The Waking Hour

My alarm is set for six. It’s a little earlier than I’d like, and earlier than others might need for an 8 AM job three miles from my door, but I hate being rushed in the morning: it sets the wrong tone for the day. So I get up early and ease into the day.

Dmitri’s alarm is set for five. Cats are cats, especially young ones like mine. They’re curious, and they’re agile, and although they have each other to play with Dmitri is generally more energetic than Ivan – if there’s trouble to be gotten into, it’s mostly Dmitri doing it. Dmitri’s the one jumping at the shadows reflected back on the blinds from the morning sun. Dmitri’s the one trying to open cabinets and jump up on bookshelves. Ivan’s usually the one watching the mischief from the TV stand.

Of course, as I’m writing this Ivan is playing with the bedroom door. So there’s that.

Anyhow, so lately Dmitri keeps finding ways to make noises at 5 AM. Knocking stuff over, jumping around, the usual cat stuff. Which wakes me up at the worst possible time, because I really want that last hour of sleep. But once he gets me up, there’s not much chance of shutting my brain back down and getting a few more winks in. I start thinking of how much I’d like to get some more sleep, what I have to do that day, how annoying it is to have cats wake me up when I just want to get some sleep …

When Gizmo used to do that, I would sometimes shut the bedroom door so he wouldn’t disturb me with his antics. That backfired because he hated being separated from me. He didn’t have to be in the same room with me, but he hated the idea that he couldn’t be. These two aren’t quite like that, so the closed door works – except that part of morning ritual at the Winter Palace is Dmitri jumping up on the bed to say good morning once the alarm goes off.

And I kinda love that part. He purrs as soon as I touch him, and he’s very sweet and affectionate. Ivan usually waits his turn, which about half the time involves me coming to him.

I love my cats, as much as they drive me nuts sometimes. They are now chasing each other around the house like maniacs.

The Zen of Cats

I live too much in my own head. I focus so tightly on what I want, what I’m doing, that I lose sight of my real priorities.

If my cats make too much noise trying to get my attention while I’m writing, I shoo them out of the room and shut the door. Obviously they don’t understand this, so it just seems mean to them. They want a little love, maybe a little play time, and instead they get pushed farther away. I feel a little bad about it afterwards.

Yes, sometimes I really need to be left alone to chase that elusive chain of thought. But is it always that important? Is what I’m doing always the most important thing in my life? I love my cats. I love playing with them and petting them, hearing them purr, watching them chase the string. My life is a lot better with them in it.

And it’s not just my cats. It’s everyone in my life. There are those I dearly love that I put off and push away because I want to work on my own stuff. Granted that I need more alone time and space than most for a variety of reasons. But how much of that is genuine, and how much self-imposed?

I need to remind myself of what really matters. As much as I love my writing, is it going to bring me as much happiness and satisfaction as love will? Which makes me a better person? Which is healthier?

I’ve started meditating again. It’s relaxing, and it’s one of the few spiritual experiences open to me as an atheist. And it grounds me. It brings me back from inside my busy little brain to here in the real world with the rest of everyone. A true Zen practitioner can keep herself grounded through any kind of activity: chopping wood, cooking, painting, building spreadsheets. Whatever her activities are, she is there in that moment, aware and fully engaged with it.

I’m nowhere close to there yet. But I want to be. So I’m going to practice. And I’m going to play with my cats when they want to play.

Chewie

Mneme and J said goodbye to their dear cat Chewie this morning.

Part of me thinks that it’s not my grief. It’s not my story, nor my place to tell it. But I remember that I loved him, too. My hurt differs greatly by degree but comes from the same place: he was here, he was loved, he is gone. He was family to me as sure as his human guardians are, and as sure as my own two Karamazovs are to me.

And surely there’s pain enough to go around, sadly. I’m sitting here crying about it, and all things considered I know there’s a lot of people out there who share Mneme and J’s loss right now.

I remember when Mneme brought him home. He was sleek and graceful and elegant and adorable. And loud! Who knew you could get so much noise out of such a tiny body? I hadn’t been around Siamese cats before, and this one was a surprise to me. Sixteen years ago. It doesn’t seem that long.

I remember when he met his Yoda – a tiny little white fluffball, not the least bit intimidated by the full-grown predator yelling at him. And I always thought it was funny how even though Yoda grew up to be a much bigger cat than Chewie, it was always clear who was the boss.

Goodbye, Chewie. Say “hi” to Gizmo for me.

They Will Always Break Your Heart

I watched Gizmo die on May 1st of last year. He’d had seizures a few weeks before, but the vet said he’d probably swallowed one of my Prozacs. He seemed to be slowing down, but he was getting older.

His back legs stopped working. I heard him yelling in the kitchen, and he was laying there splayed out, trying to walk. I helped him to his feet and he got to the carpet where he could get more traction.

I’d just switched jobs. I was broke. I’d gone into debt as far as I could to help him when he had seizures. I knew he was very sick, and I was going to give him up to the Humane Society the next day so they could help him. I didn’t want to give him up, but I couldn’t just watch him suffer.

I woke up at 3 AM to him yelling from the side of the bedroom. He was struggling to breathe. I knew I was watching him die miserably, and the only thing I could do was sit with him and watch and tell him how much I loved him. I petted him and talked to him while his legs stretched and his back arched horribly and he yowled for me to help him. I told him I loved him. I told him it was okay to let go. I didn’t want him to but I didn’t want him to hurt anymore and there was nothing else I could do.

And then he was gone, and he was so small, and so light. As if life had weight and heft, and without it his body was less.

I didn’t want to get another cat for a while. Friends told me I needed to so I could move on. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to be hurt like that again.

I’m still a little gun-shy. Dmitri makes odd noises in his sleep sometimes, or Ivan cries for no clear reason, and I panic a little. I start imagining the worst case. I start thinking of how much I don’t want to lose my little Karamazovs. But then they take off after some bug I can barely see, and I smile, and I think about how much I enjoy them. How I love the way Dmitri purrs as soon as I touch him, and how his funny little snoot is the first thing I see in the morning. How adorable Ivan is when he ever-so-gently brushes his cheek against me, and how beautiful he is with his soft silver fur and bright green eyes.

Love is a risk. You let down the walls and let in the pain with the joy. You will always lose the ones you love because we live impermanently. I don’t know that impermanence lends poignance or depth or breadth, but even if it’s emotion-neutral it’s a fact.

It’s one thing to begin with the end in mind. It’s another to never begin for fear of the end.

A Recipe for Dreams

Begin with a stressful month at work and a lack of vacation time soon to be remedied (though some might say not soon enough). Mix this thoroughly in your head with various forms of subtle and not-so-subtle insubordination on your team, which lead you to oscillate between “I must lay down the law” ideas and “why do they not respect me?” questions.

Add the dread of having to spend the holidays with your relatives – and having to spend more money than you’d like in the process.

Mix in a more-than-usually active and uninhibited imagination from blazing through NaNoWriMo for a few days so far. (Lots of catching up to do this weekend.)

Also add a couple of glasses of good sangria and a couple slices of pizza after spending an hour searching the wrong part of the airport for your friend. Mix in some very funny craziness from watching “Due Date”, followed by some weird but wonderful stuff from the 2010 edition of “The Best American Comics”.

I get:

• A dream that my cat’s leg fell off like a lizard’s tail. He didn’t seem distressed or hurt, but I still thought I should take him to the vet to have that checked out. Seemed prudent. I actually felt compelled to check on them when I woke up (both were fine, of course); and
• A dream that all my friends met people, got married, and no longer had time or interest for inveterately single me;

and some other dreams that were more disturbing. Kind of made me glad I hadn’t taken melatonin.