Some folks, understandably, choose to memorialize a beloved dead pet in some way. Me, I’m going to take the opportunity of an anniversary to pay tribute to my very much still-alive cat, Callie. Not that she’ll read it, of course, and I doubt my trying to read it to her would elicit much more than a yawn and a return to the latest nap. But here it is.
Yes, there is an anniversary this month—17 years ago, my ex and I picked up Callie at her foster home, after assuring the rescue agency that had taken her in that we were not secret cat torturers, convicted felons, or some other kind of reprobates (I’m pretty sure there was no fingerprinting involved, but it seems like we went through everything just shy of that). I never remembered the exact date we took her home, but it must have been early in the month; searching through all the paperwork in my Callie folder revealed a document we signed on February 3, 2005, hence this post today.
What was Callie’s fate before she ended up with us? She had been a stray, but fairly well cared for before she began her life on the streets. The rescue agency took care of spaying and chipping her, and she was in good health when we first saw her. But I wondered what psychological trauma she had endured, the blows to her sense of identity, as she went through a series of names. The agency listed her just as “JKitty” on the health forms. At some point, someone there dubbed her Hawthorne. Hawthorne? Was there some allusion to The Scarlet Letter that I was missing? Then, when we got to the foster home, her caretaker informed us that she had been calling her charge Princess. Well, that was not going to last. Somehow, independently, the ex and I each came up with a new name: Calliope (at least that’s how I remember the story). So, Callie. And now, more often, just Cal (unless she’s thrown up, again, and it’s just as likely to be “fuckin’ Cal…”)
And what has Cal endured in those 17 years? A medical visit to rule out that some string we thought she had eaten hadn’t gotten lodged in her GI tract. A trip to the groomers when her knots proved too hard for us to come out, resulting in the “lion cut” you see here. I swore I would never subject her to such humiliation again, but it turned out to be a hollow promise. Sorry about that, baby.
Then, there was the move from Chicago to CT by truck (she was a trouper after the initial caterwauling). The divorce of her “parents”—it was pretty much a given that I would get custody, that Cal was “my” cat after she replaced Julia, who had been my cat pre-marriage and who died suddenly soon after we reached Chicago, though I always thought Cal preferred my ex. A two-month stint at my mother’s before moving to Santa Fe, during which time Cal showed her skills as a mouser several times over. Most memorably: on the morning I was going to begin my drive west, she woke me up with the mournful wail that I now know means, “I got this friggin’ mouse. Now what?” I later found blood on the floor and no mouse carcass, so I assumed that was the day’s breakfast.
Cal didn’t make that drive to NM with me. She got to fly here with my sister and her boyfriend, and by all accounts she once again traveled well, though I’m sure it was sheer terror and not any innate imperturbability that kept her quiet.
Life in New Mexico has been mostly pretty laid back for ol’ Cal. Except for the two cancer scares, which had me a nervous wreck, and which I’m sure she wasn’t too thrilled about, either. Especially when her condition after her first surgery took a turn for a worse. She lost a lot of weight, and it really seemed touch and go for a while. It didn’t help that when she had to take medicine, it was impossible to pill her. I didn’t feel as bad about my inadequacy when I watched two techs in the vet’s office wrestle with trying to get a pill down her throat. We do liquids and injections as much as possible now.
As most pet owners know, getting into surgery and imaging and all the rest is not cheap. I’m thankful I could afford to say each time, “Do what you have to do.” But now, as she closes in on 19(!), I know there will come a time when some illness or chronic condition ends this relationship. And like any relationship, there have been challenges.
I know it’s not fair to make comparisons, but…Julia was the kind of cat that would sit in your lap for hours, clinging to you as you shifted positions on the couch. Callie has never once sat on my lap. And, of course, there is the puking. Plus, stretches of incessant meowing that can start to get a little unnerving. And even with all the hunting instinct she showed back in CT, at times here she has refused to go for the kill. During one summer with a bad mouse infestation, I woke up several mornings to that wail, then heard her chasing the mouse around the house, catching it, and then letting it get away. I would get up and try to catch the intruder so I could toss it outside (yes, realizing it would probably find its way back in again). Cal, from what I can tell, has not detected a mouse in several years.
But if those are the low points, I’d say the 17 years haven’t been too bad. Despite not being a lap cat, Cal, has her affectionate side. Curling up on the bed inside the crook of my legs. Crawling under the covers while I do a pre-sleep crossword, my bent knees forming a tent over her. The usual cat licks to the face when I get on the floor and hang with her. And lately, she’s been spending more time by my side on the couch. I treasure those moments. She can also wrap me around her little paw—she calls for me to come out of the kitchen, then marches to “her” spot in the living room, where she has trained me to follow so I can spank her butt and otherwise shower her with attention. Once she even “made” me follow her upstairs to the door in my bedroom that leads to a deck. She wanted me to open the door so she could look out—I think she was on mouse patrol, making sure nothing got in the slight gap between the door and the floor.
Perhaps more importantly, for someone who has lived alone for almost 12 years, Callie has been my companion. Working alone at home, I find something so comforting in knowing she’s around, even on the days when we’re in separate rooms for hours. I’ll look for her and just watch her sleep, and I feel…serenity? Gratitude? Love? All of the above.
Sometimes now when she sleeps, she snores, and it makes me chuckle. She also sneezes a bit, which concerns me; it’s gotten so bad a few times that she’s sneezed blood. The vet says there is a growth in one nostril, but it’s not something to do anything about, unless it grows. So, I live with this aging, sneezing, puking, snoring, loving cat, so thankful for the time we have spent together, and for the time still to come. Thanks, Cal.
Don’t go to a movie in which one of the lead characters is dying of an unnamed terminal disease when you are dwelling on how much you fear your own death because of certain undiagnosed medical conditions, which only compound the dread of mortality you’ve lived with since your first panic attack at age 26, followed several years later by a cancer diagnosis.
If your neck’s feeling dirty and gritty and the sidewalk is hotter than a match head, you know you’re experiencing summer in the city in all its glory. Assuming grit and hot feet are glorious. I know plenty of people extol the virtues of summer (even ol’ John Sebastian saw the flip side, when you find that special someone and meet on the rooftop), but summer has always been my least-favorite season. That’s still true, though at least now I’m spending my summers in Santa Fe, and not mired in the heat and humidity of my previous homes, Connecticut and Chicago.
Not the two-weeks-in-Norway part. That’s true, and I have some of the pictures here to prove it. No, it’s the journal part. Somehow, a person who makes his living as a writer and who, for more than 10 years, has routinely set down observations on life and love and every little thing that pops into his head in this and other blogs, did not write a word during the Norwegian adventure. And I’m not sure why. It’s especially surprising because on two previous trips to Europe, both taken decades ago, I kept journals that I still have, and that I do reread from time to time. They record observations of what I saw and the people I met, and on more than one occasion, they served as a form of therapy as I worked through teenage and young adulthood angst. Even on short trips around New England or to Montreal, I’ve jotted down random musings, as much as a way to pass time alone in restaurants and hotels as to impart any profound thoughts.
Maybe it’s because I was just enjoying the moments as they unfolded and the company I was with. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned my traveling companion before here at C?WC? We’ll just refer to her by her alias, the Professor. We have traveled together before, and traveled well, but never for so long a trip and one so far from home. The good news: We are still friends (we survived our one kerfuffle, one I take full blame for). And I reckon we will travel together again, if the opportunity arises. But no, the Professor was not the reason for my journal-less journey.
So, for the Norway trip, all I have are memories, not the thoughts and impressions noted in the moment, and that’s ok. Some random observations: It is a beautiful country. Well, duh, that’s what drew me there in the first place. The cruise through the fjords was all that I hoped it would be, even if I did whine at times about the lack of sun. But we knew what to expect weather-wise, and we actually enjoyed being bundled up on deck snapping away at the scenery, the wind so strong at times it blew you around the corner. Then there was the midnight sun, as the first three days at sea were above the Arctic Circle. But even with the perpetual light, it was hard to stay awake for our midnight calls at several ports.
This was not a typical cruise, which I was ready for and which I thought would appeal to the Professor. The Trollfjord is one of about a dozen ships operated by 
We explored a bit on land as well, starting and ending the trip in Oslo, spending almost two days in Bergen, and taking a side excursion to the town of Flam, where I stayed in my first International Youth Hostel in more than 30 years. We weren’t packed ten to a room, as in one memorable stay at the hostel in Sete, France, but you still needed a token for a shower and towels were not included in the room rate. Did the experience make we want to backpack my way across the continent again? Nah. But for one night, it was fine. Our other land accommodations were through Airbnb, and all were great. No hassles with the hosts, clean, affordable, and close to city centers without feeling touristy.
But this trip wasn’t about sociological observation and comparison, for god’s sake. It was a vacation—the first real one for me in a long time. An exploration of a new place filled with beautiful sites. An adventure. Though with a touch of home; I was struck by the ubiquity of English and its use as the lingua franca—it’s how the Chinese guy in front of me at the hostel checked in, and it’s how workers from different countries communicated in restaurants and bars. It certainly made life easier for us, especially since the only Norwegian I mastered was takk (thank you). And I will note that if you go to Norway and enjoy beer or wine, as the Professor and I do, bone up on where and when liquor is sold. The regulations are tight. And the prices are eye-popping.
But in a relationship or not, surrounded by friends or family or not, the tree always went up. The ornaments came out, found their perfect spot, and he was happy. At the end of each night, in those weeks when the tree stood so tall—he loved his living room with the 10-foot ceiling!—he turned off all the lights in the house. The tiny white bulbs glowed, and as he took off his glasses, they acquired a pleasing, fuzzy edge. Still, he could see well enough to pick out the ornaments he loved best: a hand-painted, modern rendering of Mimbres art, done by a Native American artist he met at an art show; another local creation, with the couple from American Gothic rendered as smiling Dio de los Muertos figures; his own Christmas band, with ornaments of drums, and horns and a mini Gibson guitar; the prancing horse constructed out of pipe cleaners, a crafty creation made by a talented friend. And capping it off was the tin star he had made, the tree topper he had sought for so long. It looked like it had been executed by a fourth grader with dexterity issues, but he didn’t care—he had made it, and it made him smile.
Over the years, even if I didn’t see Carol or hear much about how her life unfolded, I thought of her often. How could I not, with the castle sitting on my dresser, always, no matter where I lived, holding my spare change. The castle that Carol had made for me. Now, she could have just made it as a lark in an art class and then decided it would make a nice little present for her friend’s little brother, but there was nothing random about that gift. Because in the bottom, before she fired it, she had etched, “To Miguelito, luv Me.”
I’m glad I made my two pandemic trips, especially as I contemplate the likelihood of having to cancel one if not both planned trips to CT this summer. I’m pretty sure most of my travels for the rest of this year will be close to home. But as baseball fans are wont to say, “Wait till next year!”
Crisis? What Crisis? 
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