When my Mother passed away she was cremated. My father did not bury her ashes. He wanted them in beautiful urn and he wanted to keep them in his room. It sounds sweet. He moved in with us and his new room was mine and hubby’s former room. He moved Mom into his new room. He also hung her picture above her ashes. Every night he would cover the urn with one of his sweaters. It was sweet in a we spent 50 years together and we are still together kind of way. He needed a room of his own and I needed my room back so while his room was being built he went to stay with my sister. The problem is that he didn’t take Mom with him to visit Sis. He decided that Mom would not travel well. This assumption was built on Mom’s previous travel history. She had been on a plane only a few times and was not fond of it. The thought of putting Mom in the cargo hold did not bode well with him. He was afraid that she would get lost. I can just picture my sister going to the airport to get him and the two of them at the luggage carousel only to be told that Mom didn’t make it off the plane and is now headed to Chicago. He also did not want to ship her via a private service. “Things happen on those flights to you know. Did you ever see the movie Cast Away?” Well there is just no arguing that point with him. I can’t count the number of times that a private carrier has gone down in the ocean and lost all of the packages on board except for a basketball and one other package. The number is too overwhelming. Needless to say, Mom stayed put while Dad went on his travels.
We moved back into our room. While I missed Dad, I was so happy to be back in my room and to sleep in my own bed that I was just beside myself. Then I looked up and saw Mom’s picture staring back at me. And it’s not one of those little 3 by 5 pictures. No this is the industrial strength portrait size 20 by 20. It’s a picture of Mom when she was twenty years old before they were married. Right next to her industrial strength portrait is a montage of pictures of Mom and all of Dad’s other relatives who are also dead. It’s sort of a gallery of dead people. Now I understand the need to have photos of your loved ones in your home. I have them all over my house. Some of the people are alive and some are not. However when they are directly above the urn with remains in it they take on a whole new meaning.
My son and I were putting my room back together. I had made the bed and dusted everything. The last thing that remained was the gallery of dead people and Mom. I didn’t want to take the pictures down. That seems awfully disrespectful because I wouldn’t be hanging them up anywhere else until Dad’s room was ready. They would be stacked in a corner somewhere. I wasn’t comfortable with stacking the gallery of dead folks in a corner so I did the only thing I could do. I put a towel over them. I don’t want to be looking at my Mom’s face after hubby and I are done doing what we love to do in the privacy of our room. That just says pew on so many levels. Once I had covered the pictures the only thing left do was figure out what to do with Mom. I thought of putting her in the closet but in the universe where karma exists putting your dead mother’s ashes in a closet just seems like you would be asking the universe to clobber you in the head. I am thinking maybe I will just put the urn on the floor between the dressers. It would be sort of an out of sight out of mind thing. Again, the whole concept of putting your Mom on the floor just screams universe please mess with me so I decided against that. Ditto for throwing a towel over the urn. I was quite frankly running out of options. I could put the ashes on the shelf in my living room but that would sort of make my dead Mother the focal point of my living room. I have never seen that on an HGTV show and I am not quite progressive enough to walk past my dead Mother everyday on my way in or out of my living room.
After much thought including the ramifications of the universe I decided to leave Mom just where she was and to not look. Yes, that's right, denial. Generations of people have built lives on denial and I was joining the club. I would just pretend that this beautiful urn did not contain the remains of my Mother. It was just a beautiful vase. It worked for a while. Right until I dusted my room. Dad would wrap it in his sweater so the urn never got dusty. Well I was not wrapping the urn with a sweater. To do so would go against my whole mantra of denial leaving me no choice but to dust it. My son suggested that perhaps if I didn’t call it Mom, dusting it might be a tad easier. I can go with that. I must admit calling the urn Mom puts you in a certain frame of mind. I normally dust with a small vacuum using the attachment. It gets all of the dust and leaves no streaks. I am poised with the vacuum in hand and I am picturing Mom being sucked into the vacuum and me having to explain to my Dad how I just vacuumed up Mom, the vacuum being haunted because Mom would come back just to have some fun with me because I accidentally vacuumed her up. I know in my rational brain that this can’t happen. Mom’s ashes are in a bag in the urn or so the funeral director told me. No, I have not looked. Mom in a bag just doesn’t work for me. It also can’t happen because I would have to take the lid off of the urn and stick the attachment in the urn to vacuum it. I know these things to be true but I am taking no chances. I put the vacuum away. A little dust won’t hurt. When Dad’s room is complete the first thing we put in the room is Mom. She is on an end table with the pictures of dead people surrounding her. My son reminds me that I had better learn how to dust Mom. I am taking the cowardly way out. I wrap her in Dad’s sweater. At least now she will be dust free and warm.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Perimenopause, Belzebub and the Smiley Face
I remember hearing a song about smiling faces. The song was a warning of sorts about being aware of smiling faces. I can vouch for being aware of smiling faces. I have a smiley face trauma. My Mom gave me a pamphlet. It had a smiley face on the cover. I should have known better but I was only ten. It told of how having a period made you a woman and that a period was your “friend.” There was a lot of information that was missing from that booklet. There was no mention of “the sprint” which is best defined as the urgent feeling that blood is running uncontrollably down your leg, requiring you to get to the bathroom in a matter of seconds. Not in the pamphlet. Day two was the heaviest day. This was not in the pamphlet either. Day two is the day that I schedule as little as humanly possible. After almost forty years I have learned to accept it. These little events have all become an integral part of my monthly routine. I have embraced the whole womanhood, time of your life theory. If you can’t beat em joint em kind of living. Embrace your reality. I am looking for the positive. My ability to plan my schedule around day two is a skill that I should be able to list on my resume under time management extraordinaire.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Time has marched on. I am almost fifty. The period has decidedly taken on a life of it’s own. It shows up when it wants, stays as long as it wants and leaves when it wants. Day two is no longer as significant as it was. My “friend” used to be regular. Every twenty-eight days, lasting five days and out. Now, the only thing regular about it is that it is irregular. Well, I have had enough of the whole womanhood thing and quite frankly I don’t need more friends. I would be very happy if the whole thing just went away. I am told that that is what is actually happening and I am delighted, overjoyed, and just downright happy about it. I want to do the happy, happy dance of joy. Then it happened. Or didn’t. The smooth transition that I envisioned was not going to happen. The smiley face pamphlet left this part out too. I am very disappointed in the pamphlet. I have been led astray.
Menopause is a condition that you can’t diagnose until it is over. You can’t know if you have completed your menopausal task until you have been period free for a year. What kind of insanity is that? Who thought that up? Would men stand for this? I don’t think so. I can just see the doctor explaining this. “I’m sorry sir but your penis is wilting. It will get smaller and smaller until it ceases to work. Then we will know that you have passed through penisapause.” But wait, it gets better. Because menopause can’t be diagnosed until it is over the powers that be have come up with a name for what happens before the diagnosis. Sort of like, clues. And a name. They had to name it. It can’t be anything without a name. Are you following this logic? I too am having a difficult time comprehending this situation. The saying that “I have some swampland” keeps replaying in my head. The name they came up with for the catch all, not really here yet, but here are a lot of clues is called Perimenopause. I’m not sure who came up with that name but they did not put a great deal of thought into it. It’s like naming your child Beelzebub. It pretty much guarantees the outcome.
I am not even going thru grown up menopause. How sad is that? I used to have periods and cramps. I used to have regularity. Now, I have lots of different vague symptoms. My symptoms are not exactly like anyone else’s symptoms. They are so vague that I didn’t know that I had them and the greatest minds in science didn’t either. Perimenopause includes irregular periods, headaches, excessive bleeding, no bleeding, inability to concentrate, and my personal favorite which is memory loss. There is nothing more exciting than being in the middle of a conversation and forgetting the words after they leave your brain but before they exit your mouth. The fogginess is also fun. It’s all in the attitude. Loosing your car in the parking lot of the grocery store so you have to push the full cart around the entire lot a few times is all the latest in practical exercise. I’m embracing. The best thing about this new exercise is that you can talk to all of the other women who are also walking the lot looking for their cars. We are all in this together. The feeling that you are moving in slow motion and nothing is quite clicking is best described as crappy. It’s not very creative description but pretty accurate. My favorite part of the syndrome that isn’t really here yet but is coming are the pimples. To add insult to injury the pimples are not the little kind that sort of blend in and look like smudges. No, these are the large red ones that look a bull’s eye on your face. These pimples are the kind that don’t get covered up with makeup. The tip is always showing thru. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I don’t recall reading about these in that pamphlet with the smiley face on it.
I think we should sue. Let’s start with Prince Charming. It turns out he isn’t real either.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Not Skiing, Not hiking Vacation
Vacations are supposed to be fun. They are supposed to be relaxing. I know this because I have seen all of the commercials. Everyone is happy, smiling, and laughing. They are doing things. Sometimes they are in the great outdoors. There can be gentle breezes, or falling snow and a beautiful mountain as a background. Sometimes they are inside observing the great outdoors. Sometimes they are on a cruise ship. It doesn’t matter. They are happy and smiling.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
I won a vacation. This should have been my first sign but I missed it. I have never won anything. Ever. In over fifty years, I have never won anything. I was so excited at the prospect of getting away that I couldn’t see past my nose. I won two nights at a ski resort, including lift tickets. I haven’t skied in twenty-five years. This was a sign. I missed it. I got a confirmation email from the reservations dept to let me know that the ski slopes would be closed when we got there but that everything else was open and they hoped we would still be coming and would enjoy the reset of the mountain experience. This was a sign and I missed it.
I know that I haven’t skied but the brochure and web site highlight the 6.5 miles of hiking trails that are as scenic as any ski run. I’m in. I run so hiking is high on my list. I am so in that I go out and get a new pair of hiking shoes. I am also preparing for my hiking experience. I am wearing my new hiking shoes and breaking them in. I wear them to work. I go hiking in the woods near my house. I’m into it.
The day finally arrived. I got up, worked out in preparation for hiking, ate breakfast, showered and was ready to rock and roll. I knew that things were not as they appeared to be when we pulled up. The beautiful ski mountain was covered in brown snow. I know that snow is not supposed to be brown. I also know this from those same the commercials. People were happy and smiling while skiing, or walking into the lodge and smiling. There was no brown snow anywhere. Brown snow aside, the hotel was perfect. It looked like a lodge straight out of the commercial. I’m looking around looking for the hiking trails and a way to access them. It is starting to feel like a vacation. This was a sign. I missed it.
The young lady behind the desk was young and perky. It turns out that the hiking trails were not open either. The web site was incorrect or a just a lie, depending on how you look at intentionally placed false information. I am trying to stay positive. The concept that we had just driven two and a half hours for two days of hiking, that was now not going to happen was lost on the perky one. I dropped the luggage that I was holding and went out the door. I looked up for the black cloud. It wasn’t open that day either but at least it wasn’t advertised as being open.
The most challenging part of the entire vacation non-experience was now having to find something to do. The nearest tourist type activity was thirty-five minutes away, so we did what all good tourists do, we went to dinner. We found a nice restaurant fifteen minutes up the road and went to discuss the options while stuffing our faces. We decided that since we couldn’t get physical we would get cultural. There was a museum in the thirty- five -minute trip away so the next morning we would be tourists. We would soak up the cultural/tourist experience. Maybe this was the sign from God that we were moving too fast. We needed to slow down. So slowing it down became the goal. It wasn’t quite hiking but hey when in Rome. The next morning we slept late, ate a huge breakfast and headed to the museum. The museum was really nice. It had a surprisingly large number of exhibits ranging from Egyptians to Samurai warriors and everything in between. The museum was nice but not all that large. We finished it before lunch so part two of the cultural/tourist vacation was shopping. More specifically, we went outlet shopping which, as every woman knows is a tad different than shopping in Macys or JC Penney or almost anywhere else. The prices are cheaper, the shoppers are more ruthless and in order to have a successful trip you have to be prepared to check every rack. Hubby was not quite up to the task. He waited along the outside of the lingerie outlet. We went in a few stores but decided that riding in the dark when you get lost during the day was probably not the best strategy so we left early and headed for the hotel with the large black cloud hanging over it.
There is a reason why people buy a GPS system. Contrary to the popular myth it is not to get directions. They have objects that give those. They are called maps. The real reason that people by a GPS system is to avoid giving directions between husbands and wives. Of course you don’t see this in the commercials. In those commercials the people are happy and smiling but they are not giving each other directions. They already have their directions, and they didn’t have to yell at anyone to get them.
I didn’t do too badly directionally. We missed a few turns. Hubby felt that he should reverse all of my directions because we were going back the way we came so if you reverse the forward directions we would be heading in the right direction. The only problem with his theory is that I had already reversed directions so he was reversing my reversal. We only went back and forth up the same road three times looking for the correct turns that I had clearly missed because I finally realized that I needed to reverse his reversal of my reversal. I have gotten over this lack of reverse map reading skill. Especially since we didn’t have a real map. We had directions from the ski resort. Yes, those same people who gave us the free weekend with the brown snow, closed trails and large black cloud looming over-head. There is no such thing as a free vacation.
The Unpet People
The woman who used to be my Mother was pacing the floor when we arrived home. She had spent four hours trying to figure out Emma the Wonder Dog and beat a six year old at cards. I had forgotten to give her instructions about Emma the wonder dog when I left. Emma gets bursts of energy. We affectionately refer to her bursts of energy as going physco. We play with her, feed her, or just let her run depending on what she needs.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
Mom is not a pet person. She took a different approach. She opened the door and let Emma out. Emma ran out. Emma chewed. Everything she could find. Two hours, a forsythia bush, half a railing, and one piece of siding later the doorbell is ringing. Mom thinks it’s me, although why she thought I would ring my own doorbell is not yet clear. It was Emma the wonder dog. Mom got up four times to answer the door when Emma rang the bell, just to make sure it wasn’t me. She smiled at Emma. She didn’t let her back in the house, but she did smile. I feel for Emma. Mom is not a dog person.
We weren’t allowed to have a dog when we were kids. We got a cat. My Mother would leave a bowl of food out for our cat all day. It had to have food in it. All the time. And a bowl of milk. The cat could be starving and wouldn’t be able to tell us because cats don’t talk. The fact that the cat weighed twenty pounds could have been an indication of the fact that she was getting enough to eat, but the food bowl had to be full. The cat didn’t always weigh twenty pounds. It used to be a kitten. A kitten who needs to go to the bathroom. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the litter box thing yet. The manger was on top of the television set. Dad had decided to use beach sand on the floor of the manger for the realism. The kitten found the sand. The kitten liked the sand. The kitten went do-do in the sand. Mom smelled the do-do and went looking for the source. She found it in the manger right next to the three wise men. Her blood curdling scream sends the kitten bolting, and Dad running. Naturally the kitten jumps down and runs right behind the television. Just as naturally Dad chases the kitten. The kitten jumps on the couch and using it as a catapult jumps right into the middle of the Christmas tree which falls over. Right on Dad. My brother and I are laughing hard and trying to rescue Dad from under the tree at the same time.
The kitten didn’t go anywhere after that. Except the couch. And the food bowl. And the milk bowl. And the litter box. The bowls, the couch and to the litter box. That’s it. Before we knew it five years have passed. The kitten grew into a cat. A fat cat. For some reason it decided to venture into the world. She ventured up into the attic behind my brother. He never saw her. No one knew she was missing until later that evening when she was not on the couch at the appointed time. We checked the litterbox. No sign of her. Her food bowl was full. The milk bowl untouched. We searched the house. Every room, every closet. Nothing.
Then we heard this weird noise coming from behind a wall in my parents room. She had fallen through a part of the attic that had no floorboard and was stuck behind a wall. Being the fit and trim animal that she was she decided to nap while awaiting rescue.
My Mother is yelling at my Dad “Fred get the cat out. She’ll starve in there.”
My Dad is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing. Operation obese cat rescue got underway. He lowered my brother down into the space to rescue fat cat who had gone back to sleep. My brother woke her up for her rescue. He thought she should be awake when rescued. Mom got her, carried her downstairs and put her in front of her bowl. “She must be starving.” The cat never ventured again. We never got our dog. Emma the wonder dog never stood a chance.
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