My dog is lumpy.
Not in a cancerous, on death’s doorstep kind of way, but she is old. Benign growths periodically crop up on Gigi’s aging body. She doesn’t seem to care. Our vet says they’re just ugly, nothing harmful. Still, our cute, former five pound puppy is 11 years old and five times heavier than she was in her youth. And lumpier. Things change, whether I want them to or not.
Gigi is the second pet I’ve ever owned. The first was a stray cat my brother Bill unexpectedly brought home one night. She was completely white from nose to tail, with the exception of a faint black spot in the middle of her forehead. It looked as if she crawled under a car and slightly brushed her head against a stained oil pan. We named her Cleo.
Bill wasn’t far removed from high school and I was in the latter parts of grade school. Bill was closest in age to me at 11 years older. My sister Liz was 15 years older than me and Bob, the oldest, was 18 years older. Bob and Liz no longer lived at home, while Bill remained in the house, struggling to find his place in the world. I had siblings, but I felt more of an only child.
I was clearly the only planned pregnancy of the group. Why else would my parents have a baby in their forties when the oldest was beginning college? Things change, often times unexpectedly.
As a kitten, Cleo screeched at night. During the day she peed and pooped inside the house. I took on the chores of feeding the feline and enforcing litter box usage. Not that cats need it, but I also did my best to keep her brushed and well groomed.
Cleo quickly became my pet.
This responsibility did not actually entail much effort on my part. Cleo was an outdoor cat. After eating breakfast she remained outside until dinner. After eating again, she returned to the great suburban outdoors and happily stayed there until I rattled the handle on the back screen door. Upon hearing that noise she’d eventually scamper up the back steps and stay the night for a sleepover.
Since she spent most of her day unsuccessfully chasing squirrels and birds, keeping the litter box odor free and tidy was not a monumental task. Maybe a once a month endeavor at best. My main job was to rip open the packet of foul smelling cat food twice a day and give her water. That and be her friend while she was on the “inside”. I played with her, petted her, and provided her safe refuge at night. Cleo slept on my bed, usually somewhere near my feet so she could randomly attack them when they moved under the covers. It was our ritual.
Another ritual in my house entailed my father maintaining a separate residence with his mistress.
Of course I knew nothing of the affair and only learned about it over a decade later from my oldest brother, Bob. This explained my father’s protracted domestic absences, although my mother insisted it pertained to work related travel. This made perfect sense, maybe even to her. He simply wasn’t around much. Interestingly, I never questioned why he showed up at the house on Christmas morning and then abruptly left before noon. Didn’t everybody’s dad do that on December 25th?
But at least I had Cleo. She was a constant, always there. I’m sure she occasionally ventured outside the confines of our semi-rotted split rail fence that enclosed the backyard. However, I often spotted her on our long concrete patio in the sun, lurking around the giant cedar tree for the elusive squirrel, or inquisitively eyeing the multitude of birds that perched in the back fruit trees and along the vines holding red and white grapes.
And there was also a pine tree, tucked far away in the back left corner of the property. That pine tree was special. Every first grade student at Waynewood Elementary School received a pine sapling to plant. I suppose that back corner was out of the way enough as not to deter from the apple, peach, plum, pear, and persimmon trees that populated our backyard. Cleo didn’t venture there too much, but that was just as well.
Fascinatingly, after four or five years, I possessed the only sapling from my class that survived and grew into an actual pine tree.
Perhaps my mother fertilized the soil or added nutrients to its base without my knowledge. Regardless, I know I did nothing but admire its perseverance and will to live. That and shake the snow from its branches in the winter.
I don’t believe Cleo ever gave that pine a second thought. Her interests lay in patrolling her domain, eating her Friskies, and sleeping on my bed. Cleo typically rose before me. I know this because she woke me almost every morning by licking my face. It was like a small, wet piece of sandpaper rubbing my cheek for 3 straight years. Sometimes things change very little, if at all.
One particular morning, I woke first and saw Cleo lift her front leg and place it over her eyes to block out the morning sunlight shining through the front bedroom dormer window. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a dog or cat do that before or since. For a 3 year-old cat, she had personality. It made me forget about those toe bites through the blanket and sheets.
She was my cat and I was her human.
Later that same day, my brother Bill received a phone call from a neighbor that lived directly behind us. A white cat had been hit by a car and was lying in their front yard. We went to check it out and brought a bag. There were other white cats in the neighborhood. I’d never even seen Cleo cross a road. Why’d we bring a bag, again?
When we approached the cat I saw a faint black mark on the cat’s forehead. I literally felt my heart sink into my stomach. She was just lying on my bed a few hours ago with her front leg drawn over her eyes. I still had bites marks on my toes. Now Cleo lay lifeless in my neighbor’s front lawn.
All of my grandparents passed away by the time I was a toddler. I have no memory of them. This was my first taste of death. To say it sucked is woefully insufficient. I know it was just a cat, but not then. I felt like I’d lost one of my closest friends. I buried her in the one place that also meant something special to me, directly under my ever surviving pine tree. Things change, sometimes suddenly.
By the time I reached junior high school, my parents divorced. People told me that it was not my fault. I thought that was the oddest thing I’d ever heard. It never entered my mind that I was to blame. My father was hardly ever around, so divorce was just a new title on the same old thing. The house sold in the divorce and my mom and I moved to a smaller home not too far away. New place, new single mom in her fifties.
Years later I found myself back in the old neighborhood. I was in high school, it was late at night, and my friends and I had been drinking beer. Trespassing seemed like the next logical step. I cut down the side of the front yard where Bill and I found Cleo years ago. I raced through their property and hopped the fence into my former back yard.
The new owners had changed so much landscaping.
The once crowded space, now completely opened up. The majority of the fruit trees that populated the back lawn were gone. The fence with the red and white grapevines was gone. The old shed was gone. Even that big, beautiful cedar tree was gone.
And to my horror, so was my pine tree. Why did they uproot and kill the only surviving sapling from the Waynewood Elementary 1973 1st grade class? Did they not appreciate its historical context? Did they not fathom the trees ability to overcome the odds and thrive? Did they desecrate Cleo’s gravesite, as well? Things change, even when it seems wrong.
Both of my parents passed away within the last 7 years. Even Bill succumbed to lung cancer a decade ago. It’s weird to think about it, but half of my immediate family, growing up, are dead. Four, if you count Cleo.
And of course my dog, Gigi, is still lumpy. Interestingly, Gigi is mostly white with brindle spots. Cleo would have certainly approved. Lumps and all. I suggested “lumpy” as a new nickname for her, but my wife vetoed that suggestion. That particular thing will stay the same.