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Friday, Sep 05, 2008
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What I mean to say is.... |
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| Our Little Family | ||
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by Beau Burriola -
SGN Foreign Correspondent I didn't want a cat. I wanted a dog. I called a lady about an ad she posted for different types of puppies. I was looking for a boxer pup or a lab or something energetic that could run along side me or catch a ball. Izzy had one. Eric had one. Many of my Gay friends had pets, their own "little families", and I wanted one. When I phoned, Rosie gave me the "hook." While her ad advertised puppies of all types, she explained that she's a sort of community 'dump off point' for animals sometimes and she has to find them homes. The hardest of these to get rid of is black kittens, because there are so many and because nobody wants them. "So, no boxer pups?" I began to ask, not liking the direction this was going. A whole box full of unwanted black kittens nobody wants, she continued, small enough to hold in your hand. She just needs six people to care enough to help. They would come neutered and delivered if someone would please take them. Please, please, please help. Kittens. Please. What could I say? The image of an animal small enough to hold in your hand was vivid, but I saw myself more as the tough-guy-with-a-tough-dog sort than a "cat" person. As she went on describing the plight of the kittens in the box and their uncertain future, though, it became less about my image than the poor kitten's life. So, after a lot of convincing, I agreed to accept a kitten from the puppy lady. She arranged to have him delivered from Tacoma. When Rosie's sister dropped off a bouncing, mewing box with a little paw occasionally popping out the air hole, reaching out to grab shirts, noses, anything - I was smitten. The mew and the paw were so tiny. I took the box inside and set it in the middle of my living room floor for the big introduction. In the same second I opened the first flap of the box, a tiny blur of black fur shot across the room, into the bedroom, and under the bed. I waited a bit and then, hanging upside down, I peered into the shadow under my bed, seeing only these two huge eyes on a tiny little head staring back at me. We sat like that for a while, him in the farthest part under the bed and me talking to him upside down, becoming acquainted. At first, I decided to name him Ty in honor of my late grandfather, but that honor lasted only until a private evening with my boyfriend when the cat just sat perched on the edge of the bed staring at us. It was creepy, so right then, I decided to call him Monster, on account of him hiding under the bed waiting to pounce at any feet walking by. That lasted another couple of weeks until I decided that Monster was no name for a cat who wanted any friends. So, I decided to call him Chimayo, after a hot red pepper on my calendar of hot South American peppers. I called him that for a few weeks, looking for any sign of recognition or approval of this name from him, but although he responded to the sound of the can opener, the vacuum, or a shoe being tied, he never responded to Chimayo. Finally, I settled on Lucky. He was black, I didn't have to spell it for the vet, and, after all, I felt pretty lucky for the twists of fate that delivered him to my door. Lucky. In the true over-the-top fashion befitting any Gay man who has never had kids, I bought Deluxe Super everything. I bought the deluxe kitty litter box with the cover, walk in rug, and the ventilation system. I bought organic cat food. I bought a box full of little kitty mice, ribbons, dangling shiny things, and catnip-sprayed bouncy balls, and on top of it all, a big, beautifully painted wooden trunk to keep it all in. I bought lavender additive for his litter box and a wardrobe of collars to match my various ties. I hung him his own stocking at Christmas and, when I traveled, I hired the Pet Nanny to come feed him and play with him every single day, giving me little report cards on his moods. I sent out e-cards with Greetings from "Our Little Family," with me and Julien in back, and Lucky right in front. I spent more money, time, and effort than anyone who works hard for a living could ever admit to. When I decided to leave Seattle for a trip to South America for a couple of months, I arranged to send Lucky to my sister in North Carolina. Feeling guilty after our two years living non-stop together, I bought him the best crate and toys I could find and carefully arranged his favorite blanket in the crate. I checked and rechecked all the details of his trip meticulously. I even conducted a little dress rehearsal for his trip to get him used to traveling in his crate. On our way to the airport on the Big Day, I must have looked insane to the taxi driver, constantly assuring the pet crate on the seat next to me that it would "all be okay, really" and that I would see him in just a few months, when my sister would send him to our new home. It wouldn't be forever, I promised, just a little vacation. I kept looking for some sign of recognition or approval, but he just sat there with his head down, looking upset. I wished I'd brought a can opener. The thing about promises - even promises to a pet who probably can't understand - is that sometimes they are only, can only be, expressions of the heart. We say things to reassure ourselves when we're scared, when in reality, our ability to keep those promises goes only as far as forces of fate will allow. In a sobbing, panicked call from my sister last week, I learned about the house fire. I heard the fire engines behind her, the chaos. She and Eric were okay, but the house was gone. All their stuff, gone. My cat, gone. From thousands of miles away, my promise didn't mean much. It seems too obvious and convenient, a sort of pop psychology, to say that the affection that Gay people lavish upon our pets is a reaction to the surrogate families we create to fill the gap of those children many of us won't have. Having an animal is, after all, much easier than having a child will ever be, but for the many Gay folks who come to the realization that we won't ever have kids, it seems as close as we get. The human affection we feel at those spontaneous moments where the animal jumps into our lap for an unexpected, purring nuzzle of whisker to chin, is as real as any affection a person can feel. Although the tragedy that has impacted "our little family" isn't near the magnitude of loss that some people who lose kids have, it's as close as I'll get. It's real enough that for a long time, I'll miss not having him come running when I open a can or miss dodging those reaching paws at my feet when I walk by the bed. I'll miss regular trips to the organic pet store for surprises to take home. I'll miss all that comes with it and I'll hope that kitty heaven is full of endless tuna you get all to yourself, laser light chaser toys that you always catch, and never ending behind-the-ear scratches that hit all the right spots just so. I'll miss him bunches. Beau Burriola is a dog person who was lucky enough to have had a cat. beaubrent@gmail.com |
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visit Beau at www.beaubrent.com
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