HUMAN WRECKAGE

An Ever-present Absence

Why?

Our very fine house, Ann’s and mine, used to have two cats in the yard. Now there are none and they’re not coming back. Our home is cleaner. It smells better. Certain items of abused furniture will not deteriorate beyond their present shabby states. Stray granules of kitty litter will eventually no longer crackle in the vacuum hose – though that’ll take some time.

The unwelcome and unhoped-for process of becoming pet-free has given me pause. A few years ago a close friend of my late brother told me, “He always said you marched to your own drum.” I’ve always believed I’ve done my best just to get along without much fuss, trouble and strife. Which doors to kick in and what walls to bang my head against are always carefully considered. I see myself as the patient in that hoary joke: “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.” “Then don’t do that!” And so I won’t.

Why?

Why haven’t I enjoyed a novel or a history book in the deepest, most enveloping armchair in the house? Because the cats always slept on it and cats sleep a lot.

Why was our metered water usage up? Because the cats slurped from running kitchen and bathroom taps at their pleasure.

Why was electricity so expensive every month? Because Ann and I tended to leave the lights on all night; because we were afraid of what we might step in during the restless, wee wee hours.

Why do I habitually use the john in the basement? Because one of the tabbies lurked behind the door of the bathroom on the main floor and was curious about any human activity. There was no talking to him: “I don’t hang around between your legs when you use your litter box, do I?”

Why don’t I spend any time in our living room? I’m not a kid anymore; I haven’t been banned; I won’t bust anything. The couch is ancient Roman orgy comfortable. The books on the coffee table are there to be perused and enjoyed. I appreciate the paintings we’ve hung. I used to like lying spread-eagled on the floor listening to the devil’s music at excessive volume on evenings when Ann went out. We blocked off the largest room in the house because it was never intended to serve as a feline vomitorium and litter box.

Why can’t I ever wear a new baseball-style cap again? Because there’s no tabby on the kitchen counter to wipe his muzzle on the ridge of the cap’s brim, break it in and certify it Crooked 9 authentic.

Ann and I lived under the benevolent and often inconvenient tyranny of two tabby cats. They ran the house. But that was just the way things were. We unknowingly adapted to the cats’ behaviours and demands which became more pronounced as they aged. Our lives seemed normal enough to us and our friends were likely too polite to say anything. “No charge for the cat hair and saliva in your food! Enjoy your dinner! Thanks for coming. Good to see everyone again! How come nobody’s eating?”

These past couple of recent evenings Ann’s been out meeting professional and social obligations. So during the middle of this week I was truly home alone for the first time in years; without another soul in sight except for maybe that spider on the ceiling by the kitchen door. Last night I watched the Canadiens lose their first game of what I suspect will be a long and futile hockey season. And since I’m incapable of sitting passively through an entire televised sporting event I wandered and puttered around the Crooked 9.

Every single door inside our house was ajar. There were no barriers, no boundaries. I was not dogged by close personal friends. There were no cats lounging in Ann’s music rehearsal space, curled up in the bowl on the dining room table or lying across my laptop keyboard. There was no spat and flung crunchy dental-formula kibble on the kitchen floor. There was no tail poking out from underneath the bathroom door. The taps weren’t running.

At first I felt a dizzy sense of liberation. As they aged the cats increasingly dictated the course of our everyday lives. The guileless process had been insidious and gradual. Hypnotized by loyalty, love and affection, Ann and I had made accommodations and concessions to the detriment of our own quality of life. It was real at the time and we lived this way in a shrunken bungalow because that’s the way it was and we did not know there was an alternative until circumstances finally compelled a final reckoning.

I’m reminded of the shaggy dog story about the Jewish fellow who’d no idea he’d suffered from heartburn his entire life until he moved out of his parents’ Brooklyn apartment and ate food other than his mother’s home cooking. You don’t know until you do. The gag slays because of its nuanced metaphor. Any person who’s eventually escaped the clutches of a soul-sucking employer or life partner always wonders afterward why the walk to freedom took so damn long. Just how and when exactly did the intolerable became acceptable and mundane? All those wasted years of pain…

But I kept expecting to encounter a cat, probably underfoot at the top of the basement stairs. I hunted the house for cats. I checked out all of their usual hangouts. I peered into places that I knew they knew they weren’t supposed to go. I don’t record mix tapes any more, haven’t for years, and I’m too much of a fossil to compile a digital play list but I started to pull one together from the ether.

“A couple of country laments to start things off,” I thought. Aaron Neville’s ‘The Grand Tour’ of an empty home to be followed by Willie Nelson’s ‘Hello Walls.’ Next up, ‘You’re Missing’ from Bruce Springsteen’s The Rising, possibly a little overly dramatic given that album’s 9/11 context, but well, why not? I’m imposing my meaning and interpretation now. The punch would be provided by Better Than Ezra’s ‘Good.’ “Walking around the house, searching for signs of life, but there’s nobody home… It was good, living here with you, oh… it was so good.”     

Copies of my new novel The Garage Sailor are still available and ready to ship. Get aboard at Megeoff.com.