It’s Been Awhile

Back in late September, my friends asked me if I was worried about the upcoming move to New Mexico.  I replied, no, it would be a piece of cake compared to my earlier cross country move from Boston to California.  After all, in 1993, I said goodbye to our babysitter of nine years and packed up three kids, a dog and a cat to move to a city where I did not know a single soul.  I will never forget walking into the principal’s office at our new elementary school, filling out the registration forms, and realizing that for the first time ever in my life, I had not a single name to fill in the blank space which said “Who to contact in case of an emergency.”  I was starting from scratch.

As it happens, I had seriously underestimated the effort required to detach from a home I lived in for seventeen years, from my accumulated belongings and from my youngest son and my elderly father, neither of whom desired to join me on my journey.  As sentimental as I am, it was impossible to merely throw things away—old photographs had to be examined and scanned, stuffed animals and dolls needed to be hugged one last time, old movie ticket stubs and playbills needed to reawaken memories before being tossed.  Each time I carried a large green trash bag out of the house, the closets, nooks and crannies seemed to refill themselves.  In the end, I ran out of time, and the movers packed what was left, which amounted to an entire moving van filled with our furniture, and over 300 boxes.  My culling was not very successful.

My biggest concern about the move itself was how my four dogs, especially elderly Magic in congestive heart failure, would handle the displacement, the two day 1,000 mile road trip and climb to 7000 feet in altitude, and the uncertainties of new territory.  As it turned out, the one that I worried about most surprised me with what appeared to be a new lease on life—clearly the cooler crisper mountain air seemed to rejuvenate him.  It was the little guy, Yoda, my tiny rescued Chihuahua-terrier mix that had some unexpected issues.

Yoda was picked up as a stray in Oakland, CA two years ago at Christmas time.  Starving and loaded with tapeworm, he jumped into the arms of a good Samaritan who stopped traffic on Fremont Avenue to pick him up. My veterinarian friend there made a search for an owner, but when none came forth she neutered him, wormed him and sent him down to me.  He quickly adjusted to life with the three jolly grey giants.  Playful and loving, he never met a soul he didn’t like and never caused us a moment of trouble–until the move.

For the first time ever, on arriving in New Mexico, Yoda suffered from severe separation anxiety.  When either my husband or I would leave the house, he would cry piteously and endlessly, despite the fact that the other of us was still there, along with his Scottish deerhound buddies. He was inconsolable. Amidst the doggy distress, fear and consternation, one thing became clear to me—at some point in his short life, he had been left behind.  And he did not want it to happen again.

Yoda has settled down now and he knows that if we leave the house we are coming back.  But his little trauma has left me with a New Year’s wish for us all:   Be brave!  Make a change.  Take a short trip, or a long journey, with your best friends and your family.  Yoda wants what we all want in our own way–to live, love and laugh—and never, ever to be left behind.   Happy New Year everyone!

Taking Back The Cat

 

Boston can be a cruel city, and not just because of the weather, although it is forty degrees, windy and raining right now.  It is an expensive place to live and eat, the drivers are daunting, and everyone always seems to be in a hurry.  A year ago I spend three anxious days here with my daughter, a newly minted MD, desperately trying to find a place that was reasonably close to the hospital she is training in, affordable, and cat friendly.  As they say, “two out of three ain’t bad.”  We found a boxy one bedroom in a high rise a short distance from the Longwood area, and for a mere two hundred dollars extra deposit, she was allowed to bring her cat.  But affordable, this place is not.

 

Medical school can be a difficult and alienating experience, and if you’ve lived your whole life with warm fuzzy creatures all around, as my daughter had, there is only a brief period of excitement about a new city and a new endeavor before you begin to miss the cat curled on your lap when you study, the dog whining for attention and giving you an excuse to give up your books and go for a walk.  Despite the uncertainty of her future, my daughter found herself at the Houston Humane Society, staring into the cage of a ten month old kitten too old to be particularly cute and too plain to attract the attention of the numerous seekers dotting the rows of cages filled with sadness and longing.  A few hours later, she brought the malnourished and worm ridden little gray-brown tabby home, and christened him “Bitty Kitty.”  Several vet visits later, the worms were gone, but the effects of early starvation were not, and he has remained, as an adult, a very tiny cat.

 

A year later, with every month just a little bit more money going out than coming in, my daughter realized that if she stays where she is, her life savings will be completely gone before she finishes her residency.  She looked long and hard, in every spare hour she had, for a less expensive place, still close to the hospital, where she could still keep her cat.  Again, she achieved two out of three goals.  She found the perfect place, much less expensive than where she is living now, within walking distance.   But the cat is verboten.  No cat, no way, not even a tiny one that doesn’t cause any trouble.  She called me weeping, for advice.  I said, “I’ll take the cat.”

 

History has a way of repeating itself.  Thirty-five years ago I was accepted into a residency program at the same teaching hospital she is training at now.   I had a dog, the very first dog I bought, raised and trained all by myself.  Shandy was a collie in the old tradition of Lassie, and he was beautiful, and intelligent and my constant companion.   When I heard on Match Day that I was going to Boston, my only thought was to find a place where I could keep my dog—a large dog at that.  I came and I looked and looked and trust me, there was NO apartment within 20 miles of the city that would let me keep a large dog, or any dog, locked behind closed doors all day, and sometimes all night, because interns keep terrible hours.  I came to my senses when I realized that I knew no one in the city, and that it would be unfair to my dog to keep him.  Heartbroken, I did my best to find him a good home, with a surgeon who later moved to Ohio.  He did not keep in touch.

 

It’s been awhile since we lost old Timmy Tom at nearly eighteen years of age.  Although I have missed having a cat, I have not missed cleaning up kitty litter.  Still, I felt myself weakening recently when I spied a large male orange tabby being offered by a local cat rescue group. He stared at me and purred. But something made me hesitate, and now I know why.  On Wednesday I will depart Boston for San Diego with Bitty Kitty in hand.  He may be small, but he is mighty.  Those deerhounds better watch out.  The cat is back.