blog.deanland.com

Deep Questions and Destiny

Some people spend many hours in deep thought, pondering deep and spiritual concerns, such as:

What is the meaning of life?
(answer found on the web here and also here)

Is there an afterlife? (answer found on the web here, and get a load of this guy, he even runs an afterlife discussion group!)

Whatís love got to do with it?
(superb discussion can be found here)

I,
for one, am not prone to such braintwisters. The meaning of life does
not cause me any concern: we are here because we are here. End of
story.

Afterlife? It is all conjecture. After all, who could really know, except for some soap opera characters who have a way of coming back from the dead.

As to Whatís Love Got To Do With It, well, it was a decent movie. And if you are really asking that question, get into therapy, pronto!

I
prefer the simpler questions: Who let the dogs out? Will you still love
me tomorrow? Does anybody really know what time it is?

But there is one question that is sometimes on my mind. Who is in charge here, anyway?

In
my home, there is clearly a power to behold, a supreme being, the Boss
of All Bosses. The one who rules the roost, and is clearly in charge.

That would be my cat. Her name is
Destiny. As you can see, she is beautiful beyond compare. Reading
various blogs and comments in, on and about them, it appears there are
many cat owners with blogs. Then there are the bloggers who are
appalled when cat-owning bloggers (examples: 1
2 3 4 5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13) wax poetically about these said felines.

As
it happens, I generally donít like cats. Mostly I hate them. They sit
on me. They shed on me. They make me sneeze. They donít do tricks.
Theyíre finicky eaters. When I was a very little kid I was attacked by
a group of insane cats at Marky Battemanís house. Yeah, sure, that
happened like 46 years ago, but it sure made a mark on me. I still
remember Marky Battemanís name, and they moved away before I had my 6th
birthday. Eisenhower was President. Thatís a long time ago.

Hereís a great blog entry about the goings-on in the minds of cats versus the same in the minds of dogs.

My
ex had a cat. The nicest thing about that cat was its name, Mozart.
Otherwise it was a thoroughly loathsome creature. When we were dating,
in fact the first time I met her, Mozart the cat decided to torture me.
He walks by the back of my head as I am sitting on her couch. He rubs
against my head. He jumps into my lap. He sheds all over me. He makes a
nuisance of himself. I try to pick him up and throw him off me, and his
claws begin to undo a knitted sweater, and also practically create
talon-like holes on my pants. Every time I tossed him down, he jumped
back up. ìOh, look!î the ex (hell, back then she was the pre, not even
the intended at that point) exclaims, ìMozart likes you! Thatís great.
He usually doesnít like many people.î

Oh, the harbinger I should have grasped back then.

So
maybe at this point you are wondering why I have a cat, and why is it
that this cat is in charge. Good questions. So good, in fact, they
deserve an answer. Read on.

We go back over ten years ago when I
was still married to the ex, working in my former field of endeavor,
and living the suburban life ñ wow, we were like almost the Cleavers!óand
all seemed right in the world. No, I take that back ñ at just about
this time, or maybe a year prior, Bush the elder had nominated Anita
Hillís tormentor (!) to the Supreme Court.

Each
year as August drew nearer, the family would plan our getaway. I had an
annual client visit and then a professional meeting immediately
thereafter to attend, and that kept me on the road for about a ten day
stretch. This happened every year like clockwork. The ex took this as
an opportunity to go away, take the kids somewhere, just get away from
it all. And since I always returned from that professional meeting
completely and totally drained and in a horrid mood, the ex worked it
out to stay away for about a week, so I could get over the trip and so
she and the kids would not have to deal with me in a miserable state. I
usually slept for two days, dragged myself to the office to catch up on
the work that had piled up in my absence, and slowly got back to my
usual routine -- with the glaring exception of interaction with my
family.

As fate would have it this one year back then, the ex
asked me to go to our Vetís office before this lengthy period of
everyone being out of the house. We always boarded the cat (the evil
Mozart) during this time. Across the street from my office was a
shopping center; thatís where the Vetís office was located. She asked
me to go there to pick up a coupon they were offering for the place
where we boarded Mozart. Sure, I said, it is across the street, when I
go for lunch Iíll stop by.

Stop by I did. On the way in I see a
cage by the front window, inside it are two little teeny kittens. A
hand-written sign above the cage, in bold flare-pen ink, read: ADOPT US BY FRIDAY Ö OR ELSE!

I
walked in. I looked at these two kittens. One just slept, and looked
somewhat feeble, maybe not so healthy. The other looked me in the eye,
pierced my heart, made a slight little meow-like kitten sound, and
tried to climb out of the cage toward me.

Turning away from this
little teeny adorable feline I got to the desk and ask the receptionist
about the coupons. All out, she says, but come back next week. Ok, no
problem. I ask her if the sign means that by Friday, if not adopted,
these two kittens will be euthanized. Yes, she tells me, while giving
the thumb-across-the-throat signal for what will happen to them. I
guess the shock and disgust was written all over my face. I go back
over and look at the kittens.

Whatís with the smaller one, I
ask. Oh, the male, she explains, heís very ill, has been since he was
born. They took these two in when the Vet was doing his monthly work at
the County Animal Shelter, hoping to spare them from the inevitable,
and it turns out the male is ill. The two of them were about five weeks
old, she said, and they were so cute the Vet felt they had a better
chance of adoption if they were in his storefront window at the
high-traffic shopping center than at the Shelter. Also, it appears one
of the lab assistants at the Vetís office will take the teeny little
male kitten if he gets better.

I donít really like cats, I
explain. In fact, I hate Mozart. But these two seem way more likable
than Mozart. Of course, a rabid pit bull is more likable than Mozart.
Let me see what my wife has to say about this, I tell the receptionist.
And off I went.

That evening I came home and told the ex about
these cats, and how I liked the bigger of the two. The ex tells me, in
no uncertain terms, that we cannot have another cat, she doesnít want
another cat, and whatever I do, donít mention this to our daughter!

Back
then I had a fun routine with my daughter. If I had any outgoing
business mail from the office to send, after dinner I would drive with
her to the local Post Office, and she would put it in the mailbox
outside the building. It was one of those postboxes with an elongated
slot facing the street side, as well as the standard drop-lever-hinge
door on the sidewalk side as in most mailboxes. This was fun for my
daughter. No matter how much mail there was, sheíd put the envelopes in
one-at-a-time. The Post Office run was a little special father-daughter
time together we would have, and it was always a joy. She was about 6
or 7, and we always enjoyed our short little trip out and back.

On the way back from the Post Office I tell her about the cats. Oh, Daddy!, she cries out, I MUST SEE THE CATS!!! All
of her life, from the day she was born, my daughter has had a special
relationship with animals. She took to the dog as a baby, so much so
that her first word spoken was DOGGIE. She has that special way with
animals, it is a gift.

So on the way home we drive over to the
shopping center near my office and go look at the Vetís window. No
cats. Just an empty cage, with the ADOPT US OR ELSE sign above it.

Despite
having not seen the cats, but already knowing that I had taken a liking
to the bigger one, my daughter announces to me, ìOh, Daddy we have to
save that cat! Can we save them both?!î I explain to her that the
smaller one seems to have a home, but the bigger one, the one I liked,
may still be available.

We get home and my daughter immediately
starts lobbying the ex: we MUST save this cat, we HAVE TO save the cat,
if we donít, the cat will die, HOW CAN WE LET THIS CAT DIE? And she
hadnít even seen it.

By this time, she is totally in love with a cat, sight-unseen.

The ex was, to put it mildly, pissed off to the nth degree. ìYou took her there? You told her about the cat? You showed her the cage? AND THAT SIGN?!!!!!î My daughter responds, ìHE HAD TO, MOMMY! WE CANíT LET THE CAT DIE!î Glares at me from the ex. Wistful, pensive, forlorn look from my daughter aimed at the ex.

The
ex erupts, ìOKAY. Iíll go look at this cat tomorrow. But I donít want
another cat in this house!!!!!î My daughter hears this and starts to
cry. I comfort her. The ex gives me all sorts of grief for me having
told my daughter about it, driving her over to the vet, and for being
myself in general.

She goes to the Vet the next day, looks at
the kitten (the male was in the back, in a special cage where the
sicker cats needing more attention are kept), and tells the
receptionist that sheís heard about this cat. As she starts to tell her
about us needing the half-price boarding coupon the receptionist
interrupts her to tell her she remembered me, my visit there the day
before, and that she was sure weíd be back for the cat.

The ex, despite that heart of stone sheíd been honing, looks at the cat and even she agrees we should adopt it.

By now you must realize that this is a special cat.

So
the receptionist, the Vet, and the ex work out a plan. From the sound
of it, it seemed like a major negotiation on the order of a Teamsters
Union labor sit-down. Since we were a week or so away from that period
where the house would be empty for a few weeks, it was agreed that the
Vet would keep the cat for us. Sheíd be spayed, and declawed. That was
a necessity, since Mozart was declawed (only his front paws -- that was
how the ex had it done, don't look to me for an answer on this!), and
one just doesnít have two felines in one house on an unequal par for
playing, sparring and fighting (cats always fight / some call it play).
We can pick it up when she returns, registered, fixed, healed from the
declawing, and ready to go home. All at no cost to us, no less.

That
evening my daughter was in her glory. Despite still not having seen the
cat, she was thrilled, excited, and feeling a sense of having done a
good thing, playing her part in keeping this cat alive. She also
decided we needed to name the cat.

After dinner we sat at the
table (no Post Office run that evening) to discuss names. I told her
that it was clearly destiny that we should have this cat. She asked me
what did destiny mean. I told her the definition, and she decided that
this should be the catís name. Again, she still had not yet seen the
cat!  Destiny ñ clearly the most appropriate name for this creature.

Fast
forward to a week or so after I return from the annual killer road
trip. The ex and the kids are back, too. While I am at work one
afternoon they go to pick up the cat. They learn that the smaller one
died, but that our cat is in good health, well fed, recovered from the
spaying and the declawing, and ready to go to her new home.

They
bring her home. Let her out of the cat-carrier box. She seems scared,
Mozart seems mad (why should that day be any different?), and Destiny
runs off in search of a place to hide. I get home from work, we sit
down to dinner, and the kids tell me all about the new cat, and how
sheís hiding, Mozart seems to be both looking for her and trying to
guard his perch (he had this high-atop-a piece of furniture position
which heíd claimed).

Late that night, when everyone else in the
house was in bed and asleep I was doing my nightly check on the kids.
My son was sound asleep in his room. And in my daughterís room there
she was, and there was Destiny, on her back, in a little curled up
ball-like position. Destiny looked at me with fear and trepidation in
her eyes. But she held her ground.

She knew she was my
daughterís cat, and that being on that girlís back was a warm, safe
place. Like I said earlier, my daughter has a special gift with
animals. Destiny sensed it, and found a safe haven with her.

Some
time elapses. Destiny is clearly my daughterís cat. Mozart gives up the
bullying, and seems to actually have gotten a new lease on his
otherwise boring and unhappy life. He even plays (!) with Destiny from
time to time. They are very diplomatic with each other about the food
and water bowls. They have no apparent problem sharing the litter box.

But
all was not so good in our household. A variety of other problems
arose, and divorce reared its ugly little head. Even worse, the ex
invited her mother
to come to the house for a stay. That drove me out of what had been my
home. Thereís just so much a man can tolerate.
Divorce is a horrible thing to live through. It brings out the worst in
people. Little good can come of it (except for, possibly, less stress
and discomfort after a time). Adding to my misery in the proceedings,
the judge hearing our case decides to let the ex move out of state and
take my children with her. To say I was devastated would be an
understatement. A few years later a cousin of mine commented on how
hard it is to have oneís family uprooted from you, how difficult to
essentially lose oneís loved ones to distance, all due to anger. And
the anger, of course, has nothing to do with the kids. They are the
innocent bystanders getting all the shrapnel in the course of affairs.

As
we are divvying up the household items ñor, better put, as the ex
announces what she will deign to leave for me ñ slim pickings, to say
the least, she drops the bomb on me and my daughter that I get to keep
Destiny. She decided this cat was my doing, and she wasnít moving this
cat with her to the South. Mozart yes, Destiny no.

My daughter was heartbroken. I was stunned. Who ever expected the cat? Destiny became, to coin a phrase, my Destiny.

Now she sleeps on my
back. She takes occupation of my desk during the day, when and as she
wishes. She follows me from room to room, as though she was a dog. She
begs for table scraps, again, like a dog. When I come home she rushes
to the door to greet me. You know -- like a dog!

At any moment I expect her to start barking.

My
cat ña dog, trapped in a catís bodyóthe famous Destiny. Famous in that
a few years back she was picked to be the Cat Of The Month in a
Japanese teen zine. If I could find a copy of it I would scan it in for
your enjoyment.

Destiny is the being who spends the most time
here. The place is hers. I am truly her guest, here in her most
soveriegn domain.