Living

Monday was memorial day. This year memorial day actually meant something personal to me. I have spent all other memorial days in quasi observance until this Monday, the 26th of May 2008. It’s the day my cat died. Now, don’t get the wrong idea here. I’m not going to dwell on death in this blog, believe me when I say that yes, I have thought a bunch about death the last couple of days, and yes it’s hard, and yes I’m in pain. But YES also, that death and cats and hard experiences deepen us and make us more aware of life. My friend Lindsay came by on Tuesday to share a bottle of Molly’s (imitation Bailey’s Irish Cream) and talk about the good times with Le Chat. We called her Chignon, pronounced SHEEN-YO(N). She was the BEST BEST BEST thing ever. Just a bundle of joy I tell you. I never understood how the power an animal’s spirit and personality could affect me. She was like a person. And yes, some of you reading this might be like “duh of course animals have personalities” but hers was the first to really strike me. Plus she was mine. I mean, I guess I’ve known other animals and seen how they’re different from others, and gotten a sense of what they’re like. But this little animal was with me. It was like she was my child. This is all new to me see… I had a cat growing up, for a few years between the ages of 12 and 16 I think. But my mother put her down when she didn’t stop peeing and tearing up the furniture. It was TERRIBLE. I was so angry at her for doing it, but really guys who wants a cat that no matter how much treatment, therapy, love, guidance etc. you gave it, just wouldn’t stop thrashing your home and attacking any child that came into the house. She was a HELL CAT. Seriously, plus, and now I’m not being biased here, really she wasn’t very cute. She was a child of nature, yes, she was a special creature here on Earth, but she wasn’t what I’d call “pretty”. So she had two strikes against her the poor thing. Ugly, and socially inept. Her name was Sydney. Mom tried to pawn her off on one of her friends who lived on a farm. We thought Sydney would have a good life out there, with other animals, breathing country air, living the leisurely country life. But it didn’t really work out like we’d planned. She ended up hiding in a tree stump for a few days, not coming in to eat, not leaving the stump at all. The friend brought her back. She kept peeing, she kept scratching, she kept hissing at children. Mom put her on a permanent small dose of valium to keep her peaceful. One time she gave her too big of a dosage and Sydney lost the use of her back legs for a day. We were at a loss. The vet eventually told us “Sydney isn’t going to stop thrashing your home” She was taken away from her cat mother too soon supposedly and hadn’t formed any social behavioral skillz. What a shame! Poor kitty. Jeez, what a wretched ending to a pretty rough life. Well, that was my only other cat. Sydney. I lived on and off with other cats throughout my adult life…a favorite is named Kai:

Aka baby kai kai – he is a hunter. He was a spirit guide to those of us in that house. He had a psychic connection with his loving roommate Warren. Kai was like Valcor from The Never Ending Story. Remember that guy? The big white furry dragon who carried Etrayu off into the night. This shot taken here was an extremely rare moment of loving peace on Kai’s face. Usually he was stalking around, stealthy, focused, and in tune. Not one to lose himself to mindless pleasant abandon – what a ninja. I guess this was my first experience with a socially adept, “awesome” cat. Besides Lara’s cat growing up… Oden. He is still alive and probably the best cat in the world…after Chignon. I lived with some other cats, one of whom has recently passed who was endearingly named Pookers. She was a bitch. I’ll say it, she was mean, and rightfully so. She kept her guard up ’cause Pookers didn’t take any shit from anybody. She was a feminist too. And she was kind of crotchedy. An old lady feminist semi-aggressive bombshell. What a babe. I don’t have any photos of her, but she was brown/gray with black tiger markings and big greenish eyes. You would pet her on your lap, and she’d be purring and loving it, then suddenly without ANY warning (still be purring) she’d bite down hard on your finger. Then she’d quietly growwwwwwllllll until you managed to get her fat butt off your lap. Then she’d stalk away, like “hey buddy, what’s YOUR problem?” I like cats that have personality. That have a bit of a mean streak. The pushovers aren’t as fun. Maybe that’s from years of training with Sydney. If your cat is going to be agreeable 24/7 may as well get a dog. They’re even MORE fun! YAY! I was always a dog person. I always thought I was a dog person. Until I met Chignon. She changed my world. She made it okay to be a brat. She was so perfectly content to just play with her feather toy, and then when I’d stop, meow at me for more, and meow, and meow, and jump on my fabrics, and meow and drink out of MY personal water cup until ……”OKAY! GOOOODDD I’ll play with you Chignon hold on!”. Then she’d be happy and content and just play and play. Then, when the time was right, she’d curl up and sleep like an angel from heaven. Seriously, like an ANGEL UP IN HEAVEN with the cherubiest expression on her perfect face until it was time to get up and eat some din. What a charmer. She walked like an elephant. Melanie and I were just saying how we should have called her Elephante, but in French so AY-LAY-FONT. She thundered around that house, THUD….THUD….THUD…”chignon!!” THUD THUDTHUDTHUD run run run…..jump! Onto the bed. Jeez, I am going to miss that missy. I never knew how much I could love a furry beast.

So the day Chignon died was a sad day, and so was the day after, and today, which is 2 days after. It will be sad. Losing a beautiful loving smart and feisty friend is always hard. Even a kind of good-looking, mediocre friend is sad to lose. But a cat that you loved with your whole heart, who taught you how to love unconditionally, who dies suddenly and unexpected, now that’s a big loss. Hmm….

Tuesday, the day after Memorial Day, Lindsay came over with that bottle of Molly’s and a Martha Stewart’s Living magazine. Inside the magazine is an article about a family of women who make beautiful shell art. This art is incredible.

Is that Rachel Nederveld in the top lefthand corner?

I wish this photo was larger so you could see all the amazing detail in these pieces. It’s very inspiring. Just think about 10 middle-aged fingers guided by years of experience and imagination gluing shell after tiny hand painted shell onto a canvas. Creating scenes of valiant horses, birds, flowers, ships, people, and landscapes. Thank goodness these ladies are out there doing there craft, and getting recognition for their work. Unsung heroes, well a little sung. Martha sang them.

So today, as I was bundling myself up to go out into the world. I walked past my coffee table on the way out of the front door and noticed this big word that just said “LIVING”. I stopped and had a flash of hope. This feeling filled me. It was an affirmation. It’s been so hard these past few days to remember to live. REALLY live. And guys, look at Martha Stewart. This bourgie white collar criminal all painted up and smiling. She says “FUCK yeah, I’m living. I’m gonna do a whole lot more living too. Right or wrong, good or bad, legal or illegal. I’m gonna have a good time”. That’s what her face is telling me in this photo. This photo under the caption “LIVING”. That’s all we can do anyways, just live to the fullest, despite the bad things that may come our way. The losses, the fights, the imprisonment. Whatever brings you down.

Until next time, remember to LIVE, to use your fingers, and to play with your cats.

-Heather