Emma was Brenda’s pet cat. Well, that’s what she started out as. Brenda got her shortly after the two of us got together, and Emma immediately spent much of her time showing her displeasure at having to share Brenda with me (especially the first year, when I was finishing school and Brenda often left Emma alone in her apartment while visiting me at school). But in those first few years after Brenda got her, I also took care of Emma during the summers when Brenda was off doing summer theatre gigs. I quickly became very attached to her, as, I believe, Emma got attached to me. We sorted each other out.

In total, the three of us went through almost eighteen years of life together, marking loads of residences, moments, anniversaries, milestones, memories. There’ll never be another cat like her, there’ll never be another Emma the Cat. She died, one year ago today.

Emma would never put up with another animal in the house, so/but for a very long and fun time, we were “stuck” with “just” Emma. And so shortly after Emma died, Hooper the Dog came into our lives, and in many ways I see my amazing experiences raising and learning about this dog as Emma’s last gift to us. I suppose Emma continues to live on in Hooper.

We also added another cat—Ellie—to our family last December, and while I haven’t written much about her on here yet she adds an extra layer of complexity to this weird little ride of adapting to life without Emma. She’s different, yet similar, to Emma. So it’s been fun and sad, exhilarating and disappointing, interesting and boring, to get accustomed to this new feline resident. More to come about her in the future, for sure.

But the main act tonight is Emma. I miss her still, always will.

I wanted to share with you one of my favorite Emma stories (more specifically, one of my favorites not already published on this website).

We had just moved from our first apartment in Hoboken, NJ, to a new, bigger, two bedroom place. It was hot—really hot—and humid. O.J. Simpson had beaten a murder rap that very day. We had paid professional movers to move our crap from Tenth and Park to Seventh and Willow Ave in Hoboken, and despite being spared the pain of dragging our stuff up five flights of stairs, we were still currently surrounded by boxes, brimming with Our Shit, swaddled in immense amounts of pro-grade, puffy and fluffy, bubble-wrap and puffy-paper.

Hours and hours after the movers had left, we were sweaty, tired, and painted into corners with our things and packing paper. Emma had been exploring the new digs with the careful stalk and active nose of a cougar in a new zoo. Emma jumped up on the microwave cart, currently in the middle of the kitchen, and—this is important—next to a recently-emptied box that was now the receptacle for all discarded packing materials, and began to walk around and eye the box adjacent. Three feet high, and loaded with puffy things, she began to show an unhealthy interest in the box.

“Brenda…” I silently gestured towards the scene that was unfolding.

Slowly, Emma walked to the edge of the cart and lowered her head toward the box, sniffing. She waved and poked a paw into the abyss, seeing that the paper would not hold her weight. But the curiosity was too great, and we watched her slowly try to walk on water, if you will, and fail miserably. She ended up doing a head-first dive into the box, disappearing instantly into the paper. We laughed, but the fun was just beginning. The box began to tremble, the papers churned and flew about, and eventually Emma exploded out from the paper, perched impossibly on the edge of the box, and then as the box began to fall over, she did a gainer off the edge of the box and shot like a bullet for the back bedroom, not to be seen for quite a while.

We laughed so hard, I can still recall how hard my sides hurt.

These are the memories I think of today. I’ll think of her all day today, and I’ll think of her at least a little bit, every day, forever.

This shit makes me crazy. The local paper ran an article today about the booming pet care business, especially in dog-crazy Boulder. Here in Boulder, there is a “law” that encourages Boulder pet owners to refer to themselves as their pet’s “guardians”, not “owners”. You know how I feel about this one; I have a receipt. But it gives you an idea of the mentality Boulder residents have towards their pets, and in general I think it’s great. Here, our dogs are our kids. They hike (off-leash) with us, they frolic in the many dog parks, they are welcome in many businesses, not just the multitude of pet stores and pet bakeries (yes, pet bakeries), and they are everywhere. In an attempt to appear balanced, the author obtained some dissenting views, views on people who pour themselves into the care of their animals; views I have had to put up with from many co-workers over the years and even my own family members. The one they chose to print was a doozy:

“They either need to have children or get the Internet.”

This scholar was quoted while standing in the most overpriced petstore in Boulder with her Australian Shepherd at her side. I feel sorry for that Aussie. She has a dog, but clearly it’s “just a dog”. No massage, no cancer therapy, no quality dog food for this guy, oh no; it’s just a dog.

Where do we begin? First off, we can’t all have kids (you stupid bitch). Some of us don’t want to have kids (you myopic wench). And besides, the internet is a global computer network infrastructure that is owned by no one and utilized by many. You don’t “get” the internet, just like Al Gore didn’t “invent” it. And if you equate the responsibility of raising kids with a monthly cable internet subscription plan, I feel sorry for your kids as well as your Aussie (you sick cunt).

Emma, our dear departed cat and companion of 16 years, was my child and I loved her. When she died I struggled with my feelings of loss and attachment and was alternately devastated and frustrated—by my immense sorrow on the one hand, and the I-should-just-get-over-it-already-vibe I felt from some of my child rearing friends and family members.

Some people just don’t get it. As I type this, Hooper lies at my feet looking content and I get a warm feeling knowing that Brenda & I are responsible for this. A domestic dog living in a city is as dependent on us as any child. They can’t talk, they live much shorter lives, they have no opposable thumbs and they eat cat poo, but does that mean they don’t deserve to have someone take care of them and raise them? They didn’t ask to be born on the street, and they certainly seem to enjoy the spoils of good dog ownership: Hooper has a comfy bed and eats like a king, a diet of raw food and grain-free dry food that is supplemented with fish oil and other supplements. He is engaged in learning new “tricks” and goes to the park every single day. Is this indulgent? I don’t think so; he is canis familiaris, not canis lupus. He is descended from the wolf, but he is something else, an evolved species that owes its existence to the fact that it figured out 15,000 years ago that maybe these humans could work together with them to make a greater existence for us both, and we have. And now that we are all in a better situation than our ancestors of 15,000 years past (hey, we even have Internet!), are we supposed to simply treat these animals like some barely-alive, barely-feeling entity? What the hell is the point in that? Look, if you want to have kids, great. But bear in mind that you are engaging in the least sustainable practice possible in the world today, and an overwhelming number of you are doing a shitty job of raising your progeny, to boot. So get the fuck over yourselves. Your kids consume more than any dog, and most of them are rude, snotty and grow up with an overwhelming sense of entitlement. How does that validate what you do? I’ll tell you: it doesn’t.

So let me and my people raise our dogs and cats, naming them and petting them and feeding them and massaging them and playing with them and training them and loving them, worrying about them, caring about them, putting up with them when they are being assholes and just connecting with them. You do what you feel you need to do, I won’t implore you to get an internet of your own, but if your kid comes up to me and tries to talk to me in a restaurant while you bury your head in a burger, I’m telling it it’s an asshole, and I don’t care how young it is, capiche?

And this leads me to my latest announcement: I’m thinking about my third of fourth career change (depending on how you quantify a career): I have been thinking of becoming a veterinarian for a little while now (fleeting thoughts go back decades, but serious thought has occupied the last months or so), and I’m really starting to look into it. It’s past the “idea stage” of many of my hare-brained schemes and more into the active planning stage. More on this later.

Life goes on around here, the main story being the cat and dog, who continue to work through their issues. The gate remains, but Ellie is definitely interested in coming down and joining us. If only that damned dog wasn’t down here:

When one of us does take Hooper out for a walk, Ellie is quick to come down, hurdle the gate, and start exploring the lower levels. Of course, she likes to do this from up high, like on top of the kitchen cabinets:

Hooper finally got his own bed, but currently he believes it to be a giant expensive chew toy. Deep down, he knows what he’s supposed to do on it, and eventually he settles down and demonstrates, like so:

This post also is the first one that employs a new plugin that I installed, which allows for a slick Javascript display that enlarges the images in my posts. Try it out; click on any image in the post and it will expand to a slightly larger size, with caption. I plan to refine this a little bit more and then I’ll incorporate this effect into all the previous posts, since I need to update them all to work with my new theme. Feedback welcome!

Say hello to Ellie:

Yes, we got another cat. On December 23rd. And we named her Noelle, a play on the season. But this was not an impulse buy.

Brenda & I have talked about getting another cat since the dawn of discussions about life after Emma. We actually had a kitten on hold the same time we had Hooper on hold, but we decided one thing at a time. But as time wore on, we thought we should add a cat to the mix sooner than later, lest Hooper get too used to the idea of being the sole recipient of our attention. And so, Noelle, a.k.a. Ellie.

She’s three years old, and recently gave birth to a litter, even more recently was spayed, and her owner gave her and her brother up because she was moving out of the country.

We went to the Boulder Humane Society on Saturday, and placed a hold on one cat that we liked, but we didn’t quite have the vibe, in much the same way we didn’t feel a connection with Happy the Plott Hound we tried out the day before we met Hooper. The next day we planned to look at Loki, a handsome tabby who we liked the day before but didn’t have a chance to meet before the adoption center closed. When we got there, Loki was already being visited but we saw that his sister was mewing fiercely and so we met with her, and she lived on my lap, purring, me melting, and Brenda said “let’s just take her home”.

And so, we now have a cat and a dog. They are living separate lives for the moment, but we’ve had some meet and greets. They are going well, and I think it’s all going to work out. Ellie has her claws (which I can attest to), and Hooper seems more afraid of her than anything. Here are some snaps from tonight’s meeting.

First, we have Hooper happening upon the aloof Ellie, lured by treats:

Moments later we have Ellie being petted by Brenda as Hooper retreats to the living room:

Cats rule.

After our heartbreaking experience at the shelter on Sunday, I woke up Monday to an email from my friend Elissa who works at the Humane Society; Emma’s ashes were ready to be picked up. So yesterday after work I headed back to the shelter, to pick up what was left of Emma in a little cardboard box. I instantly felt guilty about having been there the day before, to look for new animals while Emma still hadn’t been returned to us.

It sounds exceedingly corny, but I think we needed to wait for Emma to come home, to lead us to the next animal to care for.

I say this because with the little cardboard box cradled in my left hand, Elissa and I strolled down to the dog adoption area to see if anything new had arrived. Of course I knew some had, since I had the RSS feed for the Humane Society’s adoptable animals loaded in my feedreader and I had been keeping one eye trained on it all day. And that is why I knew that there was a little five month-old Labrador & Border Collie mix named Hooper milling around in there somewhere.

Didn’t take me long to find him, and it took even less time than that to fall in love with him. I went home, got Brenda and we went rocketing back to the Humane Society, where we petted little Hooper and immediately placed a hold on him. Having been neutered that day, we could not take him out of his kennel, so we came back today on my lunch break and spent some leash time with him, melted a little more, and decided to commit to this insane agreement to raise a dog. We’re looking forward to it, we are doing all we can to educate ourselves, and tomorrow when he comes home we’ll start the grand adventure.

This is not an impulse thing. Brenda & I have wanted a dog for a very long time, but living conditions and Emma’s independence had made that a non-option until now. We know these breeds are high-energy. We know we’ll be walking him four times a day. We know he will eat stuff he’s not supposed to, and crap it out the other end where he’s not supposed to. We know there’s a lot more to know and learn. But we’re ready to have a go at this. A crate is set up. Chew toys and kibbel are in da house. Tomorrow night, we bring Hooper home, and start thinking about his new name, but I have to say, Hooper—the name and the dog—is starting to grow on me already.

Emma is gone, and there isn’t a damned thing we can do about it. I miss her; there are a hundred things a day that remind me she’s gone: the ingrained look-down before I take a step, for fear of stepping on her; the look to the bathroom to make sure she’s there, before I close the closet door; the corner of the wall rubbed raw from her little chin. The howling emptiness of the spaces where her litter box was, and where her food and water bowls were.

It sucks.

We are working our way back.

A week and a half after putting Emma to sleep, Brenda & I find ourselves brimming over with energy, an unclaimed love that needs to be swallowed up by one or more new companions. The initial feeling is one of replacement, but that is wrong. Emma lived 17 years and had a great life, and despite our desire for her to live three to ten years more, she did not; we did what we could for her, she died peacefully, and we will carry the guilt of watching her die forever, nonetheless.

Now, it’s time to unload all this pent-up love on one or more new creatures, and it’s fraught with issues.

I love cats, but I also love dogs, and so does Brenda. Most of my life I lived in places unsuitable for dogs, but I managed to have my experience with both good and bad specimens. A Beagle who couldn’t be controlled, a Doberman who scared everyone but loved us all. But after that, it was cats for me, and I loved every one of them. Apartments are what they are, and one thing that that is is a good place for cats — not dogs. So I got used to the idea of cats. Emma ended up spending 17 years showing us how insignificant dogs were, but now that she’s gone we’re wanting that great big gigantic canine 24/7 problem more than ever.

And so we headed to the Boulder Humane Society today.

We’ve been trolling the websites for the last week or so, and today we headed to the Boulder Humane Society (with our friends Bill and Lauren) to see if there was a match. “Happy” the Plott Hound mix, was our chosen “possible match”. The damned thing bit my lip after 45 seconds of interaction, but we still spent an hour with her and walked her around a while. Brenda helped me realize this was not the animal for us. Bill and Lauren also came to a similar conclusion about the pup they tried out. Brenda & I spent a lot of time soaking in the emotions of the many cats housed there, as well. It was a heartbreaking way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

We’re more steeled than ever to get a dog, and have spent the bulk of this afternoon looking at the various shelter websites. We’re convinced that we’ll be good parents, but the questions abound. Do we get a dog, and, if so, do we get a little one or a big one? Do we get a cat at the same time, and if so, do we get a couple while we’re at it? If so, do we get a kitten and an old fart? a couple kittens??

We want to get it right the first time, and I can tell you I can’t endure a lot of trips to the shelter. I gotta go; lots of promising pups and kitties on the websites…

I have so, so many things to say about Emma, but for now I just wanted to share all the photos we’ve been looking at the past couple weeks. I’ve scanned a bunch of photos from the pre-digital years, and compiled a few other ditties from Emma’s “modern era”. I’ve uploaded them all to my Flickr site and created a photo album — or “set”, in Flickr parlance — for you to enjoy.

It’s pretty amazing to watch the evolution of this cat — and her owners — as she moved through her life. All told, Emma had nine different permanent addresses in three U.S. states, wore two different collars (both short-lived), endured and survived two apartment building fires, and received in excess of 300 toy mice as Christmas presents over her years. Looking at these photographs tells a great story; Brenda & I have looked at the slideshow of these pictures a million times over the last few days and they bring back so many memories of our relationship. I’ve added captions to many of the photos (and plan to add more in the coming days, as well as update the dates and location information) in the hope that you all can absorb just a little bit of what Emma meant to us.

Enjoy.

For those of you new to Flickr, I recommend you click the “view as slideshow” link that appears in the upper right corner of the page, and then hover your mouse cursor over the image that appears. You will see an icon with the letter I in the center of the photo; if you click that, the image titles and captions will appear overlaid on the photos. Then you can enjoy the show complete with commentary. There are tons of other ways to enjoy the Flickr content and please browse the site for more information on ways to do that.

She was loved, she was our child; she will be missed.

You spend sixteen years with someone, you learn to read signs. The funny thing is, your optimism also gets the better of you. And so, we’re playing that game now. Good moments are blown way out of proportion, bad moments are horrifyingly painful to watch—and quickly pushed back to the cobwebs of the brain.

Spent half the day at the vet today. It’s the same old shit, same conversations I had three years ago regarding my father. The word “disease” being said far too frequently. Emma’s not doing so well.

From the information sheet on Emma’s latest cancer medication:

WARNING: Although this is a cancer medication, chlorambucil can cause another type of cancer…

Greaaaat. I wonder if the medication for the cancer that chlorambucil causes, causes cancer too? Round and round we go, Roche, Pfizer, Merck-Medco! Sheesh.