Nurtured Animals

While it is not the classic way of closing the summer, I was eager to return from my weekend with family in CT to clean the apartment. Tomorrow my unit will be visited by the exterminator and hopefully (prayerfully) the vermin will have no further desire to gnaw into my territory. After a bit of sweeping and dusting whipped me into an asthmatic frenzy, I took a bit of a stroll. What a beautiful night! A full(ish) moon above, a light breeze, temps in the high 70s. What could be sweeter?

It would be sweet to no longer have the rodent paranoia. Most of last week I slept for three hours due to disruption and anxiety. In fact, not only did I frequently think I saw something that I didn't -- I thought I saw the 50 foot inflatable rat that unions stick out buildings with anti-union activity...in the apartment. Yeah, I needed a few days out the unit.

Let the record note, this author slept heartily in Stamford. In fact, she snagged a solid 12 hours in bed (not to be confused with sleeping) last night. Even with the occasional interruptions, I was able to recover through a sense of commitment.

Cat Call
On my stroll earlier, I was jarred by the sight of a dead cat within the gutter of a well-traveled street. It rests in front of a blue NYPD car, a specialty unit that I can't recall is denoted on the vehicle. Don't know if the kitty had slept in a spot used for parallel parking or if it was struck crossing the street or if it had been kicked by a mean-spirited pedestrian taking the sidewalk. Anything is possible.

Nonetheless, there is something spooky about seeing a dead cat. Perhaps it's the role that dead cats and such have with my family, but there's always that myth of nine lives that leaves the dead cat that much more of a unnecessary state.

Label this section folklore: my mother encouraged my imagination by weaving aspects of the mystical into fact. An example of this is a belief that having a pet or nurtured animal unexpectedly die around your home is a sign of death. During a surgery my mother had when I was very young, she stopped breathing on the operating table. Of course, she was revived. Folklore has it, our kitty died the same day -- poisoned, thanks to those evil neighbors.

Nurtured animal? Yes, there are pets and then there are exceptions. My mother's mother was ill for many years prior to her death. At some point, she befriended an opossum that crawled to her windowsill. She is said to have fed and held chats with it. While my Grandma was known to be a character, Doctor Dolittle she wasn't. One morning the 'possum was found dead on the front porch of the house. Inside, Grandma had died of a massive heart-attack.

All this from the cat. Prior to the move to NYC, an author now typing this piece mourned the decaying carcass of yet another opossum -- so different and so close from me during a very dark period. Our connection was via a car in traffic and 'possum's position as roadkill on the interstate ramp. Every afternoon for months my eyes found this corpse. Not quite excited or on a journey, we both were gambling nonetheless on the there-and-back mechanics. The chi of 'possum was one I considered: Who did he serve? What were his goals? What did he leave behind? Who will mourn -- if anyone or thing?

This 'possum wasn't a conscious connection to Grandma. Rather, it was the result of a life in transition relating to the vulnerability of anyone -- or thing.