and spits?”

I said I was thinking of going to talk to him about it and asked Tom if he would come with me. I was surprised again when he said, “Sure.” We picked a day, but when that day rolled around, it was too hot. We picked another day, but it proved to be too smoky. Then our neighbor seemed to be out of town, and so forth.

Finally, there came a day when, alas, our neighbor was certainly home and it wasn’t too hot or too smoky to spend 15 minutes outside. I had been rehearsing a speech, and felt quite nervous as I meditated beforehand. It occurred to me that I more than usually did not know what was about to happen, which was slightly thrilling. Tom and I strolled around the block, arriving disappointingly soon, and I rang the bell that I thought must be this fellow’s. Someone buzzed us in instantly, and we went into the lobby. A woman came out of a nearby door and I said, “Maybe we rang the wrong bell.”

She said, “Who are you looking for?”

I said, “The smoking guy.” She looked puzzled.

I said, “The guy who smokes weed out back.”

She said, “Oh! He lives here, but he’s not here right now.”

She said she was his partner, so I said maybe we could tell her what was on our minds and she could pass it on. I delivered my spiel, during which she smiled and nodded understandingly, and then she said, “I’ll try to pass that on with the grace with which you delivered it.” How nice! I thanked her for her kindness, and off we went, lighter in heart and step.

This was back in September, and I can report that the nice woman’s partner has not smoked outside their back door even once since then; sometimes I hear him coughing from far away. After a couple of weeks, I sent them a heartfelt thank-you note.

At my wits’ end one lousy day with kittens—some days the misbehavior seemed relentless—I emailed a few people to say how much I hate living with these cats. Hammett’s cat sitter immediately replied to say that maybe I would have to return the cats and adopt an old cat. A relative who has cats said she was sorry this was happening and could I send them back? This had occurred to me many times, but having it seconded by others felt heartbreaking. I should know by now how futile it is to imagine a future scenario, imagine how I will feel about it, and then try to make a decision based on that. This never seems to have much to do with reality. That is, the thought of handing the cats over and bidding them goodbye is horrendously sad, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.

I went and took a look at adoptable cats at the SPCA just to see if a one-year-old cat perfect for me happened to be right there, and saw two sad things. One was a cat whose owner was looking for a new home for him when I was shopping for Duckworth and Marvin. That cat was still listed there. He bites. Also when I was looking for D&M, I saw the cutest kitten and almost indicated my interest in him. In fact, I think I had visited the website to go ahead and do that only to find that his picture was no longer there. Someone else had adopted him. Well, now they wished to unadopt him. There was a photo of him, two months older, in the Rehoming section. That’s where photos of Duckworth and Marvin would be if I decided to give them up. (Which I have since definitely decided not to do.)

I had more discussion with Hammett’s cat sitter and she said a very wise thing:

I understand. We all get frustrated and then feel bad afterward. My partner and I ask ourselves: What is it that they are trying to teach us? What can we learn? Maybe what we need to learn is patience with our own frustration.

So, onward and upward with cats. When I went to put away their toys before bedtime that day, I saw that I had forgotten to put them out! That can’t have helped.

Duckworth

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The Dust Age

I had mostly been using Duckworth’s one white whisker to tell him and Marvin (formerly Howie) apart, though there are several other differences, including their general shapes and their profiles. Marvin’s nose doesn’t curve but goes pretty much straight down, giving him a rather exotic look. However, you have to be looking at him from the side to see this. Duckworth has a round little belly. Also, Duckworth’s fur is silky soft and Marvin’s is a little scrubbier, like Hammett’s was. I was thinking one day that if Duckworth were to lose that one white whisker, I could always go back to telling them apart by looking for the distinctive markings on top of Marvin’s head, as if someone had dipped three fingers in peanut butter, or gold leaf, and stroked his head. I took a look at him to confirm this—and saw that those markings were entirely gone, and then one day Duckworth lost that white whisker. He has never grown it back, and even now I still sometimes find it difficult to be sure which cat I'm talking to.

Sometime in August, the cats’ diarrhea finally cleared up, which was great because I was getting really tired of scraping diarrhea off everything in the bathroom.

My parents’ departed charming and beloved cat dribbled poop everywhere he went in his old age. I remember going to visit, which I hope to do again someday, and seeing all the chairs and couches covered with towels.

“Do these towels cover the poop?” I asked.

“No, they cover the upholstery.”

“What covers the poop?”

“Nothing.”

“What?!? How do you sit on poop?”

“Let me demonstrate,” said my father. He extracted a folded white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and said, “Pretend that’s poop.” He tossed the handkerchief onto the seat of the nearest chair and sat down on it.

Aha! So that’s how it’s done.

The cats have been pretty hard on a lot of my possessions. Shredded items include my bicycle seat, sheets, the brand-new shower curtain, the hardwood floor, the paint on the bathroom windowsill, the binding of at least one book, and various shoelaces. I’m trying to learn to love the feeling of grit affixed to the bottom of my feet, because I don’t have time to do anything about it.

However, so far they do not make any particular effort to get out the front door when it opens, which I was quite worried about, since there are two of them, and they also do not seem interested in shredding the upholstered chair. They use the horizontal and vertical scratching surfaces provided.

I see that they teach each other—I was going to say “for good or ill,” but I think it might be only for ill. Marvin has so far not taught Duckworth to cover up his poop, but he has taught him how to let his tongue dangle, flapping, out of his mouth, ready in case there is a suckling opportunity, whether of one’s brother or oneself. It’s kind of gross looking. Because Duckworth does not involve himself with covering up poop, he is perfectly pristine at all times. He smells like cotton candy. Picking him up is like hoisting two loaves’ worth of bread dough; he evidently lacks bones, and he radiates relaxation, often yawning while held. Marvin, whose manner is often worried and tense, does the right thing in regard to his own poop and sometimes in regard to Duckworth’s, as well, and consequently is sometimes filthy; he is undoubtedly the cat who tracked all the diarrhea throughout the place.

Hammett has not been forgotten. I show Duckworth and Marvin a photo of him periodically: “Now, if you want to see what an actual good cat looks like, here’s a photo of one.”

I am using the spray bottle to deter just a few things: hopping onto the kitchen counter or ironing board, and participation in my daily exercises. Regarding the latter, they can get excited and take an exploratory nip of a finger now and then, or try to seize fabric—i.e., my pants—that is moving in a rhythmic manner. For some things, I have adopted the view that their “bad” behavior is a request for affection, even though I’m sure it is usually not. The cat is probably not thinking, “I wish Mom would pick me up,” but rather, “Who even is that chick? I just want to shred these shoelaces.”

One evening as I lay in bed, I felt someone adjusting my coiffure. When I reached back to investigate, I stuck my finger right into the open mouth of a cat and felt its little snip-snap teeth encircling my finger.