2/29/24

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Given the events of the last six weeks, you might think that my husband being moved to rehab would be my moment of happiness. And it is a moment of happiness! But there was a moment right before it, that sprang directly out of a moment of profound sadness, that comes to my mind first.

Fuzzy orange cat hair is my moment of happiness.

Almost fourteen years ago, our cat Cornelius (Corny for short) died suddenly and at a fairly young age. What was thought to be infected teeth that needed removal ended up being a malignant tumor in his sinus. The vet thought he could still live for “a while”, but instead, less than two weeks later, I discovered Corny on my bed, the tumor erupted through his nose. I flew with him to the emergency vet, and a few minutes later, my Corny was gone.

We have always honored a pet’s life by saving another. So that Sunday, Easter Sunday, I headed out for a trip to Home Depot to buy lightbulbs. But instead of turning in there, I continued on to a local humane society.

Our cat Muse was 6 at this time, and I wanted to adopt another cat close to her age. I’d checked the humane society’s website and knew there were 2 6-year olds on site. I would just look, I told myself.

When I walked into the cat room, a big orange fluffy kitty immediately pressed himself to the door of his cage. He was on the bottom row, and I bent to give him some ear scritches through the bars. He pressed and pressed. If he could have, he would have squeezed through. I looked at his nametag – the humane society called him Trivium, which I  knew to be a muse of grammar. This made me laugh. But his age…only 1 year old. I scratched a little longer, then stood, brushing the orange hair off my clothes and hands. It floated around us like a citrus cloud.

“Nice meeting you, bud,” I said. Then I turned to look for the 6-year olds.

The orange kitty snaked his paw out between the bars and hooked his claws into my pants leg.

And so I was caught.

When I went up to the front desk to ask to see Trivium one on one in a little room, the girl there said sure, but that “He’s kinda shy.”

“Like hell,” I said.

In the room, the orange kitty climbed into my lap and tucked his head into my elbow, where he promptly fell asleep. “I’m taking him,” I told the girl.

When she called home to make sure that Michael knew his wife was at a humane society, adopting a cat, which he didn’t, smart, smart Michael, who knows me well, said, “Oh, yes. I know.” I never did get the light bulbs.

Trivium came home and by the end of that afternoon became Edgar Allen Paw. His first vet described him as a “genetic anomaly.” He had extra toes. His tail was too short for his body and it also had an extra kink in it. His head was also too small. He mostly meowed without making a sound, but when he did, it was straight out of Jurassic Park.

And he was my boy.

Fast forward almost fourteen years. Edgar grew into a large cat. I called him the bowling ball. At his peak, he was 18 pounds. But he was a naturally big boy – the vet said his optimum weight was 16 pounds. Over the last year, he began to develop problems with his back legs. They would suddenly and without warning splay out, useless. And then…they’d come back.

However, in the middle of all this chaos with Michael, Edgar’s legs went out again, and this time, they stayed out. He lost control of his bladder. And in our open concept three-story condo, with very few doors, he kept falling down the stairs.

I knew what I had to do. But I surely didn’t want to do it.

At the vet’s, Edgar couldn’t stand up. My vet gave him a sedative to calm him down before the final injection. She left us alone for a bit, giving me a few precious moments before that injection was performed.

Fourteen years older, I did not sit on the floor, as I did on the day he chose me. But I laid my arms flat on the examination table and Edgar curled into my circle. He tucked his head into my elbow and he fell asleep.

He knew he was safe, and with his person, just as he knew it fourteen years before.

When it was all over, the vet, who knew about what was going on with Michael, gave me a huge hug as I sobbed. And then she left us alone again, so I could give Edgar a last goodbye.

I stroked him from nose to kinky tail tip. I counted his toes. And then I took the corner of the blanket he was laying on and pulled it over his body, leaving his head out, and covering him like he was sleeping.

Just before I left, I noticed the tufts of Edgar’s fluffy orange fur, left there after the vet shaved a spot on his front leg to put in the IV. I thought of fourteen years of constantly having orange fur on my clothes. Of the clouds of it when I brushed Edgar. How all of the furniture in my house, no matter what the original color was, had a definite orange tint.

After pulling out a tissue, I picked up the bit of fur and folded it inside, and then tucked it into my purse.

On that first morning without Edgar, I walked into my office and glanced at where his bed used to be. I always started my day with a “Good morning, Eddie-grrrr.” But on that day, I walked to the bookshelf behind my desk. On it, in front of my row of published books, sits that tuft of orange hair. “Good morning, Eddie-grrr,” I said. “Good morning, Ed-Fred. Good morning, my bowling ball cat.”

I have never been so happy to have orange fur in my house.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.