Dad and the Cat House
When I was little, I thought my father knew everything. By the time I reached high school I doubted that my father knew anything that was remotely helpful to my life. As an adult, I realized that my father actually possessed useful information, but by then I had grown out of the habit of asking him for advice. Then, a few years ago, we had a bonding moment over a dead cat.
I like cats. My first cat was a kitten called Blackie. Soon after I received Blackie, we learned that my little sister was either allergic to the cat, or had caught worms from it. I thought that we should get rid of my sister, that wheezing, wormy mess.
My parents thought otherwise, and Blackie went to the “cat house” which my father informed me was a farm for cats, run by a kindly older woman whom I imagined looked sort of like Mrs. Santa Claus. After Blackie went to the cat house, I didn't give cats much thought until Susan came along with her cat, Ricki.
I may not have picked Ricki, but I had given my heart to Susan. And for the 13 years prior to meeting me, Susan had given her heart to Ricki. By Christmas of 2004, Ricki was demonstrating the downside of achieving 19 cat years. Ricki was a sweet cat, so it didn't seem unreasonable to me when the vet suggested that she needed an ultrasound. I could pay for that. As a result of the findings on ultrasound, Ricki needed cat chemotherapy. Ok, I thought, I could pay for that. Because Ricki was so sick, she had to keep returning to the vet. How could I not pay for that? Despite the vet's best efforts, Ricki's prognosis was grim, and Susan was disconsolate.
And then, on Valentines Night, Ricki died.
Now that Ricki was dead, Susan couldn’t stand to be around her little cat corpse. It became my job to get rid of the dead cat. Since it was February in Maine, two feet of snow blanketed frozen ground. A shovel and shoe box burial was not an option. Susan didn’t want the cat stored in the garage because she feared that animals could come in and eat it. For sanitary purposes the refrigerator freezer was out of the question. I put the cat in a box in the trunk of my car and tried to figure out what to do with it. Susan's solution was to have the cat cremated. Apparently, a little pine box of cat ashes topped by a dried flower arrangement cost $138.00. I balked.
”No, I'm not paying for that,” I said.
Susan glared at me.
And then the phone rang. It was my father. Susan stalked away.
“How’s it going?” he asked
And for the first time in a long time, I actually told him. I told him about the dead cat, the cremation, and the world's most expensive miniature dried flower arrangement.
There was a pause, and then he said, “ So, are you coming to my birthday next week?"
Not helpful, I thought. “Yes,” I said, still thinking about my problem.
My dad continued talking. “Put the cat in a cardboard box, wrap it with birthday paper, and then put a big pink bow on it. I'll know that it’s the cat, so I won’t unwrap the gift. Then I’ll take care of it for you at the cat house.”
In my father’s offer I heard the wisdom born of decades of dealing with the dead pets of five children. This was actually helpful. It did strike me as a little odd, however, that the cat house also took dead cats.
I considered his offer. “See you at the party, Dad.”
Problem solved, I thought. As I gathered the wrapping materials and went out to the car, I was intercepted by Susan, who did not see the beauty of the solution. Shortly thereafter, I was writing a check for $138.00
At my dad's birthday, he mentioned that he didn't see the box with the pink bow.
“You paid the $138.00,” he said with a smile.
“So Dad," I asked, "exactly where did you take Blackie?”
Celine Boyle January 2012
I like cats. My first cat was a kitten called Blackie. Soon after I received Blackie, we learned that my little sister was either allergic to the cat, or had caught worms from it. I thought that we should get rid of my sister, that wheezing, wormy mess.
My parents thought otherwise, and Blackie went to the “cat house” which my father informed me was a farm for cats, run by a kindly older woman whom I imagined looked sort of like Mrs. Santa Claus. After Blackie went to the cat house, I didn't give cats much thought until Susan came along with her cat, Ricki.
I may not have picked Ricki, but I had given my heart to Susan. And for the 13 years prior to meeting me, Susan had given her heart to Ricki. By Christmas of 2004, Ricki was demonstrating the downside of achieving 19 cat years. Ricki was a sweet cat, so it didn't seem unreasonable to me when the vet suggested that she needed an ultrasound. I could pay for that. As a result of the findings on ultrasound, Ricki needed cat chemotherapy. Ok, I thought, I could pay for that. Because Ricki was so sick, she had to keep returning to the vet. How could I not pay for that? Despite the vet's best efforts, Ricki's prognosis was grim, and Susan was disconsolate.
And then, on Valentines Night, Ricki died.
Now that Ricki was dead, Susan couldn’t stand to be around her little cat corpse. It became my job to get rid of the dead cat. Since it was February in Maine, two feet of snow blanketed frozen ground. A shovel and shoe box burial was not an option. Susan didn’t want the cat stored in the garage because she feared that animals could come in and eat it. For sanitary purposes the refrigerator freezer was out of the question. I put the cat in a box in the trunk of my car and tried to figure out what to do with it. Susan's solution was to have the cat cremated. Apparently, a little pine box of cat ashes topped by a dried flower arrangement cost $138.00. I balked.
”No, I'm not paying for that,” I said.
Susan glared at me.
And then the phone rang. It was my father. Susan stalked away.
“How’s it going?” he asked
And for the first time in a long time, I actually told him. I told him about the dead cat, the cremation, and the world's most expensive miniature dried flower arrangement.
There was a pause, and then he said, “ So, are you coming to my birthday next week?"
Not helpful, I thought. “Yes,” I said, still thinking about my problem.
My dad continued talking. “Put the cat in a cardboard box, wrap it with birthday paper, and then put a big pink bow on it. I'll know that it’s the cat, so I won’t unwrap the gift. Then I’ll take care of it for you at the cat house.”
In my father’s offer I heard the wisdom born of decades of dealing with the dead pets of five children. This was actually helpful. It did strike me as a little odd, however, that the cat house also took dead cats.
I considered his offer. “See you at the party, Dad.”
Problem solved, I thought. As I gathered the wrapping materials and went out to the car, I was intercepted by Susan, who did not see the beauty of the solution. Shortly thereafter, I was writing a check for $138.00
At my dad's birthday, he mentioned that he didn't see the box with the pink bow.
“You paid the $138.00,” he said with a smile.
“So Dad," I asked, "exactly where did you take Blackie?”
Celine Boyle January 2012