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What with two different people on my friends list having cats put down yesterday, I started thinking about the pets I grew up with. I still, thirteen years after the fact, ask myself "where's the dog when I want him?" when I'm scrubbing out any dish with baked-on cheese in it. I'm half-convinced that the reason my family's first dishwasher lasted as long as it did is because Fido did such a good job on the plates before they even went into the dishwasher at all. He was half Border collie and half Newfoundland, and he knew the difference between "out" (out of the room), and "outside". He could also spell W-A-L-K and you couldn't tie your shoes without his help. We got him as a puppy when I was two years old, because my father didn't want me and my sister to grow up afraid of dogs. It worked; I like dogs, and for some reason I've never quite figured out, most dogs like me. We had Fido put down when he was 14; he couldn't get up without help and he had stopped enjoying life.
Then there was Schwartz. Schwartz was my father's cat from the ground up; her mother was a ship's cat who had abandoned her kittens, and my father was building tugboats at the shipyard at the time and came home with Schwartz and her sister in the palm of one hand. She was two years old when I was born. Schwartz was an orange tabby with white patches, and we could never figure out how she kept all of her white patches so white since she was an outdoor cat. She was the most talkative cat I've ever met; you could have an entire conversation with her as long as you finished whatever you were saying with her name. Apparently my grandmother had a half-hour conversation with her once. Schwartz had an ironclad sense of dignity and knew perfectly well that she had a tail, and if you touched it you were on her black list for life. Once I found out about Klingons, I was convinced that if we had shaved Schwartz, her backbone would have looked like a Klingon's forehead, and we'd be all set for an ambassador if the Klingons ever landed. Schwartz was 21 and I was at college when my parents had her put down. She had had only two teeth for years, but they were opposing molars, so she got along fine until she got too old to wash herself.
Cynthia came along after Schwartz but before me. She was a stray cat who became my father's shop cat in Stonington. When the shop moved to Noank, so did Cynthia. She was a teeny little black cat, and she was the one who knew that the sound of sharpening knives meant somebody was filleting fish. She was also the one who stood directly on top of a 40-pound bass, and couldn't find it. She knew there was fish around somewhere, but fish in her experience wasn't that big. Apparently she also tried to catch a swan once, but she changed her mind about that when the swan puffed itself up and hissed at her. She and Schwartz more or less stayed out of each other's way. I don't think I ever saw them sleeping in the same place. Cynthia had a stroke when she was 14. That was the first time I ever saw my father cry.
After Cynthia died, we had Fido and Schwartz for a while, and then we got Edison. Edison was a black kitten from the humane society, and we think his mother was an orange tabby, because the instant he saw Schwartz, he thought she was going to be his best friend ever. Schwartz, who was over 10 at the time, didn't want anything to do with him. Fido thought Edison was great, though, and Edison grew up thinking he was a dog, except for the whole purring thing. Edison was a champion purrer. We could be downstairs and hear him purring upstairs. When we had Fido put down, Edison took over the "faithful family dog" role. If we went somewhere for the day and left him outside, he would be sitting by the back door waiting for us when we came home. It took me about two years to stop looking for him when I came to Noank. His kidneys gave out when he was 14, and the night before Dad was going to take him to the vet for the last time, he went out and never came home.
I hope the Bloodthirsty Jungle Demons have good long lives.
Then there was Schwartz. Schwartz was my father's cat from the ground up; her mother was a ship's cat who had abandoned her kittens, and my father was building tugboats at the shipyard at the time and came home with Schwartz and her sister in the palm of one hand. She was two years old when I was born. Schwartz was an orange tabby with white patches, and we could never figure out how she kept all of her white patches so white since she was an outdoor cat. She was the most talkative cat I've ever met; you could have an entire conversation with her as long as you finished whatever you were saying with her name. Apparently my grandmother had a half-hour conversation with her once. Schwartz had an ironclad sense of dignity and knew perfectly well that she had a tail, and if you touched it you were on her black list for life. Once I found out about Klingons, I was convinced that if we had shaved Schwartz, her backbone would have looked like a Klingon's forehead, and we'd be all set for an ambassador if the Klingons ever landed. Schwartz was 21 and I was at college when my parents had her put down. She had had only two teeth for years, but they were opposing molars, so she got along fine until she got too old to wash herself.
Cynthia came along after Schwartz but before me. She was a stray cat who became my father's shop cat in Stonington. When the shop moved to Noank, so did Cynthia. She was a teeny little black cat, and she was the one who knew that the sound of sharpening knives meant somebody was filleting fish. She was also the one who stood directly on top of a 40-pound bass, and couldn't find it. She knew there was fish around somewhere, but fish in her experience wasn't that big. Apparently she also tried to catch a swan once, but she changed her mind about that when the swan puffed itself up and hissed at her. She and Schwartz more or less stayed out of each other's way. I don't think I ever saw them sleeping in the same place. Cynthia had a stroke when she was 14. That was the first time I ever saw my father cry.
After Cynthia died, we had Fido and Schwartz for a while, and then we got Edison. Edison was a black kitten from the humane society, and we think his mother was an orange tabby, because the instant he saw Schwartz, he thought she was going to be his best friend ever. Schwartz, who was over 10 at the time, didn't want anything to do with him. Fido thought Edison was great, though, and Edison grew up thinking he was a dog, except for the whole purring thing. Edison was a champion purrer. We could be downstairs and hear him purring upstairs. When we had Fido put down, Edison took over the "faithful family dog" role. If we went somewhere for the day and left him outside, he would be sitting by the back door waiting for us when we came home. It took me about two years to stop looking for him when I came to Noank. His kidneys gave out when he was 14, and the night before Dad was going to take him to the vet for the last time, he went out and never came home.
I hope the Bloodthirsty Jungle Demons have good long lives.
