The Tom Cruise Chair: A Memory for My Sister
Written: July 22, 2011
By Wendy Kincade
Estimated Read Time: 7 Minutes (1,100 Words)
In 1983, when the film “Risky Business” came out, my mom and my sister both fell in love with Tom Cruise AND with Guido the Killer Pimp. They couldn’t say enough great things about the two new guys in their lives. My sister would have been around 15 at the time, and my mom would have been, well, mom-age. I was 24 and already living on my own. I don’t recall ever being interested enough to watch the movie all the way through, so I really didn’t understand their obsession. But it was fun to be around them when they were together, repeating lines from the movie and giggling like schoolgirls.
Over the years, the relationship between my mother and my sister became progressively strained, and most of their conversations had an undercurrent of discomfort and distrust. In spite of this, anytime the subject of Tom Cruise and Risky Business came up, it was like 1983 all over again. Mom would start by describing her reaction to having first seen Tom dancing in his underwear; how she had been mesmerized by how cute he was, and how she predicted he would go far. My sister would share her most pleasant memories of Tom’s physique before moving the conversation on to what was their most delightful shared memory—that of having “discovered” Joe Pantoliano and his hysterically funny character, Guido the Killer Pimp. For me, being around during these times was absolutely magical.
During the last year of her life (Jan 2003 to Jan 2004), my mother resided and was cared for at the Hospice Unit of the VA Hospital in Long Beach, California. In the fall of that year, word went around the hospital that a film crew and Tom Cruise were coming to the hospital to film a movie. My mother was beside herself with excitement and so she kept sending me down the hall to see if I could learn when and where all of the activities would be happening. She even insisted on taking a wheelchair tour of the grounds, hoping to discover clues.
Her numerous attempts at sleuthing finally paid off and she learned that Tom and the film crew would be arriving Saturday in the middle of the night; they would be filming for several hours; all of the areas where they would be filming would be closed off to the public; and they would all be gone before sunrise. Needless to say, Mom was disappointed. But not too much—she still got a good night’s sleep.
When I arrived the next morning, the only evidence that Tom and his film crew had been there, was an empty parking lot and a bit of trash strewn around. Mom hadn’t heard or seen anything during the night, but she was up and dressed and eager to explore the parking lot in hopes of finding Tom Cruise memorabilia. It was Sunday. It was early. I was annoyed but indulgent.
I gently loaded her into the front passenger seat of the van, and we perused the parking lot, looking for treasures. Mom knew she was being silly, but she also enjoyed pretending that we were doing important work AND that we would be successful. She had me going through trash on the ground in hopes of finding a tossed out script or something equally cool. And she had me climb up the side of several dumpsters, looking for anything of significance. But there was really nothing to be found—the film crew had done a good job of clearing the area.
As we made our final turn through the parking lot, heading back to the Hospice Unit, Mom spotted a small gray folding chair sitting under a lamppost. “Look,” she said, “I’ll bet Tom Cruise sat on that chair. Please go get it for me.” I sighed and rolled my eyes. But who was I to argue with a dying woman? I got out and brought the chair back to the van. We took the chair to Mom’s hospital room and placed it where everyone could see it. From there on out, whenever someone new came in, she would proudly (tongue in cheek) introduce them to “The Tom Cruise Chair,” and explain how we had acquired it.
The chair stayed in her hospital room for the rest of her days. New hospital staff would occasionally try to remove it, but once she explained to them the chair’s connection to Tom Cruise, they (reluctantly) left it where it was. After she died, I brought the chair home with me along with all of the other worldly treasures she had had with her during her final year. My partner suggested we give the chair to Goodwill. I said “No.” At the time, I didn’t really know why the chair was important to me.
My partner and I moved three times over the next three years. Each time we moved, she would suggest that perhaps it was time to donate the chair. Each time, I would explain to her that it was “The Tom Cruise Chair” and that I planned to keep it forever. She would sigh and shake her head. Then she’d pick up the chair and put it in the truck. By this time, I knew exactly why I kept the chair.
Sometime after the last of the three moves, I wondered why I hadn’t seen the chair for awhile. I asked my partner if she knew where it was. She thought briefly then remembered that she had taken it for a place to sit at her former employer’s place of business. I was devastated. Could she get it back? She said “perhaps,” but without conviction. I knew then that I needed her to understand why this old gray folding chair—one that had only been in my mother’s life for a few months—could mean so much to me.
It wasn’t the chair, I explained. It was what I saw in my mind’s eye and the warmth I felt in my heart each time I looked at the chair—its presence triggered the special memories I had of those times when my mother and my sister were getting along, when they were laughing and truly enjoying each other’s company.
I no longer have The Tom Cruise Chair, but that’s okay. I still have the memory of it. But more importantly, I still have the memory of my sister and mother together, eyes lit up with delight, sharing their memories of Tom Cruise, Risky Business, and Guido the Killer Pimp, and re-experiencing the special bond they had between them.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Disappearance of Charlie Johnson
Word count: 1,500 Estimated read time: 10 minutes
“This is Mike Carter, KTAL Radio, Bakersfield. And have I got a story for you. Apparently, eighty-six year old Charlie Johnson disappeared from his Bakersfield home nearly four years ago. And he wasn’t seen again until a couple of weeks ago when a neighbor spotted him at the local McDonald’s.
“You’ve been Charlie’s neighbor for how long?” Mike asked his guest.
“I reckon it’s been fifteen, twenty years,” the neighbor answered.
“And you didn’t think it was odd that you hadn’t seen him in a while?”
“Not really,” the neighbor replied. “At first, we just figured he was on vacation. As time went by and we still hadn’t seen him, we figured he must have moved or died or something.”
“You didn’t notice his mailbox getting full?”
“Nope. He’s got one of them fancy letter slots that goes right into the house.”
“So nobody ever reported him missing?” the broadcaster asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Incredible.”
“Yep.”
“So,” Mike continued, “you must have been surprised to see him walk into the McDonald’s after all this time?”
“We were all surprised,” the neighbor exclaimed.
“Did you ask him where he had been?” Mike inquired.
“He told us he’d been working down at the hardware store.”
“Amazing.”
“So,” Mike continued, “you must have been surprised to see him walk into the McDonald’s after all this time?”
“We were all surprised,” the neighbor exclaimed.
“Did you ask him where he had been?” Mike inquired.
“He told us he’d been working down at the hardware store.”
“Amazing.”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Mike said, “thanks for coming down and talking to us.”
“You bet.”
“And now,” Mike said excitedly, “we’re going to talk to Charlie Johnson himself. Come on in here Charlie and say hello to the listeners.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Hi,” he said in a gruff voice.
“So, what’s the story, Charlie?” Mike asked.
“Huh?” Charlie sounded confused.
“What happened to you?”
“What happened to me when?”
“You’ve been gone a long time,” Mike reminded him.
“Oh, that,” Charlie said plainly.
Mike patiently waited while Charlie formed his thoughts. “Well,” he began slowly, “the other day, I was sittin’ in my car, gettin’ ready to head down to the bank. I was running a little low on cash and I wanted to meet the boys over at McDonald’s for coffee. Now, there was this program on the radio. I don’t remember which one, but it sure was a good one. Now, I don’t like drivin’ with the radio on, so I waited for it to finish up. Well, I musta fallen asleep, ‘cause when I woke up, the program was over, and there was another one on.
“I reached over and turned the knob, but the radio didn’t turn off. I tried turning it a couple more times before I realized I musta left the radio on in the house. So I got out of the car to go inside and turn off the radio. When I got to the front door, I realized I hadn’t locked it, which was a good thing,” Charlie said, laughing, “’cause I’d left the keys in the car.
“Well, I didn’t want to have to walk all the way back down to the car to get the keys, so I figured I’d just lock the front door from the inside and go out the back door. So that’s what I did. Next thing I knew, I was standing at a gas station. Now, I don’t know how the heck I got there ‘cause I didn’t have my car. I looked around, but nothing was familiar. So I asked this man if he knew where Market Street was?”
“Market Street?” Mike interrupted. “You don’t live on Market Street.”
“I know that,” Charlie said confidently, “but I figured if I could find it, I could get home. It’s only one block over. But the man said he’d never heard of a Market Street. So I explained to him how I was tryin’ to get to the bank to get some money. He told me there was one of them ATM machines just around the corner. I told him I didn’t like them new fangled things. He offered to show me how to operate it when I realized my wallet was still in the car. And I didn’t have my car.
“So that’s when I decided I could get home on my own, and I started walking. I musta walked a hundred miles, ‘cause the damnedest thing happened. I was gettin’ real tired, when I saw I was in my old neighborhood. Things looked a little different, but I knew that’s where I was, ‘cause I saw Ma workin’ in her garden.”
“Where does your mother live?” the broadcaster asked suspiciously.
“In Idaho,” Charlie said. “I couldn’t believe it. I’d walked all the way to Idaho. I guess I still got it in me.”
“I guess you do,” Mike said, chuckling.
“So I said, ‘Hi, Ma,’ and she gave me a big hug. I’ll tell you, it’s been a long time since I got a hug from my Ma. It sure felt good. Well, we got to talkin’ and she invited me in for dinner. Now I know I had a project to complete, but I didn’t want to insult her by sayin’ no, so I said yes. Besides, my ma is the best cook ever and I sure didn’t think it would do me any harm to enjoy one of her home-cooked meals.
“We had chicken and dumplings, sweet-potato pie, and fresh-baked bread. Man was it good. We talked for hours, and we laughed until our sides hurt. I almost wet my pants when she told the one about the time I came in all muddy from playin’ with the pigs. She said I stank to high heavens, and she had to drag me kickin’ and screamin’ to the wash tub. God, how I hated takin’ baths.
“Well, we talked until all hours of the mornin’. I must have fallen asleep, ‘cause the next thing I knew, the sun was up. I told her I’d better be on my way, but she said she could sure use my help. Well, I couldn’t just leave her, what with no man around the house, so I agreed to stay awhile. I fixed up the holes on the front porch, and I built her a new bench for her flowers, and I took the creak out of her rocking chair. I kept pretty darn busy.
“My sister Suzy dropped by to visit us every so often. She’s a nurse now, ya know? She’d sit down at the table in her pretty white uniform and listen to me and Ma talk about the old days. Then she’d remind Ma it was time for a bath. I always went outside then so that Ma could have her privacy. While Ma was in the bath, Suzy would clean up the house a bit.
“Now sometimes I wondered if Suzy wasn’t just a little bit slow in the head. She kept askin’ Ma who I was. And when I told the one about the time she and I got caught stealin’ apples out of the neighbor’s yard, she pretended like she remembered, but I don’t think she did.”
“Four years is a long time to be gone,” Mike interrupted.
“Yep,” Charlie agreed. “While Ma worked in her garden, I fixed things up around the place. Come sundown, every night, she’d call me in for dinner. ‘George,’ she’d say. I don’t know why she called me George, but I got to kinda likin’ it. Anyway, she’d say, ‘George, your supper’s ready.’ So I’d wipe the mud off my boots and come in the house. ‘Clean up those hands,’ she’d say. She said that every night. Sometimes I wondered if she’d ever get tired of sayin’ it.
“After dinner, we’d sit in the living room and talk. She’d rock in her chair and I’d relax in the lazy-boy. Man was that a comfortable chair. Sometimes, when Suzy came over, she’d find us a good program on the radio. Ma and I would listen while Suzy washed the dishes.
“When the program was over, Ma would always ask Suzy to turn off the radio. After she turned it off, Suzy would say to Ma, ‘It’s time for bed, Mrs. Whitman.’ Now I don’t know why Suzy kept callin’ her own Ma, Mrs. Whitman. Especially, when that’s not her name. But, like I said before, I think Suzy may be a little wrong in her head.”
“So what made you decide to leave?” the broadcaster interrupted.
“Leave?” Charlie was confused.
“How did you end up at McDonald’s?”
“Well,” Charlie explained, “one day I got out of bed and I knew I was a man. I said, ‘Ma, it’s time for me to make my mark on the world. I’m gonna go out and get me a job.’ She said that was a fine idea, so I put my trousers on and I went down to the local hardware store. The man there gave me a job loading two-by-fours on a truck. When I was done, he paid me ten bucks for the work and I headed back home to Ma’s. I was halfway home when I found myself standin’ in front of McDonald’s. Heck, I thought, I’ll just drop by and have me a cup of coffee with the boys.”
“Is that when your neighbor saw you?”
“It must have been,” Charlie speculated.
“Amazing.”
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Charlie said.
“You heard it here, folks,” the broadcaster announced, “and now, a word from our sponsors.”
“Would you turn that off, dear?” the old woman said, pointing to the radio.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitman,” the younger woman replied. She walked across the room and turned the radio off.
The old woman rocked slowly in her chair. “I sure miss George,” she said.
Note: The inspiration for this story (written in 1998) came from my partner’s father who had Alzheimer’s disease. I tried to imagine the world from his perspective. Would his quality of life be improved if he encountered someone who easily accepted, and even joined in, his current “reality?” And, if this occurred, would there be any harm in it?
“This is Mike Carter, KTAL Radio, Bakersfield. And have I got a story for you. Apparently, eighty-six year old Charlie Johnson disappeared from his Bakersfield home nearly four years ago. And he wasn’t seen again until a couple of weeks ago when a neighbor spotted him at the local McDonald’s.
“You’ve been Charlie’s neighbor for how long?” Mike asked his guest.
“I reckon it’s been fifteen, twenty years,” the neighbor answered.
“And you didn’t think it was odd that you hadn’t seen him in a while?”
“Not really,” the neighbor replied. “At first, we just figured he was on vacation. As time went by and we still hadn’t seen him, we figured he must have moved or died or something.”
“You didn’t notice his mailbox getting full?”
“Nope. He’s got one of them fancy letter slots that goes right into the house.”
“So nobody ever reported him missing?” the broadcaster asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Incredible.”
“Yep.”
“So,” Mike continued, “you must have been surprised to see him walk into the McDonald’s after all this time?”
“We were all surprised,” the neighbor exclaimed.
“Did you ask him where he had been?” Mike inquired.
“He told us he’d been working down at the hardware store.”
“Amazing.”
“So,” Mike continued, “you must have been surprised to see him walk into the McDonald’s after all this time?”
“We were all surprised,” the neighbor exclaimed.
“Did you ask him where he had been?” Mike inquired.
“He told us he’d been working down at the hardware store.”
“Amazing.”
“Yep.”
“Well,” Mike said, “thanks for coming down and talking to us.”
“You bet.”
“And now,” Mike said excitedly, “we’re going to talk to Charlie Johnson himself. Come on in here Charlie and say hello to the listeners.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Hi,” he said in a gruff voice.
“So, what’s the story, Charlie?” Mike asked.
“Huh?” Charlie sounded confused.
“What happened to you?”
“What happened to me when?”
“You’ve been gone a long time,” Mike reminded him.
“Oh, that,” Charlie said plainly.
Mike patiently waited while Charlie formed his thoughts. “Well,” he began slowly, “the other day, I was sittin’ in my car, gettin’ ready to head down to the bank. I was running a little low on cash and I wanted to meet the boys over at McDonald’s for coffee. Now, there was this program on the radio. I don’t remember which one, but it sure was a good one. Now, I don’t like drivin’ with the radio on, so I waited for it to finish up. Well, I musta fallen asleep, ‘cause when I woke up, the program was over, and there was another one on.
“I reached over and turned the knob, but the radio didn’t turn off. I tried turning it a couple more times before I realized I musta left the radio on in the house. So I got out of the car to go inside and turn off the radio. When I got to the front door, I realized I hadn’t locked it, which was a good thing,” Charlie said, laughing, “’cause I’d left the keys in the car.
“Well, I didn’t want to have to walk all the way back down to the car to get the keys, so I figured I’d just lock the front door from the inside and go out the back door. So that’s what I did. Next thing I knew, I was standing at a gas station. Now, I don’t know how the heck I got there ‘cause I didn’t have my car. I looked around, but nothing was familiar. So I asked this man if he knew where Market Street was?”
“Market Street?” Mike interrupted. “You don’t live on Market Street.”
“I know that,” Charlie said confidently, “but I figured if I could find it, I could get home. It’s only one block over. But the man said he’d never heard of a Market Street. So I explained to him how I was tryin’ to get to the bank to get some money. He told me there was one of them ATM machines just around the corner. I told him I didn’t like them new fangled things. He offered to show me how to operate it when I realized my wallet was still in the car. And I didn’t have my car.
“So that’s when I decided I could get home on my own, and I started walking. I musta walked a hundred miles, ‘cause the damnedest thing happened. I was gettin’ real tired, when I saw I was in my old neighborhood. Things looked a little different, but I knew that’s where I was, ‘cause I saw Ma workin’ in her garden.”
“Where does your mother live?” the broadcaster asked suspiciously.
“In Idaho,” Charlie said. “I couldn’t believe it. I’d walked all the way to Idaho. I guess I still got it in me.”
“I guess you do,” Mike said, chuckling.
“So I said, ‘Hi, Ma,’ and she gave me a big hug. I’ll tell you, it’s been a long time since I got a hug from my Ma. It sure felt good. Well, we got to talkin’ and she invited me in for dinner. Now I know I had a project to complete, but I didn’t want to insult her by sayin’ no, so I said yes. Besides, my ma is the best cook ever and I sure didn’t think it would do me any harm to enjoy one of her home-cooked meals.
“We had chicken and dumplings, sweet-potato pie, and fresh-baked bread. Man was it good. We talked for hours, and we laughed until our sides hurt. I almost wet my pants when she told the one about the time I came in all muddy from playin’ with the pigs. She said I stank to high heavens, and she had to drag me kickin’ and screamin’ to the wash tub. God, how I hated takin’ baths.
“Well, we talked until all hours of the mornin’. I must have fallen asleep, ‘cause the next thing I knew, the sun was up. I told her I’d better be on my way, but she said she could sure use my help. Well, I couldn’t just leave her, what with no man around the house, so I agreed to stay awhile. I fixed up the holes on the front porch, and I built her a new bench for her flowers, and I took the creak out of her rocking chair. I kept pretty darn busy.
“My sister Suzy dropped by to visit us every so often. She’s a nurse now, ya know? She’d sit down at the table in her pretty white uniform and listen to me and Ma talk about the old days. Then she’d remind Ma it was time for a bath. I always went outside then so that Ma could have her privacy. While Ma was in the bath, Suzy would clean up the house a bit.
“Now sometimes I wondered if Suzy wasn’t just a little bit slow in the head. She kept askin’ Ma who I was. And when I told the one about the time she and I got caught stealin’ apples out of the neighbor’s yard, she pretended like she remembered, but I don’t think she did.”
“Four years is a long time to be gone,” Mike interrupted.
“Yep,” Charlie agreed. “While Ma worked in her garden, I fixed things up around the place. Come sundown, every night, she’d call me in for dinner. ‘George,’ she’d say. I don’t know why she called me George, but I got to kinda likin’ it. Anyway, she’d say, ‘George, your supper’s ready.’ So I’d wipe the mud off my boots and come in the house. ‘Clean up those hands,’ she’d say. She said that every night. Sometimes I wondered if she’d ever get tired of sayin’ it.
“After dinner, we’d sit in the living room and talk. She’d rock in her chair and I’d relax in the lazy-boy. Man was that a comfortable chair. Sometimes, when Suzy came over, she’d find us a good program on the radio. Ma and I would listen while Suzy washed the dishes.
“When the program was over, Ma would always ask Suzy to turn off the radio. After she turned it off, Suzy would say to Ma, ‘It’s time for bed, Mrs. Whitman.’ Now I don’t know why Suzy kept callin’ her own Ma, Mrs. Whitman. Especially, when that’s not her name. But, like I said before, I think Suzy may be a little wrong in her head.”
“So what made you decide to leave?” the broadcaster interrupted.
“Leave?” Charlie was confused.
“How did you end up at McDonald’s?”
“Well,” Charlie explained, “one day I got out of bed and I knew I was a man. I said, ‘Ma, it’s time for me to make my mark on the world. I’m gonna go out and get me a job.’ She said that was a fine idea, so I put my trousers on and I went down to the local hardware store. The man there gave me a job loading two-by-fours on a truck. When I was done, he paid me ten bucks for the work and I headed back home to Ma’s. I was halfway home when I found myself standin’ in front of McDonald’s. Heck, I thought, I’ll just drop by and have me a cup of coffee with the boys.”
“Is that when your neighbor saw you?”
“It must have been,” Charlie speculated.
“Amazing.”
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Charlie said.
“You heard it here, folks,” the broadcaster announced, “and now, a word from our sponsors.”
“Would you turn that off, dear?” the old woman said, pointing to the radio.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitman,” the younger woman replied. She walked across the room and turned the radio off.
The old woman rocked slowly in her chair. “I sure miss George,” she said.
Note: The inspiration for this story (written in 1998) came from my partner’s father who had Alzheimer’s disease. I tried to imagine the world from his perspective. Would his quality of life be improved if he encountered someone who easily accepted, and even joined in, his current “reality?” And, if this occurred, would there be any harm in it?
Letting Go: The Story of Michael
Estimated read time: 10 minutes
I carefully rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb the furry orange ball that had slept cuddled next to me all night. He looked so sweet, all cozy and curled up. I gently passed my fingertips through the matted hair on the top of his head and remembered the appointment I had made the day before. I looked at the clock. It was 9:00 AM. In seven hours, my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, would be euthanized.
‘Was I doing the right thing?’ I asked myself again for the umpteenth time. There was no point in answering—me and myself had discussed the pros and cons many times before without ever reaching a definitive answer.
After using the toilet and brushing my teeth, I crawled back into bed and made myself into a circle around the little orange ball. He opened his eyes, yawned, and began his morning stretching ritual. I ran my hand through the thinning hair on his back, feeling every notch and bump of his spinal cord. He shoved his head into my hand and demanded my attention at his itchy spot. I obeyed.
As I rubbed him under his chin, mass quantities of slobber oozed out of his mouth and formed a thick coat of slime on my hand. His jowls were black and stinky from sticking his head in the dog food bowl. Between his breath and the matted hair on his belly, I’m not sure which smelled worse.
But I wasn’t really bothered by these things—Michael hadn’t groomed himself in over a year, so problems with personal hygiene were not new. What I was really doing was studying him, looking for that one small evasive fact that I could use to justify my decision to have him put down. You know—the one that releases you from all responsibility and magically wipes out all feelings of guilt and remorse.
I had a dentist appointment that morning. On my way there, during the appointment, and while driving back home, I continued my search for the perfect justification. The cat looked like hell, and all attempts to clean him up just pissed him off. Anytime I went near his belly, he bit me. Not that that was a big problem, since most of his teeth had fallen out years before.
Then there was the bubble in his ear that had to be popped and drained every other day. That pissed him off, too. And now his eye had developed an infection and was oozing a thick yellowish puss. When I tried to clean it, he yowled like I was killing him. And when I didn’t work fast enough, he would bite me.
But again, none of these issues were really the problem. This was just me trying to find a reason that I could live with for killing my cat. All of his grooming and health issues were not insurmountable. In fact, most of them could easily be solved with one visit to the veterinarian. If only I was willing to pay the price.
Fixing Michael would cost hundreds of dollars while euthanizing him would cost less than a hundred. And even if I spent the money to save him, he would develop other issues, which would cost even more money, and ultimately, he would die anyway.
‘Stop it,’ I told myself. ‘You’ve been through all of this before and you’ve made your decision. It’s time for Michael to go. Now think about something else.’
When I got home, Michael was out on the balcony, doing his daily ritual of soaking up rays. He looked warm and cozy. I picked him up; he dug his claws into my hand. I held him out at arm’s length, waiting for him to retract his claws. He purred contentedly. “Crazy cat.” I put him down and he released his death grip.
I went inside and sat down on the bed. He followed me in, weaving left and right like an old drunk. He was so thin, I could practically see through him. I leaned over and rubbed his chin. When I stopped rubbing, he jumped up on my lap and demanded more. After several minutes, I had had enough. I had things to get done. I stood up and put him back down on the bed. I gave him one last stroke before heading down the stairs.
I put a TV dinner in the microwave before sitting down to check my e-mail. I was finishing a reply when I felt a familiar brush against my leg. I leaned back and looked under the desk. There was my sweet little Michael sitting atop the paper shredder. I gave him a quick pat then turned my attention back to the e-mail—I wanted to finish the reply before dealing with him. He dug his claws into my leg and pulled himself up onto my lap. I screamed.
While I cleaned off the blood from my newest love scratch, Michael climbed up under my chin and settled in for a nap. I gave up the e-mail and took him over to the glider for our rocking-the-baby-to-sleep ritual. I positioned myself so that he could lie on my chest and feel my heartbeat. I wrapped one arm around him to keep him from falling. As the glider moved slowly back and forth, my other hand petted him in rhythm with it, starting at the top of his head and going all the way to the end of his tail. I watched his chest rising and dropping as he fell into a deep sleep. His body became heavy and I was reminded of the incredible sense of comfort that only comes from rocking a baby to sleep. My breathing slowed to match his. I closed my eyes and dozed off.
When I awoke, I remembered the TV dinner in the microwave. I held Michael at my chest and got up carefully. I gently put him back down on the glider. He opened his eyes briefly, then curled up and went back to sleep.
I went into the kitchen and took my food out of the microwave. I grabbed a fork and sat down at the table. I was putting the first bite of chicken and rice into my mouth, when I saw (and smelled) Michael’s half-empty dish of chicken and rice sitting on the table just inches from my plate. “Yuck.”
‘It will be so nice,’ I thought, ‘to not have cat food on the table anymore.’ I set Michael’s dish on the floor and threatened the dogs with beatings if they went anywhere near it.
I had almost finished eating when I felt a familiar claw in my leg. I looked down. Michael meowed at me and dug in his claws. I pulled him off my leg and pointed him toward his dish. He went around the table to the other side and jumped onto an empty chair. Before I could stop him, he was on the table, his nose in my plate.
“Damn it, Michael,” I said. I was really looking forward to a time when I could eat without having to fight off a cat.
I left my almost-empty dish on the table and put Michael’s dish next to it. Michael stuck his face into my leftover dish and worked on lapping it clean. I went back to the computer and finished my e-mail.
It was time to go.
I had already decided not to use the cat carrier. Michael was a good traveler, so I knew he wouldn’t be a problem. And besides, I thought it would be cruel to imprison him on the road to his execution. So I put him on my shoulder where he could happily perch like a bird and we headed to the car. As long as I kept him held tight and he didn’t think he was going to fall, he kept his claws out of my skin.
I put him in the back seat, but he found his way onto my lap before we had even left the garage. He wasn’t scared. He was curious. He perched on my left thigh with his front paws on the window ledge. He looked out the window and watched the world go by. He was so damn cute I could hardly stand it. Feelings of guilt and remorse rushed into my mind and body. ‘Quick,’ I told myself. ‘Think of all the reasons he should be put down—bad grooming, poor health, too much money, too much scratching, constant eating, and so on.’ It didn’t help.
As we continued our journey, Michael happily wandered around the van, checking in with me frequently. The sun shone through the driver’s window and the heat it generated kept bringing him back to my lap. He finally settled in for a nap.
When I got out of the car at the gas station, he peered at me through the driver’s window and politely demanded to be let out. He was really sweet, but he didn’t get his way.
At another point in the journey, he decided he wanted to be at my feet. He didn’t get his way that time either. He wandered away for several minutes, then came back to try again. I gently held him back by placing my hand around his chest. I rubbed him with my thumb, hoping to deflect his attention. He wasn’t buying it. He pushed more firmly. I held on more tightly.
When he finally backed off, he gave me a dirty look, yowled his annoyance, and angrily flicked his tail at me. Rather than arguing with him, which usually meant acquiring a new hole or scratch in my skin, I picked him up and put him over on the passenger seat. He wasn’t happy, but after several minutes, he got over it. He jumped back onto my lap and continued looking curiously out the window. After the sun had sufficiently heated him up again, he curled into a little orange ball and took another nap.
He was completely rested by the time we arrived at the veterinarian’s office. As we walked toward the office, his eyes brightened up as he took in all of the sights. Inside, he was equally perky and precious. In fact, several pet owners insisted on coming over to see him. After giving him a pat, each of them would say, with all sincerity, “He is so sweet.” I didn’t have the heart (or was it the courage?) to tell them why we were there.
After a brief wait, Dr. Martini called us into the examination room. He asked me if I wanted to be present while they did “it.” I said I did. I had considered not being there. I had attended many animal executions before, so I knew it would happen so fast Michael wouldn’t even know what was happening. He wouldn’t suffer, so he wouldn’t need moral support. But I needed to be there. I needed to know it had been done. I needed closure.
The doctor and his assistant stood opposite each other, one on each side of the table. They laid Michael down on his side so they could inject the poison through the inside of his back leg. I stood at the head of the table, talking to him, petting him, and helping keep him calm. Within seconds of receiving the injection, he was motionless. His eyes were still open. (Doctors say that is common.)
The assistant left the room. The doctor took out a stethoscope and checked Michael’s heart to be sure it had stopped. I suddenly realized that I was still petting him. I pulled my hand away. There was no point anymore.
The doctor left me alone in the room with my dead cat. I couldn’t stop staring at Michael’s face. I wanted him to close his eyes.
Now I’ve always thought it was weird when people insisted on hugging or holding a loved one after they were dead. And, while I had no desire to pick Michael up, I really wanted to touch him. I reached out and stroked his belly. I stared at his eyes. I stroked his belly some more and stared at his eyes some more.
So there I was. Petting a dead cat. My dead cat. I knew I should stop, but I didn’t want to. I was in some kind of trance. When I realized that I might start crying, I took my hand away and stepped back. He was so small and flat on the examining table. They had put a towel under him so they could easily scoop him up after I left the room. I didn’t want him scooped up. But I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I stuck my head around the corner and informed the assistant that I was done. I took one last look at my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, and left the room.
* * *
SEQUEL:
While I was waiting to pay my bill, this guy comes in with a cat carrier. He explains to the doctor that he has just adopted a baby kitten and it appears to have an eye infection. The doctor encourages the guy to take the kitten out of the carrier so he can examine it. The guy reaches into the carrier and brings out this tiny little ball of orange fur. And so it goes…
* * *
AFTER-THOUGHT:
As various emotions float in and out of my consciousness, the one that was most prominent yesterday shortly after I left the veterinarian’s office was pride. Now this may not sound kind, but I was proud of myself for having gone through with it, for not chickening out. And while I may feel differently tomorrow, right now I believe I made the right decision. And even though I never discovered the perfect justification, I am okay, and I know I will be able to live with myself.
NOTE: This experience occurred in June 2005.
* * * End * * *
I carefully rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb the furry orange ball that had slept cuddled next to me all night. He looked so sweet, all cozy and curled up. I gently passed my fingertips through the matted hair on the top of his head and remembered the appointment I had made the day before. I looked at the clock. It was 9:00 AM. In seven hours, my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, would be euthanized.
‘Was I doing the right thing?’ I asked myself again for the umpteenth time. There was no point in answering—me and myself had discussed the pros and cons many times before without ever reaching a definitive answer.
After using the toilet and brushing my teeth, I crawled back into bed and made myself into a circle around the little orange ball. He opened his eyes, yawned, and began his morning stretching ritual. I ran my hand through the thinning hair on his back, feeling every notch and bump of his spinal cord. He shoved his head into my hand and demanded my attention at his itchy spot. I obeyed.
As I rubbed him under his chin, mass quantities of slobber oozed out of his mouth and formed a thick coat of slime on my hand. His jowls were black and stinky from sticking his head in the dog food bowl. Between his breath and the matted hair on his belly, I’m not sure which smelled worse.
But I wasn’t really bothered by these things—Michael hadn’t groomed himself in over a year, so problems with personal hygiene were not new. What I was really doing was studying him, looking for that one small evasive fact that I could use to justify my decision to have him put down. You know—the one that releases you from all responsibility and magically wipes out all feelings of guilt and remorse.
I had a dentist appointment that morning. On my way there, during the appointment, and while driving back home, I continued my search for the perfect justification. The cat looked like hell, and all attempts to clean him up just pissed him off. Anytime I went near his belly, he bit me. Not that that was a big problem, since most of his teeth had fallen out years before.
Then there was the bubble in his ear that had to be popped and drained every other day. That pissed him off, too. And now his eye had developed an infection and was oozing a thick yellowish puss. When I tried to clean it, he yowled like I was killing him. And when I didn’t work fast enough, he would bite me.
But again, none of these issues were really the problem. This was just me trying to find a reason that I could live with for killing my cat. All of his grooming and health issues were not insurmountable. In fact, most of them could easily be solved with one visit to the veterinarian. If only I was willing to pay the price.
Fixing Michael would cost hundreds of dollars while euthanizing him would cost less than a hundred. And even if I spent the money to save him, he would develop other issues, which would cost even more money, and ultimately, he would die anyway.
‘Stop it,’ I told myself. ‘You’ve been through all of this before and you’ve made your decision. It’s time for Michael to go. Now think about something else.’
When I got home, Michael was out on the balcony, doing his daily ritual of soaking up rays. He looked warm and cozy. I picked him up; he dug his claws into my hand. I held him out at arm’s length, waiting for him to retract his claws. He purred contentedly. “Crazy cat.” I put him down and he released his death grip.
I went inside and sat down on the bed. He followed me in, weaving left and right like an old drunk. He was so thin, I could practically see through him. I leaned over and rubbed his chin. When I stopped rubbing, he jumped up on my lap and demanded more. After several minutes, I had had enough. I had things to get done. I stood up and put him back down on the bed. I gave him one last stroke before heading down the stairs.
I put a TV dinner in the microwave before sitting down to check my e-mail. I was finishing a reply when I felt a familiar brush against my leg. I leaned back and looked under the desk. There was my sweet little Michael sitting atop the paper shredder. I gave him a quick pat then turned my attention back to the e-mail—I wanted to finish the reply before dealing with him. He dug his claws into my leg and pulled himself up onto my lap. I screamed.
While I cleaned off the blood from my newest love scratch, Michael climbed up under my chin and settled in for a nap. I gave up the e-mail and took him over to the glider for our rocking-the-baby-to-sleep ritual. I positioned myself so that he could lie on my chest and feel my heartbeat. I wrapped one arm around him to keep him from falling. As the glider moved slowly back and forth, my other hand petted him in rhythm with it, starting at the top of his head and going all the way to the end of his tail. I watched his chest rising and dropping as he fell into a deep sleep. His body became heavy and I was reminded of the incredible sense of comfort that only comes from rocking a baby to sleep. My breathing slowed to match his. I closed my eyes and dozed off.
When I awoke, I remembered the TV dinner in the microwave. I held Michael at my chest and got up carefully. I gently put him back down on the glider. He opened his eyes briefly, then curled up and went back to sleep.
I went into the kitchen and took my food out of the microwave. I grabbed a fork and sat down at the table. I was putting the first bite of chicken and rice into my mouth, when I saw (and smelled) Michael’s half-empty dish of chicken and rice sitting on the table just inches from my plate. “Yuck.”
‘It will be so nice,’ I thought, ‘to not have cat food on the table anymore.’ I set Michael’s dish on the floor and threatened the dogs with beatings if they went anywhere near it.
I had almost finished eating when I felt a familiar claw in my leg. I looked down. Michael meowed at me and dug in his claws. I pulled him off my leg and pointed him toward his dish. He went around the table to the other side and jumped onto an empty chair. Before I could stop him, he was on the table, his nose in my plate.
“Damn it, Michael,” I said. I was really looking forward to a time when I could eat without having to fight off a cat.
I left my almost-empty dish on the table and put Michael’s dish next to it. Michael stuck his face into my leftover dish and worked on lapping it clean. I went back to the computer and finished my e-mail.
It was time to go.
I had already decided not to use the cat carrier. Michael was a good traveler, so I knew he wouldn’t be a problem. And besides, I thought it would be cruel to imprison him on the road to his execution. So I put him on my shoulder where he could happily perch like a bird and we headed to the car. As long as I kept him held tight and he didn’t think he was going to fall, he kept his claws out of my skin.
I put him in the back seat, but he found his way onto my lap before we had even left the garage. He wasn’t scared. He was curious. He perched on my left thigh with his front paws on the window ledge. He looked out the window and watched the world go by. He was so damn cute I could hardly stand it. Feelings of guilt and remorse rushed into my mind and body. ‘Quick,’ I told myself. ‘Think of all the reasons he should be put down—bad grooming, poor health, too much money, too much scratching, constant eating, and so on.’ It didn’t help.
As we continued our journey, Michael happily wandered around the van, checking in with me frequently. The sun shone through the driver’s window and the heat it generated kept bringing him back to my lap. He finally settled in for a nap.
When I got out of the car at the gas station, he peered at me through the driver’s window and politely demanded to be let out. He was really sweet, but he didn’t get his way.
At another point in the journey, he decided he wanted to be at my feet. He didn’t get his way that time either. He wandered away for several minutes, then came back to try again. I gently held him back by placing my hand around his chest. I rubbed him with my thumb, hoping to deflect his attention. He wasn’t buying it. He pushed more firmly. I held on more tightly.
When he finally backed off, he gave me a dirty look, yowled his annoyance, and angrily flicked his tail at me. Rather than arguing with him, which usually meant acquiring a new hole or scratch in my skin, I picked him up and put him over on the passenger seat. He wasn’t happy, but after several minutes, he got over it. He jumped back onto my lap and continued looking curiously out the window. After the sun had sufficiently heated him up again, he curled into a little orange ball and took another nap.
He was completely rested by the time we arrived at the veterinarian’s office. As we walked toward the office, his eyes brightened up as he took in all of the sights. Inside, he was equally perky and precious. In fact, several pet owners insisted on coming over to see him. After giving him a pat, each of them would say, with all sincerity, “He is so sweet.” I didn’t have the heart (or was it the courage?) to tell them why we were there.
After a brief wait, Dr. Martini called us into the examination room. He asked me if I wanted to be present while they did “it.” I said I did. I had considered not being there. I had attended many animal executions before, so I knew it would happen so fast Michael wouldn’t even know what was happening. He wouldn’t suffer, so he wouldn’t need moral support. But I needed to be there. I needed to know it had been done. I needed closure.
The doctor and his assistant stood opposite each other, one on each side of the table. They laid Michael down on his side so they could inject the poison through the inside of his back leg. I stood at the head of the table, talking to him, petting him, and helping keep him calm. Within seconds of receiving the injection, he was motionless. His eyes were still open. (Doctors say that is common.)
The assistant left the room. The doctor took out a stethoscope and checked Michael’s heart to be sure it had stopped. I suddenly realized that I was still petting him. I pulled my hand away. There was no point anymore.
The doctor left me alone in the room with my dead cat. I couldn’t stop staring at Michael’s face. I wanted him to close his eyes.
Now I’ve always thought it was weird when people insisted on hugging or holding a loved one after they were dead. And, while I had no desire to pick Michael up, I really wanted to touch him. I reached out and stroked his belly. I stared at his eyes. I stroked his belly some more and stared at his eyes some more.
So there I was. Petting a dead cat. My dead cat. I knew I should stop, but I didn’t want to. I was in some kind of trance. When I realized that I might start crying, I took my hand away and stepped back. He was so small and flat on the examining table. They had put a towel under him so they could easily scoop him up after I left the room. I didn’t want him scooped up. But I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I stuck my head around the corner and informed the assistant that I was done. I took one last look at my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, and left the room.
* * *
SEQUEL:
While I was waiting to pay my bill, this guy comes in with a cat carrier. He explains to the doctor that he has just adopted a baby kitten and it appears to have an eye infection. The doctor encourages the guy to take the kitten out of the carrier so he can examine it. The guy reaches into the carrier and brings out this tiny little ball of orange fur. And so it goes…
* * *
AFTER-THOUGHT:
As various emotions float in and out of my consciousness, the one that was most prominent yesterday shortly after I left the veterinarian’s office was pride. Now this may not sound kind, but I was proud of myself for having gone through with it, for not chickening out. And while I may feel differently tomorrow, right now I believe I made the right decision. And even though I never discovered the perfect justification, I am okay, and I know I will be able to live with myself.
NOTE: This experience occurred in June 2005.
* * * End * * *
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