I hate it when things die... even if it is just a five dollar fish that Leslie bought me from Walmart. He had a name, I even learned to love him... a fish. This is exactly why I didn’t want a fish, something that would live only long enough for me to bond with it before it died suddenly. Micki, while a pain at times, sticks around long enough to be a member of the family, piss off a few people, endear herself to a few more, and eat, sleep and poop her way through several years before passing on into the Never never. Years.... get that? Not weeks. Not days. Years.
Zuko, I named him Zuko. He was a beautiful blue and red crown-tail betta. After a week or two I even got to see that he had a distinct personality for a fish. He was feisty, angsty and wild, loving to display his enormous wing span of a tail for me whenever he could. He was a show off. And that was the first tell that he was sick... he stopped showing off.
At least he gave me a good amount of time to prepare myself... at least for a fish. There were about three days of worrying, during which my wife urged me not to. I tried, but then Zuko refused to get better and the “white ick,” as it is so scientifically named, started to grow around his muzzle. (I know fish don’t have muzzles, but that’s the best name for what I saw.) So after a few days the medication started. Two days on this fishy medicine, then the tank got cloudy and apparently toxic from too much medicine, and he started thrashing about one night. Leslie switched him to a travel tank for the night, and then the next day went out to buy him a brand new tank, then we started him on a different medicine.
The next morning? He was dead. Just dead. No movement, just the wiggling back and forth of a dead body in water whenever I moved the tank even slightly. You know the motion I’m talking about, the swaying back and forth with a current that clearly displays a corpse as a corpse.
I had hoped that he would get better, I really did, but I think that somewhere deep down in my heart of hearts I knew that he was going to die young. It’s more than likely that I loved him to death with my good intentions. Moving from your first home to a temporary one and then a new one after that while on two untested drugs over the span of 5 days would probably be enough to kill a sizable human... no matter how well meaning his doctors may be. But a human would have said something... for that matter, so would a dog or a cat... even a rat would have been able to scream in pain or bite you.... clearly informing you that “Hey! This sucks! Leave me alone for a while so I can get better on my own!” I don’t understand fish. I just can’t talk to them. I don’t have that ability. I am not a fish whisperer like my wife. I’m just not.
Micki sits next to me, silently watching the morning, as Taylor showers and Leslie sleeps. Micki, while whiney at times, at least lives. I can respect that. She has a life and all that entails: opinions, goals, desires, feelings, urges (the the urge to scratch on my door at 7 AM every morning, or to poop right beside the litter box). Zuko, and the other fish that my wife has adopted, seem to just... swim. They exist, and this is why all those months ago I firmly decided not to buy one. They are not my kind of pet. I cannot cuddle with it, I cannot play with it, I cannot do anything but form a faint bond with it before it dies suddenly and violently. This is why I bought a cat. She eats, poops and overstays her welcome... and while she is quiet much of the time, and enigmatic in that special way that cats are, Micki is about as subtle as a jackhammer; just my kind of animal. We understand one another.
Perhaps one day, when we are all good and dead, I will have a nice sit down with Zuko and Micki, as well as Gunny and all the other animals that I have loved and have passed on during my life. We’ll talk about this and that, small talk about how awesome heaven is, and then we’ll get down to brass tacks: what did they think about me? What did Gunny really mean when he put his paw on my forearm? Was Micki really as much of a prissy, spoiled princess as I thought she was, or did she have sweet spots? What was Zuko thinking while he was in pain? Did he forgive me? Did he love me back? Did he know that I was trying to save him?
Or maybe, like the divine voice of God, he would look at me from his serene, crystalline lake and say: “Silly human, of course I know that you loved me. Your heart broke at the death of a fish. Despite all the death and sadness and despair around you in your mortal life, you chose to morn a fish. Your compassion and high regard for life are precious, and that is why you are now here with us, because you placed your faith in the One who created that precious life. Now... let’s go swimming!”
Attempting to understand something as strange and alien as a fish will never come easily to me. Perhaps, though difficult, I will continue to try. Regardless, Zuko is dead, and I loved him. His was a life, through brief, composed of fins, fury and righteous indignation. I will miss him.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Micki: Ode to a Cat
During the period of “I have no idea what the crap I’m doing in this town anymore" when I first moved to Lynchburg, Leslie took me to a pet store. The honest truth is that neither one of us entered the store with any intention of buying a pet. Well... Leslie told me later that her original plan was to convince me to buy a fish. Obviously that didn’t exactly work.
See, I’ve never really been a fan of fish, and after nearly killing hers the DAY BEFORE I PROPOSED, I was understandably hesitant to buy one for myself. I’ve always been a fan of, how should I put it... hardier animals.
To appease Leslie, we did indeed go look at the bettas. They are beautiful fish, to be sure. I picked up a few of the small tanks in which they were displayed as Leslie discussed the merits of “having a connection” with an animal; and as I put each cup down she would eagerly ask me: “Did you feel it? Did you feel a connection?”
I honestly said that I did, once... sorta. It was a beautiful fish, one of those bettas with a frilled tail and vibrant colors. He even swam up to the edge of his cup and stared at me. I don’t know if the “connection” was simply one of hate on his part, due to some gargantuan creature picking up his home, or whether he was genuinely curious... whatever the case, I put him back down knowing full well that his fate would be more secure with a girl who poked his tank and screamed “I’M A PARANA!!!!!!”
Relaying this information to Leslie, she shrugged and I suggested that we go over and look at the SPCA cats instead. She looked up at me with these eyes, very much like the cats, begging me to keep her from buying a cat. Leslie, no matter how rough and tough she can be (and believe me, she can be rough and tough), has a penchant for all things fuzzy. Knowing her own frame, she pleaded with me that I prevent her from buying a cat. I promised that I would, and we went over to look.
There were several very lively kittens in the cages; bouncing around, swatting at random objects... you know... kitten stuff. There was one calico that Leslie was particularly drawn to, perhaps because it reminded her of herself in a playful state. She got one of the managers to open up the cage and let her play with him.
While Leslie was occupied, I decided to look around at the other cats. Kittens were all well and good, but not my style. In a home environment I needed something a bit more calm... a bit more my pace.
Then, in the lower left hand side of the cages, I saw her, an incredibly fat and depressed looking cat with a very tempting price-tag. Micki didn’t move. I made noises and waggled a finger at her. Micki didn’t move. I opened the cage. Micki didn’t move. Eventually, the SPCA volunteer got a little brush, and began to run it down the length of Micki’s back. Micki sorta moved.
It was obvious that Micki had been in the cage for far too long. Her tag said that she was 10 years old, and had lived in a house with multiple other cats. Being in a cage did not suit her. In time I would discover just how many things did not suit her.
At this point, Leslie, who had initially not been interested in the depressed cat at all, came over to pet Micki. We tried to liven her up with a bit of catnip, to no avail. Eventually Leslie began to pet her, at which point Micki actually started to roll over so that Leslie could scratch more of her belly. This was the first sign of actual life we had seen yet, and suddenly it was Leslie who was feeling “the connection.”
Mere minutes before we had been promising ourselves that we would not buy a pet, and now we found ourselves discussing prices, logistics and I myself called Michael and my landlord to OK the idea of buying a cat. It was all such a blur that I am still surprised it all happened within the span of a few hours. Before I knew it, I had gone to an ATM, gotten the money, driven back to Petsmart and was picking up the cat.
As soon as Micki was in the crate and on the way to my apartment, she instantly came alive; and I don’t mean in a good way. I had no idea an animal could protest so much. Once the gate on the crate had been closed and the crate itself picked up, Micki started meowing like one possessed. The patrons of the store would have been within their rights to assume I was murdering the poor cat.
Once we finally got to the apartment, I took her right into my room so as to minimize the allergens that Michael might be exposed to. Free at last, Micki scuttled under my bed, and did not come out for a good two days. She didn’t poop, pee or eat for longer.
At first I was extremely worried that she might be sick, but Leslie assured me it was nothing quite so serious... she was just terrified.
In the following several months, Micki and I developed an interesting relationship. Having never been a cat owner before, I was shoved up against a rather steep learning curve. Micki became accustomed to relieving herself and desiring food around 7 in the AM, which caused me no end of frustration. Waking up to the smell of cat dung and complaining animals is something which I will probably never fully adjust to.
Another thing that I discovered rapidly is just how much a cat is like a woman, and how much dogs really are like men. When a dog comes up to you, he either wants affection or food or attention. He is very specific about this, and knows what he wants. A cat, on the other hand, will brush up against you, and this could mean any number of things. She could want you to feed her, but she may just want to play, or perhaps she wants you to pet her tummy so that she can bite you, because she enjoys inflicting pain. Or maybe she is genuinely lonely, and has been missing you as of late. But more than likely it is all of these things in equal and chaotic measure.
I discovered this within the first week.
I also discovered why cat owners put up with all this nonsense... cat tummies are sooooo fluffy! (Luckily for me, Micki’s front claws have been removed. However, to compensate, she has become quite adept at scratching me with her rear paws.)
We have now reached a mutual understanding based on fear, trust and companionship. I feed her, she keeps me company. I have also discovered just how far reaching a cat’s desire for distant companionship is: despite the fact that Micki often acts as though I am a lumbering oaf-beast (which I have yet to refute), she never wants to sleep far from me. No matter where I am... bed, couch, floor... Micki will find me, curl up close by and pass out.
No one likes to be alone.
See, I’ve never really been a fan of fish, and after nearly killing hers the DAY BEFORE I PROPOSED, I was understandably hesitant to buy one for myself. I’ve always been a fan of, how should I put it... hardier animals.
To appease Leslie, we did indeed go look at the bettas. They are beautiful fish, to be sure. I picked up a few of the small tanks in which they were displayed as Leslie discussed the merits of “having a connection” with an animal; and as I put each cup down she would eagerly ask me: “Did you feel it? Did you feel a connection?”
I honestly said that I did, once... sorta. It was a beautiful fish, one of those bettas with a frilled tail and vibrant colors. He even swam up to the edge of his cup and stared at me. I don’t know if the “connection” was simply one of hate on his part, due to some gargantuan creature picking up his home, or whether he was genuinely curious... whatever the case, I put him back down knowing full well that his fate would be more secure with a girl who poked his tank and screamed “I’M A PARANA!!!!!!”
Relaying this information to Leslie, she shrugged and I suggested that we go over and look at the SPCA cats instead. She looked up at me with these eyes, very much like the cats, begging me to keep her from buying a cat. Leslie, no matter how rough and tough she can be (and believe me, she can be rough and tough), has a penchant for all things fuzzy. Knowing her own frame, she pleaded with me that I prevent her from buying a cat. I promised that I would, and we went over to look.
There were several very lively kittens in the cages; bouncing around, swatting at random objects... you know... kitten stuff. There was one calico that Leslie was particularly drawn to, perhaps because it reminded her of herself in a playful state. She got one of the managers to open up the cage and let her play with him.
While Leslie was occupied, I decided to look around at the other cats. Kittens were all well and good, but not my style. In a home environment I needed something a bit more calm... a bit more my pace.
Then, in the lower left hand side of the cages, I saw her, an incredibly fat and depressed looking cat with a very tempting price-tag. Micki didn’t move. I made noises and waggled a finger at her. Micki didn’t move. I opened the cage. Micki didn’t move. Eventually, the SPCA volunteer got a little brush, and began to run it down the length of Micki’s back. Micki sorta moved.
It was obvious that Micki had been in the cage for far too long. Her tag said that she was 10 years old, and had lived in a house with multiple other cats. Being in a cage did not suit her. In time I would discover just how many things did not suit her.
At this point, Leslie, who had initially not been interested in the depressed cat at all, came over to pet Micki. We tried to liven her up with a bit of catnip, to no avail. Eventually Leslie began to pet her, at which point Micki actually started to roll over so that Leslie could scratch more of her belly. This was the first sign of actual life we had seen yet, and suddenly it was Leslie who was feeling “the connection.”
Mere minutes before we had been promising ourselves that we would not buy a pet, and now we found ourselves discussing prices, logistics and I myself called Michael and my landlord to OK the idea of buying a cat. It was all such a blur that I am still surprised it all happened within the span of a few hours. Before I knew it, I had gone to an ATM, gotten the money, driven back to Petsmart and was picking up the cat.
As soon as Micki was in the crate and on the way to my apartment, she instantly came alive; and I don’t mean in a good way. I had no idea an animal could protest so much. Once the gate on the crate had been closed and the crate itself picked up, Micki started meowing like one possessed. The patrons of the store would have been within their rights to assume I was murdering the poor cat.
Once we finally got to the apartment, I took her right into my room so as to minimize the allergens that Michael might be exposed to. Free at last, Micki scuttled under my bed, and did not come out for a good two days. She didn’t poop, pee or eat for longer.
At first I was extremely worried that she might be sick, but Leslie assured me it was nothing quite so serious... she was just terrified.
In the following several months, Micki and I developed an interesting relationship. Having never been a cat owner before, I was shoved up against a rather steep learning curve. Micki became accustomed to relieving herself and desiring food around 7 in the AM, which caused me no end of frustration. Waking up to the smell of cat dung and complaining animals is something which I will probably never fully adjust to.
Another thing that I discovered rapidly is just how much a cat is like a woman, and how much dogs really are like men. When a dog comes up to you, he either wants affection or food or attention. He is very specific about this, and knows what he wants. A cat, on the other hand, will brush up against you, and this could mean any number of things. She could want you to feed her, but she may just want to play, or perhaps she wants you to pet her tummy so that she can bite you, because she enjoys inflicting pain. Or maybe she is genuinely lonely, and has been missing you as of late. But more than likely it is all of these things in equal and chaotic measure.
I discovered this within the first week.
I also discovered why cat owners put up with all this nonsense... cat tummies are sooooo fluffy! (Luckily for me, Micki’s front claws have been removed. However, to compensate, she has become quite adept at scratching me with her rear paws.)
We have now reached a mutual understanding based on fear, trust and companionship. I feed her, she keeps me company. I have also discovered just how far reaching a cat’s desire for distant companionship is: despite the fact that Micki often acts as though I am a lumbering oaf-beast (which I have yet to refute), she never wants to sleep far from me. No matter where I am... bed, couch, floor... Micki will find me, curl up close by and pass out.
No one likes to be alone.
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