For those of you who have been following my exploits with my mom, you know she’s wrestling with dementia and Marie and I are wrestling with caring for her. I was already late publishing last week when I sat down on Wednesday to write. I decided I wanted to include a picture of the foundation vent and access hatch. So, I left the Panera where I usually write and headed to the old neighborhood to take the pic. Before I got to take the picture, Momma called and it was just last night that I realized not only had I not taken the picture, I also had not published the newsletter. I wonder who should be taking care of whom. So, what follows is the intro I wrote last week. Once I click send I’m heading back to Mom’s. Wish us well.
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Today is Ash Wednesday. We celebrated Fat Tuesday last Saturday night at a friend’s annual Mardi Gras dinner. Shrimp and grits, red beans and rice, Cajun meatloaf, muffulettas, mach choux and pralines. We had a great time and I left sated.
Shortly after we left the party, Momma called. She had fallen again, and we spent the rest of the evening taking care of her. She had a little cut, but was ok, otherwise.
My mom’s short-term memory continues to decline. She has moments of great lucidity, punctuated with periods of confusion. My wife’s mom suffered from early on-set Alzheimer’s. That experience has been invaluable helping me care for Momma. One of Marie’s tactics is to show mom animal videos on YouTube. Watching those precious short films reminded me of a couple of our pets. This week’s story is about Tinker and Tuffy.
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Remember: You Matter. Your Stories Matter. Tell Them Well!
Gayle Turner
The Storytellers Channel
The King and the Court Eunuch
I don’t remember how we came to have cats. Since I was seven our family had been dog people. We had nothing against cats, but we’d just never thought about them. In fact, I don’t think I knew anyone with cats. I don’t remember seeing them in the neighborhood. But one day, this alley cat shows up. He looked like a lean Persian. Long, shiny, gray and silver fur. He must have been a mix, because he had a great profile. He looked like a small lion. We called him Tinkerbell. I don’t know where the name came from. Tinker ruled the neighborhood.
All of a sudden, cats started showing up and he would have none of it. If a cat was fool enough to come in our yard, he would drive it off. But he wasn’t satisfied with cats leaving the yard. He would chase them until either he whipped them, or they got away.
One day, I was out by the garage and a cat zipped by with Tinker close on its heels. The cat started up the fence and Tink hit it halfway up, dragging it to the ground. I happened to be holding a broom. Not wanting either cat to get hurt, I put the broom between them. This distraction allowed the interloper to escape over the fence, but Tinker was in the heat of the moment and began to climb the broom after me. I backed up going, “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!” He dropped to the ground and walked in circles like a boxer regaining his cool after having been possessed during a bout.
Tinker was what I call a Dogcat. He liked people. He enjoyed being stroked and brushed. He followed me from room to room when he was home. He got along well with the dogs and any mutt stupid enough to threaten him quickly learned the error of his ways.
This was in the days when dogs and cats ran free. We would let Tinker out in the morning, and he would be back by dinner time. He showed up one night with a note stapled to his collar. It turned out he would leave our house and walk down the alley to the house at the corner. They would let him in, feed him and then he would jump up on their bed. He would sleep there until the sun no longer shined on the bed. He would get up; they would let him out and he would come back home. But even with double rations he was stayed lean. Something I envy.
Another of his favorite pastimes was to lay on the buffet in the dinette and as Missy, our Sheltie Chow mix would walk by he would hang off the edge and swat her curly tail. She would turn around to see who was messing with her, but she never thought to look up.
After Tink had lived with for a while we inherited Tuffy, a pure-bred Persian, from Jim, a neighbor down the street. Tuffy had a luxurious, solid-black coat. Tuffy had missed no meals. He resembled a court eunuch from ancient Persia. He had that classic smushed face and he would sit on the end table next to my dad watching television. Every now and then he would lean over and nip my dad’s arm. Daddy would go, “Stop that.” And Tuffy would flatten his ears expecting to be slapped.
Daddy still smoked in those days and Tuffy would jump on him and stick his snout in the smoke. We were positive Jim had been getting the cat high blowing marijuana smoke in the cat’s face. He explained his appetite.
Tuffy ignored the dog but would walk over the Tinkerbell and smack him in the face. The King of the Neighborhood would sit there and take it. I never understood. This majestic creature who ruled his domain, was a victim of domestic abuse.
Tuffy was quite content to stay in, but occasionally he would go out. He’d waddle down the block to his old house. Sometimes sprawling out on the warm sidewalk. Tinkerbell didn’t show up one night. We weren’t worried, but he was gone for a week. We lived right across the street from the post office and at least once he had crawled through an open car window and was found sleeping on the back seat of a post office customer. Fortunately, the guy saw him and shooed him out. We started to think maybe, he’d done it again and they hadn’t discovered him ‘til later. It was during this period Tuffy began visiting his old house daily. I noticed he was sitting sentry at the foundation vent. I walked down to see what he was doing and I heard the faintest, “meow.”
I quickly figured out that someone must have uncovered the access door under the building and Tinker had gone exploring. Then, while he was under there, they must have closed the door. I opened the door and called, “Tinker?” And here he came a little thinner, but happy to see me. I assume he’d been living off condensation and crickets.
I looked and Tuffy was already walking home. His work was done. Tinker was happy for me to pick him up. I carried him home. By the time I got to the door Tuffy was sitting, waiting. Wondering, no doubt, why I had dawdled.
Everything settled back into its routine.
Tinker ruled the neighborhood and Tuffy could pretty much get away with whatever at home, because after all when you’ve saved the King’s life you’re entitled to some liberties.
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Til next time,
Gayle Turner
Executive Producer.