Thou Givest and Thou Taketh Away

Kids can do wonders for your self esteem. The first time your baby looks at you, really looks at you, you feel like the most important person in the world. When your toddler cradles your face in his tiny dimply hands and tells you you're the best mom in the world, there's a piece of you that believes him. You make the best meatloaf, you sing the best songs, you know the best bedtime stories.

And then there are the times when you are told, usually loudly, often in a public place, that you've got a chubby belly or stuff in your nose. A kid's affection can lift you up, but his subtle and perceptive criticism can quickly bring you down.

We've been going to our church for 12 years now so any given Sunday, after church concludes, there is a lot of chit chat with friends and pew mates. How big the kids are getting, how hot the summer has been, how fast time goes by. It is the definition of small talk.

This past Sunday I was chatting with a grandmother whose granddaughters have all been in my Sunday school class. When we finished talking and went our own way Abby asked me, "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That laugh and snort thing."

"What laugh and snort thing?"

"After everything you say you laugh twice, then snort."

"I do not."

But then I started to listen to myself. And this is what I heard:

"Are your kids excited for Halloween?"

"I think Abby is, but I don't think the boys really care." LAUGH LAUGH SNORT!

"How does Sam like choir?"

"He really enjoys it. He's learning a lot from the choir conductor." LAUGH LAUGH SNORT!

"Aren't you glad we are finally seeing fall weather?"

"Yes! I think this is the best time of year here." LAUGH LAUGH SNORT!

Abby was right. That night as I was tucking her in I told her I'd decided to just keep my mouth shut.

"Not a bad idea," she said. "Especially since you have bad breath."

Back On Track

So let's ignore the fact that I have written since June. It's not like during that time Sam was confirmed at church or Jake started a new school or Abby learned to ride a bike. For me the last few months are a blur of camps, vacation, school, homework, drama, chaos and occasionally a little order.

But leave it to me to come back to this blog with a cat story.

Years ago my neighbor found a black cat cowering in her garage. We eventually coaxed him out with food. He was a stunning cat, contoured and sleek, with a face and ears straight from an Egyptian hieroglyph. But he was a grouch. Feed me, look at me, but don't touch me. I named him Oscar.

Day after day we fed him and I came to expect that in the morning he'd be sitting on the side porch, waiting for a meal. On a few rare occasions I found him sitting in the kitchen. But I still couldn't get close to him. Maybe a pat across the back or a scratch on his ear but woe be the hand that touched his tail or his chin.

He slept in my neighbor's garage and under our house and was never gone for more than a day. Day after day became week after week then year after year. In the past few months, he started getting closer. A brush on the leg, a head butt, a heavy, full-body purr. Soon I could pick him up. He would sit in my lap for a moment. He wasn't grouchy, just stoic. And maybe, just maybe, I was earning his trust.

But whether it was illness or the wear and tear of being a lifelong stray, Oscar got sick. His leonine face got lean, his back haunches were so gaunt they couldn't hold him up anymore. We put Oscar in a carrier for the first and last time and took him to the vet. His kidneys were failing.

So we put him to sleep. He didn't resist, like he would've just months ago. He laid his head on my arm and purred. He actually never flinched or blinked.

We buried him in the backyard, under the flagstone he used to lay on when it was warm outside.

I have a dog, a guinea pig, fish and three other cats (and possibly a kitten), but I'll miss Oscar. Seeing him every morning was like going to the zoo and finding the lion leaning up against the glass, inches from you. Like being close to something beautiful that was still a little wild.