It's Father's Day this weekend and that seems like a really good time to not really but sort of indirectly talk about our deadbeat dad.
When Little Orphan Annie first started coming around last year I was
afraid of her and her claws that could scratch me to death. I'd been
really wanting a dog but not wanting to clean up barf or poop or be sad
when the dog died, so I just loved dogs belonging to other people. But
Annie was very persistent and just would not leave me alone. And, since
I am not really a cold-hearted bitch, I was nervous about her being
alone in the world and would pet her, feed her and talk to her all day
long. One day, she put her paw on my leg and just as I was about to run
away screaming, I noticed she had no claws! A cat without claws is
basically A DOG! The deal was sealed.
I always felt bad for Annie. She was a good cat. She was curious and
smart, loved the camera, and was easily annoyed by the ball tossing
kids across the fence. Why would someone just abandon a cute little kid (I mean CAT)
like that? She reminded me a lot of someone I knew many years ago.
When we were kids we had a dog named Sam. She was the best dog
ever. We were the worst pet owners ever (I know this now). We were
little kids. We didn't know how to take care of a dog and were doing
our best to take care of ourselves in a bad situation. Sam was our best
friend, our confidant, the furry ball of love we hid under our beds
with. We probably didn't feed her the right food or walk her enough,
and we certainly didn't give her enough baths. She didn't seem to mind.
She'd sit with us for hours while we'd wait for a person who said
they'd come get us but never showed up. She'd sit there with 8 hands
petting her at the same time and just return the love. When other
people failed us, Sam was always there. When we couldn't see her, we
could for sure smell her.
Sometimes while I am working, from my window I watch the little boy
next door play in my front yard. He's the one who came to get Annie
after the earthquake. His single mom rents a room next door in a house
painted the saddest shade of green. He's a good little boy. He likes to
play Star Wars with his lightsaber and our apple tree as his shield.
Sometimes I hear him telling other kids very magical stories about his
dad who is rich and athletic and can do no wrong. He usually tells
these stories while he waits for the perfect dad who is always way late
in picking him up (I always wait to hear his his excuse), if he shows
up. More recently, the perfect dad has been coming less and I noticed
the little boy loving Annie more (when he'd get her back at night after
I'd spend all day spoiling her).
I think I was about 13 years old when Sam was put to sleep. She was
old and sick and smelled really bad. That part I remember. Our mom made
an appointment to have Sam put to sleep and didn't tell us. I am sure
she didn't know how to. I found out by accident when the vet's office
called to confirm the appointment the day before and I answered the
phone. I also remember wanting to throw up. The next morning, right before
she went to the vet, I did the only thing I knew to do. I took the last
photo of Sam. She was sleeping curled real tight in the family room in
her favorite spot by the sliding door. Her head was resting on her fluffy tail, like usual. I've had this photo with me since then, like a prisoner who
keeps a photo of a tropical island taped to the wall of his cell.
Shortly after Sam was put to sleep, we moved away.
A couple
weeks ago, my husband and I were outside when the little boy came up to
us to tell us Annie was dead. He said the neighbors found her body. She
had been attacked by a coyote at night. He said it very matter-of-factly. I wanted to cry. But I
didn't (then). We told him we were so sorry and that she was a great
cat and tried to make him feel ok. We had to go somewhere and as we
drove off, the little boy waved goodbye at us, grabbed his lightsaber
and got to playing in our yard.
Today, Goth Wiccan packed up all her stuff and her little boy and they moved out.
