![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraDrove out to deepest, darkest Clavarack for the kitska pickup.
This was to have been Ellen & Stuart’s Dream Retirement Home. I could tell the moment I walked into it.
It had been decorated at one time with Stuart’s paintings & sculptures (he wasn’t bad), shelves and shelves of photos of a perfect, beautiful family, but the whole place had since degenerated into a kind of hoarder scene.
Ellen was apologetic: “We’re trying to get rid of all this stuff,” she told me.
But I could tell she wasn’t trying to get rid of it.
She was merely moving it from room to room.
“My parents are… weird,” the daughter had told me. We’d ended up gabbing for half an hour on the phone.
“How so?” I’d asked.
But the daughter couldn’t elaborate.
When I met the parents, I thought, No, not weird, but probably so intensely into each other that there was no room left over for the children.
###
I didn’t quite understand why Ellen wanted to rehome the cats.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Eleven years,” Ellen said.
“And do you have a lot of ties to the community? Friends?”
“Not a single one,” she said, and she laughed. “Of course, if I’d known you, we would have been friends—”
Which was probably true—Ellen & I instantly had the same kind of rapport I’d had with her daughter on the phone. I suppose it’s the secular Judaism thing: Secular Jews of a certain age like to read books, watch foreign movies, attend lectures and classical music performances. It gives us a common vocabulary.
But without a single friend in the community, by giving away the cats, she was essentially cutting her circle of close ties by two-thirds. I didn’t see how she could possibly want to do that—unless she knew she was dying. A distinct possibility, that. The daughter told me Ellen had “survived” breast cancer, “survived” lung cancer. At night, over the sounds of her husband’s soft snoring, I imagined Ellen listening to the ticking of the clock.
Even in his late 70s, the husband was a beautiful man with that pleasant demeanor and vague affect you see in many people in dementia’s earlier stages. He sat amiably beside me on the couch.
Molly, the black & white cat, sat in a far corner of the room, hissing at me.
I laughed. “Look at that. She knows.”
“How would she know?” asked Ellen. “It’s not as though she understands what we say.”
“Body language? Mental telepathy? Who can say?” I said. “But she knows.”
Stuart just sat there smiling and looking down at his cup of coffee.
“What did you do before you retired, Stuart?” I asked.
“Well, I owned a string of stores,” said Stuart. “Anderson window stores. I owned fifteen of them. Biggest network of Anderson window stores in the Northeast.”
I glanced over at Ellen. Such a sad expression on her face. I thought she might cry.
“I appreciate how hard this is for you,” I told her.
“I know you do,” she said. “That’s why I’m giving them to you.”
Ellen and I embraced several times before I took off. Unusual for me: I am not big on hugging people I don’t know.
“We’ll be friends,” I said. “We’ll have lunch in Hudson and do a walking tour of all those overpriced antique shops. We’ll tour Olana together and laugh at the Victorian furniture.”
She smiled sadly and patted me on the shoulder.
The kitskas hardly made a sound on the drive back to Hyde Park.
I brought them into the Patrizia-torium, set up food and a litterbox. Opened their travel bags.
Molly hissed and swiped at me every time I went near her. She’s the alpha. She hissed at her sister, too—with whom, I rather got the impression, it would have been easier to make friends. Collaborating with the enemy! Disloyal! We will never surrender!
Adopting an animal from someone else’s home is a qualitatively different experience than adopting an animal from a shelter. Shelter animals want to be out of the shelter: Sybyl had no difficulties whatsoever assimilating into her new environment.
But I remember that Rutger (whom I adopted because his human had been hospitalized in the first of a series of hospitalizations that never made the slightest dent in the inevitability of his death) stayed in the bathroom for two whole weeks before he began warming up to his new life.
Rutger went on to become the most loyal and affectionate of boys, and I am quite sure Molly & Mabel (maybe I won’t rename them) will, too.
But it will take time.
Unfortunately, my living circumstances are such that I can’t give Molly & Mabel their own room. We must all share the Patrizia-torium.
Yesterday, when they finally felt confident to flee their carry-cases, the kitskas dived under the bed.
I left the carry-cases open in the Patrizia-torium—a safe space with blankets that smell like the home they miss, should they need it—and when I woke up in the middle of the night, I saw Molly sitting in hers, balefully glaring at me.
This morning, some food has been eaten, and the kitskas are no longer under the bed. They have quite vanished! I assume into the closet or one of the room’s other many nooks & crannies. Or maybe they’ve teleported back to Hudson—cats can teleport, you know.
It will take time…
###
Oh, look!!!
This was to have been Ellen & Stuart’s Dream Retirement Home. I could tell the moment I walked into it.
It had been decorated at one time with Stuart’s paintings & sculptures (he wasn’t bad), shelves and shelves of photos of a perfect, beautiful family, but the whole place had since degenerated into a kind of hoarder scene.
Ellen was apologetic: “We’re trying to get rid of all this stuff,” she told me.
But I could tell she wasn’t trying to get rid of it.
She was merely moving it from room to room.
“My parents are… weird,” the daughter had told me. We’d ended up gabbing for half an hour on the phone.
“How so?” I’d asked.
But the daughter couldn’t elaborate.
When I met the parents, I thought, No, not weird, but probably so intensely into each other that there was no room left over for the children.
###
I didn’t quite understand why Ellen wanted to rehome the cats.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Eleven years,” Ellen said.
“And do you have a lot of ties to the community? Friends?”
“Not a single one,” she said, and she laughed. “Of course, if I’d known you, we would have been friends—”
Which was probably true—Ellen & I instantly had the same kind of rapport I’d had with her daughter on the phone. I suppose it’s the secular Judaism thing: Secular Jews of a certain age like to read books, watch foreign movies, attend lectures and classical music performances. It gives us a common vocabulary.
But without a single friend in the community, by giving away the cats, she was essentially cutting her circle of close ties by two-thirds. I didn’t see how she could possibly want to do that—unless she knew she was dying. A distinct possibility, that. The daughter told me Ellen had “survived” breast cancer, “survived” lung cancer. At night, over the sounds of her husband’s soft snoring, I imagined Ellen listening to the ticking of the clock.
Even in his late 70s, the husband was a beautiful man with that pleasant demeanor and vague affect you see in many people in dementia’s earlier stages. He sat amiably beside me on the couch.
Molly, the black & white cat, sat in a far corner of the room, hissing at me.
I laughed. “Look at that. She knows.”
“How would she know?” asked Ellen. “It’s not as though she understands what we say.”
“Body language? Mental telepathy? Who can say?” I said. “But she knows.”
Stuart just sat there smiling and looking down at his cup of coffee.
“What did you do before you retired, Stuart?” I asked.
“Well, I owned a string of stores,” said Stuart. “Anderson window stores. I owned fifteen of them. Biggest network of Anderson window stores in the Northeast.”
I glanced over at Ellen. Such a sad expression on her face. I thought she might cry.
“I appreciate how hard this is for you,” I told her.
“I know you do,” she said. “That’s why I’m giving them to you.”
Ellen and I embraced several times before I took off. Unusual for me: I am not big on hugging people I don’t know.
“We’ll be friends,” I said. “We’ll have lunch in Hudson and do a walking tour of all those overpriced antique shops. We’ll tour Olana together and laugh at the Victorian furniture.”
She smiled sadly and patted me on the shoulder.
The kitskas hardly made a sound on the drive back to Hyde Park.
I brought them into the Patrizia-torium, set up food and a litterbox. Opened their travel bags.
Molly hissed and swiped at me every time I went near her. She’s the alpha. She hissed at her sister, too—with whom, I rather got the impression, it would have been easier to make friends. Collaborating with the enemy! Disloyal! We will never surrender!
Adopting an animal from someone else’s home is a qualitatively different experience than adopting an animal from a shelter. Shelter animals want to be out of the shelter: Sybyl had no difficulties whatsoever assimilating into her new environment.
But I remember that Rutger (whom I adopted because his human had been hospitalized in the first of a series of hospitalizations that never made the slightest dent in the inevitability of his death) stayed in the bathroom for two whole weeks before he began warming up to his new life.
Rutger went on to become the most loyal and affectionate of boys, and I am quite sure Molly & Mabel (maybe I won’t rename them) will, too.
But it will take time.
Unfortunately, my living circumstances are such that I can’t give Molly & Mabel their own room. We must all share the Patrizia-torium.
Yesterday, when they finally felt confident to flee their carry-cases, the kitskas dived under the bed.
I left the carry-cases open in the Patrizia-torium—a safe space with blankets that smell like the home they miss, should they need it—and when I woke up in the middle of the night, I saw Molly sitting in hers, balefully glaring at me.
This morning, some food has been eaten, and the kitskas are no longer under the bed. They have quite vanished! I assume into the closet or one of the room’s other many nooks & crannies. Or maybe they’ve teleported back to Hudson—cats can teleport, you know.
It will take time…
###
Oh, look!!!
no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 04:28 pm (UTC)And I'll wish good things for Ellen and Stuart. You were exactly the right person for Ellen to give the cats to, not only because you'll give them a good home, but because of how you were for the two of them, for the daughter, and especially for Ellen herself.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 05:07 pm (UTC)I will call her up & see if we can do lunch once spring is on its way. I hate driving any distance in the winter.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 07:20 pm (UTC)George and Martha came as Turkey and Pecan. I guess George's other siblings all got other fall-related names - Pumpkin, Cranberry, et cetera. But they were closer to shelter cats than rehomed ones.
Have you ever tried Feliway?
no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 12:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 10:54 pm (UTC)I can tell they're good kitties. And very frightened & disoriented by the transition that's been forced on them. I'll let them adapt at their own pace.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-08 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 01:07 pm (UTC)But I will take good care of them.
no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 10:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-09 01:06 pm (UTC)