Grief comes in waves, and those relatively peaceful times when you think it’s past and you’re finally done with it are only the troughs between them.  You get yourself through it by letting it happen and eventually you find the waves do get smaller.  Or you’ve just become use to it being there.

I walk through the neighborhood on my way to Cafe’ Hon…a favorite dinner spot.   Along the way I often encounter various neighborhood cats.   We’re not exactly swimming in cats here in Medfield, but Claudia was hardly the only outdoor domestic cat in the neighborhood. They all usually come up to me for a pet or two when they see me coming…somehow they always seem to sense that I’m a friendly human, even the ones I’ve never laid eyes on before.   Apart from the ferals there is only one neighborhood cat who won’t come near…a big grey one that lives at the other end of my street.   But that one’s even more of a diva than Claudia was.   Claudia was a diva too, but a friendly one.

So I cross paths with the black cat that lives across Falls Road, who reminds me of my first cat, and yesterday as I walked to Cafe’ Hon, a little black & white one a few blocks away I’d never seen before, who came up to me for a pet.   It had a name tag exactly like the one I gave to Claudia after she became mine.   I reach down to give them a few strokes before I go on my way, and now I have a new patter I say to all the neighborhood cats as we exchange greetings.

Please be careful…Please…

Cats are not the most noisy of this good earth’s creatures, and yet it’s amazing how…quiet…my house is now without her.  I’m listening for small things…the sound of her collar tags tinkling, her feet bounding up the stairs, that odd little gravelly voice she had. When she was in the house every now and then I’d hear her little feet, usually going up or down the stairs or hopping off the kitchen counter.  She’d find me either down in the art room working on something or upstairs in the bedroom napping, announce herself in that little voice and then walk over to where I was for some attention. More often than not, it got me away from the computer. I was slowly beginning to rediscover what a life was like away from one.

There’s nothing in the house now but silence.  And…me, lost somewhere inside of it.

In retrospect it’s amazing how quickly the morning routine with Claudia became, well, a routine. Before Claudia it was get up, bathroom, then some undetermined activity, maybe the computer, maybe putting out the trash or filling the dishwasher, brewing some coffee, or maybe making myself some sandwiches for lunch, then out the door to work on workdays, or Whatever if it was the weekend or stay at home vacation.   After Claudia it was always feed the cat, and that was a routine into itself, a pattern I quickly and neatly fell into.

I stopped going downstairs until I was fully dressed.   No more wandering down from the second floor only partially clothed, if at all.   Because if she was out for the night first thing when I got downstairs was open the door and let her in. No point in letting the neighbors see an unclothed Bruce at the door…they probably think I’m weird enough as it is.   She’d be right there at the door talking to me the moment she heard the deadbolt key turn, and as soon as I had the door open just a crack she was inside.   Then there would be a pause with her back to me, waiting for some petting and stroking. Then I got led to the kitchen. In her last couple weeks I was gradually trying to get her used to staying inside overnight.   So then the routine was I had to wait until I was dressed before I even opened the bedroom door because she’d either be there waiting, or at the foot of the stairs.   And once she laid eyes on me the Feed The Cat routine started, and it never varied much.

After the morning greeting she would lead me into the kitchen. I would walk over to the sink and her tail would go up and start vibrating, which is cat love. And I would get one of her stainless steel dishes and hand wash it if it wasn’t already clean (a solitary guy doesn’t fill the dishwasher fast enough to run it every night) and dry it off while she rubbed against my legs. Her food would either be from the can or something from the fridge…perhaps some carved turkey slices I’d bought from Trader Joe’s for both of us.   I’d bring some out and start cutting it up for her bowl and she’d stand up on her hind legs with her front on the counter door and scratch at it…I didn’t mind, she wasn’t hurting it, I keep meaning to get some new cabinetry put in because I really don’t like the fuax country kitchen decor the previous owners installed…and I’d reach down and give the back of her neck a scratch and go back to what I was doing.   Throughout the process she’d talk to me and I’d talk to her…

Good Morning! Hungry are we? Well you’re in luck! I was just about to put some food into one of these little stainless steel dishes and set it on the floor. It’s this little ritual I have. So you came along at Just The Right Moment! All these years I’ve had this tick of putting food into little stainless steel dishes and setting it on the floor and now all that food doesn’t have to go to waste anymore! Like it do you? Swell! This works out pretty well for both of us doesn’t it? I put food in one of these little stainless steel dishes and put it on the floor and you come along and eat it. Come back this afternoon…I might do it again. You never know….

I used to have shameless fun with it…

Hungry are you? Carnivore you say? Say…this might work out for both of us. You see, I have this turkey corpse hidden in the fridge. Trader Joe asked me to get rid of it for him. Here’s my proposition: You could slowly eat it…come back here every now and then and I give you some. Come alone….understand? Deal? We work this right and you get food, and I get rid of a dead body for Trader Joe. You in? Dead bird is just fine with you is it? Exxxxcellent…

Then I’d put it down on the floor for her, give her a few more pets as she dug in…

…and while I was there and she was eating I’d make some food for myself to take in to work, which in the long run was probably better and healthier for me and certainly a lot cheaper.   I’d grind some coffee to take in to work, pack some lunch, and by then we were both ready for our day.   She came to me a determinedly outdoor cat, it was how I came to have her in the first place as Ben, her previous owner, just couldn’t keep her inside.   So for the first months of our friendship, and then the first few weeks of my officially being her owner (or employee more likely), I didn’t bother trying to keep her inside when she wanted out.   I would sling on my backpack, put on a hat, set the alarm and we’d both walk out the door together.   I’d say something like “Watch the mansion dear…” or “Keep an eye on the neighborhood…” and off I’d go.

Most workdays she would be waiting for me when I got home, and if she wasn’t there a call of her name and she always came running.   Always.   And then came the afternoon routine.

No more. It’s amazing how lost I feel now. Aimless. My life here at Casa del Garrett has simply reverted back to what it has always been for the first eleven years since I’ve lived here, and I don’t know how to do that anymore. It isn’t intuitive. I’m just doing what I think my mornings were always like. But I don’t know anymore what they’re supposed to be like.

Everyone, almost without exception, tells me I should get another cat when the time is right.   I am almost inclined to agree, maybe.   But any cat I bring into my life again will have to be a strictly indoor cat because I am not carrying another much loved pet back to the front porch with a broken body. So what kind of life can I offer an indoor cat?   Well, I have a house of my own, and it has three levels and lots of space to run around and find places to lounge in.   But it gets little direct sunlight into it because of the Japanese maples out front, and the aluminum awnings a previous owner put over the windows.   I could put some places up by all the windows for it (her…it would probably be another her) to lounge on and watch the world outside go by. But I would hate to think I was keeping it (her) imprisoned. There’s a reason you can’t keep a cat confined indoors once it’s had the taste of the outdoors.   A life confined indoors would disturb me.   But I can’t be picking up another broken body off the street.

The worst of it though is…it’s just me living there.   I go to work.   I go here and there when I’m not at work.   For a walk when I need it.   In my car when I need that.   Cat’s don’t do cars very well.   Neither do most motels.   The cat would be by itself a lot, and taken care of by a stranger who comes by just long enough to feed it (her) and clean the litter box when I’ve gone on vacation somewhere.   It just wouldn’t be fair.   I take your love and affection and then I leave you alone whenever it’s something I need to do.

It isn’t that another cat wouldn’t be good for me.   Claudia’s love convinced me I need companionship more than I’d thought. I’ve been searching for my other half since I was a teenager in first love, and telling myself that I’d rather be alone then fake it with Mr. For Tonight or Mr. Good Enough.   But alone is more damaging than I’d really realized.   It isn’t that another cat wouldn’t be good for me.   It’s would I and my life be good for a cat.   At least Claudia had the world outside the house too.

It’s been over a day since I’ve had a crying jag.  Still occasionally flashing back to when I saw she’d been hit, but it isn’t preoccupying me anymore and I can deflect those remembrances toward other happier memories of her more easily now.  Walking through my day is a bit less of a pantomime.  I still keep calling to her though, every now and then.

Happy 60th Birthday Bruce…

To: andrew@andrewsullivan.com
Subject: Putting Out Another Cigarette In Matt Shepard’s Body

Okay…I’m done with you. Finally. It looked like you grew a conscience after the Bush years but really you haven’t.

There is nothing mysterious or unexplained or hidden about what happened in Laramie that night. It’s all in the court transcripts and the news record of the days following the murder. This degenerate smear that he was having sex with his killers is appalling, especially considering what is in the fucking court record.

It’s so simple even you could get it. They asked him if he could read their license plate. This is according to their own statements. Why would that be necessary if he already knew them.

Look at it. No…really look at it. But that’s assuming you want to. That’s assuming striking out at the liberal menace isn’t still so much of an obsession with you that you’re perfectly willing to help others smear a murdered gay kid to do it.

Cancel my subscription. Do not automatically renew it or I will go to my credit card company and tell them you did it without my authorization. You have no conscience. You don’t. You cannot be trusted to tell the truth, and I have no use for an untrustworthy source of news Or opinion.

—
Bruce Garrett
Baltimore, Maryland

Surely one of them is an honest man…

Florida Police Chief: Either George Zimmerman Or His Lawyer Is Not Telling The Truth

Not necessarily.   George says he didn’t have his gun on his person.   His (ex) lawyer says he did, but he didn’t pull it out and wave it around.   I think there’s room here for another fairly obvious possibility.

I can’t help myself…I keep calling her name when I come back to the house, like I used to, along with some of the other patter I made for her as I walked with her up the steps, or greeted her when she came to me…but more softly so the neighbors won’t hear me doing it.  I guess that not wanting the neighbors to hear is some sort of evidence that I haven’t lost my mind completely, but at some point I will probably stop it altogether because it is a bit, nuts.

Sometimes even the most rational of people can find themselves wishing ghosts were a real thing, find themselves hoping to see a certain one.

Think Progress headline this morning…

Florida can prosecute George Zimmerman even if his wife doesn’t press charge

Sure could. Just like the last time they prosecuted him. I’ll bet he’s quaking in his boots at the prospect. They’re birds of a feather with that resentful angry thug and you don’t seriously want your soul brother going to jail just because he waved a gun at his spouse, or killed an unarmed kid who’d just gone out for some snacks.

[Added some text for clarity of meaning…]

She’s gone…I know she’s gone.   But some reflex keeps me looking for her at the door whenever I open it first thing in the morning.   She’d hear the key in the deadbolt turn and hop off the bed I put out for her, or the chair or the side table if that’s where she happened to be, and was right there against the lower left corner of the door where it opened, telling me it was time for breakfast.   I used to peek out the front window to see where she was stationed in the morning…she would always be either watching the street or one of the neighbors…and gently turn the key to see if I could get it unlocked before she knew it.   I never did.   The instant it made the slightest noise her head would turn and the game was up.

She’s not there at the door now, she’ll never be there again, but some reflex keeps expecting to see her initially and I glance there.   And then it figures it out.

First day home from work in what seems like ages, but was actually more like four months, that a little gray dear isn’t waiting for me.   If I took the car in to work, even if I didn’t see her bounding toward it while I was parking, I eventually came to know she’d be there, sitting on the sidewalk when I walked around the car.   There you are… But occasionally she wasn’t there, and then I’d call to her as I walked toward the steps to the porch.   Clauuudia…Clauuudia… For some reason I got a kick out of pronouncing her name that way.   And I’d see her come running, sometimes from the front yard of one of the the houses across the street, sometimes from a neighbor’s porch.   She’d stop a couple feet from me, tail held high, and talk to me, and I’d walk over and pet her and stroke her and complain that her tail had a few specs of dirt in it again and try to get some of it out, and we’d both walk up the front steps to the porch. She was always there when I came home. Always. Waiting for me. Happy to see me.

I couldn’t help myself…I’m still a bit out of my mind. I called to her as I walked up the steps.   Clauuudia…Clauuudia… But more softly than usual so my neighbors wouldn’t hear and call for the padded wagon.   At least I don’t have to worry about me putting food out for her in the kitchen too, because I gave what I had left that she will never need now to Ben for her brother.

After work I went to Valley View to look for a cat statue for the front yard rock garden I’m going to make for her.   It’ll have to be a rock garden because that spot, where she loved to lounge, gets almost total shade from the Japanese maples in the front yard and I can never get anything to grow there.   I’m going to scatter some of her ashes there when I get them from the pet cemetery, and make a spot for her memory.   Valley View had one decent cat garden statue…it had the right pose and the right attitude to put someone in mind of her, but it had some angel wings on it and that was a bit much. A visitor should know her little spirit had wings without needing to actually see them.   That’ll be the art I put into it.

So I go to bed now, and it’s all as it was before Claudia came into my life.  I have nothing to worry about before hitting the sack.  No one to check on and see if maybe she wants to spend the night inside for a change.  No one to open the door for and look to see if she wants to come in for a snack before her nightly duties, whatever they were.  No one to check on before bed.  I have no one to look after now.  I don’t have to turn the nightlights I bought for the basement now, so she can find her way to the litter box in the basement bathroom if she needs to.  She only used it once but it reassured me she knew where it was and I could leave her inside for an extended period without worrying she’d leave a deposit somewhere else.  I don’t have to clean her food dishes, or make sure she had some dry food out.  I don’t have to check the water fountain.  I can just hit the sack and not a care in the world when I do.  Freedom is such an empty thing.  Like my house is again.  Like I am.  Like I’ve always been except for a few weeks this summer when I was loved by a little thing who didn’t have to notice me at all but she did out of everyone else here on the block.

This afternoon was better than this morning.   This morning I was still flashing back to the moment I discovered Claudia had been hit. Yesterday it was happening to me constantly.   Now its much less often, and when it happens it isn’t as excruciatingly painful.   I’m still grieving badly over losing her, but it’s not overwhelming me so often.   Perhaps tonight I’ll actually be able to rest in bed without repeatedly flashing back to it.

Over the past couple days I’ve watched the few small drops of blood on my front porch slowly fading away.   They fell from her as I carried her away from the street and to my house.   When I cradled her up off the street I could feel that her body was all broken up inside.   I remember I kept trying to be careful so as to not to hurt her more, as if it would have made any difference at that point, but I was out of my mind.   I’m still not altogether right.

On the front porch was a little pet bed I’d bought for her, not knowing if she’d like it but figuring I could try something else if she didn’t.   She had a spot on the front porch she liked and so I put the bed there and the next time I looked out she was fast asleep in it.

She loved that thing.   I eventually bought another one just like it for the living room, and of course she seldom used that one, preferring instead a spot on the floor just in front of the sofa.

So I took her broken body over to the little bed she loved and laid her down in it.   Then I went inside and got a cloth and covered her with it, and that was how I eventually delivered her to the pet cemetery for cremation, bed and all.   When I came back home I noticed the blood on the porch and I couldn’t bear to clean it up because it felt like erasing her and I wasn’t ready to start picking up all her things inside the house and putting them away, let alone tend to the damage outside.   Some neighbors kindly washed off the street for me.

A few more days and those little spots on the porch floor will probably be gone.   Maybe by then the worst of this will have passed too.

Going though my photo archives trying to size up what I have of Claudia.   Given that she’d only appeared on my front porch back in April and I only had her officially for five weeks, I didn’t expect to find much.   But there’s quite a bit there, because almost as soon as she started making herself at home here at Casa del Garrett, I started snapping off shots with the iPhone because it was handy.   The tragedy of getting yourself too involved in photography as an artistic pursuit is everything you do with your cameras becomes a part of that and just documenting your day to day life falls through the cracks.   She was this amazing new thing that came into my life…completely unexpected…and eventually I did start focusing the good cameras on her.   But in the randomness of it all I am so grateful now for that cell phone camera: it was always on my hip.

This was taken during one of her initial explorations of Casa del Garrett. I don’t think at this point I even knew whose cat she was, just that she was a neighborhood domestic cat who probably belonged to someone else and was constantly, and to my delight, confusing my house for theirs, so I kept letting her in.   Here she’s wandering around in my upstairs bedroom while I sat by the door just watching her explore.   As she came back over to me I reached for the iPhone and turned on the camera app and then with the phone in the left hand I reached around to give her a scratch with the other.   The expression on her face is typical. She was never hesitant or wary around me…never.   And that was the most amazing thing because I was at this point, still a total stranger.   However it is cats size people up, she’d somehow taken my measure that first time she bolted into the house, and proceeded to make herself at home. It was as if she’d known me, somehow, forever.

And I didn’t want a pet, and there she was, and there I was and it made prefect sense and I didn’t want it to. All my cast iron resolution that the last cat I’d had back in the 1980s was it after I came home one day and he was dead…no more pets.   I had a ton of objectively sound reasons why a pet just didn’t fit into my life and that little dickens blew past all of them as fast as she’d bolted into the house that first time I laid eyes on her, when I opened my front door one April morning and she’s there on the front porch sitting quietly looking at me as if to say “Well finally you opened that damn thing.”