What Love Looks Like at 76
I’m on my way down to restock the Little Free Library and pass AdventureMan, who always asks me why I love him. It’s hard to keep it fresh. It’s hard to find new answers to that question, but this time, it’s right there in front of me.
“Who likes to clean out the litter box?” I ask. He looks puzzled.
“No-one!” I answer my own question, but I continue “I love you because you clean out the litter box in hot humid weather, even when you don’t want to, and give the cats a nice clean place to poop! I love you because you do it faithfully, and I don’t have to do it! It’s not romantic, but I consider it TRUE LOVE!”
It makes him laugh. I am not the romantic young bride he met in Heidelberg and married six weeks later. I am pragmatic and grounded. I know what matters.
We have always had cats. I used to do the litter boxes, and when I got pregnant, he took it over because pregnant women can get a disease that can infect the baby. Around when our son turned 18 he had a perplexed look on his face and asked me “just how long after the baby is born can you scoop litter again?” and we both laughed.
True love is bigger than diamonds or white roses or wonderful perfume. True love is scooping the cat litter and cleaning out the litter boxes. Thank you, AdventureMan.
“We Call Her Meanie”
We are sitting in our backyard with our neighbor, Marvin’s person, and I asked her if she had ever had any other cats, or knew of any other cats in our neighborhood, who were neutered and microchipped but didn’t seem to belong to anyone. I had my reasons.
She named a couple – Cindy Clawford, and one we call Fuzzy Tail, and Goblin. And then she says
“And there was one, we call her Meanie, who used to hang around, but I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
I didn’t say anything. “Meanie” is likely the cat who bit my hand the first time I fed her, she was so hungry and had no manners. I had to have antibiotics for the first time in 30 years, and a shot of some kind. She wanted to live with us but she was too feral. She lived outside for a year.
It was a very very hot summer, and she had a thick fur coat. When Goblin or another cat would go after her, she would run to the drain in the street and hide inside. We were terrified we would find her body in the street one day. And it was hot, too hot for her to live on our porch living in a fur coat. AdventureMan wanted to bring her in. She adored him.
A friend helped us trap her to get her neutered – and we discovered she was already neutered and chipped, but had no registered owner.
“Meanie” was a scary cat. You couldn’t move too fast or she would hiss, and occasionally lash out with her sharp claws, or even bite. We have to keep the door closed between the front and back areas of our house so she won’t attack our two very domestic male cats. Slowly, slowly, we have gained her trust and she is learning manners which are more suitable for living with people. We have taught her to cuddle, by moving slowly with her. She no longer bites. She no longer uses her sharp claws, except to knead when she is cuddling, purring and happy. (Ouch!)
We call her Zenobia, after the warrior queen of the Syrian desert, who ruled in Palmyra.
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