I don’t know about you guys but I neeeeeeed this right now and what better way to be reminded than by a hedgehog driving a car.
I can relate…because I probably look like a hedgehog honking at everything that moves these days.
AND I’ve decided I want all of my reminders animated and delivered by hedgehogs.
Okay? Are we clear?
Carry on
xox
*Hi Loves,
This is a post from Christmas 2013, but it’s a crowd favorite for the timeless reason that my man never ceases to amaze me with his decency.
Immensely grateful for all of you and your decency and continued loyalty and wishing you and yours the happiest of holidays and a fucking amazing New Year!
xoxJanet
AVATAR
av·a·tar
ˈavəˌtär/
noun
1.HINDUISM
a manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.
I met my husband when he was 47 and I was 43.
To say I kissed a lot of frogs along the way is an understatement!
Since he’s French, there’s also a certain irony there.
On paper, I looked über normal.
I had a great job, a house, a relatively “normal” family, lots of good friends, two Siamese cats, and a Partridge in a pear tree.
But as you all know by now, I had my dark, hidden secret.
I was a closeted seeker.
I was devoutly spiritual.
I did yoga,
I meditated twice a day,
I could have been a monk.
Well, except for the red lipstick and nail polish…oh, and the sex.
Anyway…
I’m pretty sure I blurted it all out on one of our early dates,
after a glass of wine, half expecting him to excuse himself, saying he was “going to the restroom”, only to discover he had made a run for it!
But he didn’t.
It ends up he was a seeker as well, having worked with
a Peruvian shaman along the way, so I should have seen this coming.
For years, I had sought the counsel of a channel, a friend who had the ability to call in beings of higher wisdom. So I invited her/them over to “meet” my new husband. I’m not exactly sure what I expected, but what they did was to completely ignore me, and practically fall all over themselves, calling him “Great Avatar”.
Then they explained that I am the “consort” to this great being.
What!? Really?
Like the Cleopatra to his Marc Anthony?
Nope.
More like the Robin to his Batman.
The Kato to his Green Hornet.
The Heckle to his Jeckle.
Well, not exactly.
He is my teacher.
I am grasshopper.
It just happened for the gazillionth time on Christmas Eve day.
He told me the story that night, on our way to dinner.
He is a typical man in the sense that he waits until 3 p.m. on the 24th to start his shopping.
So…he’s navigating an overcrowded parking lot, and he’s hungry.
You get the picture.
He finally sees a car ready to pull out of its space, so he positions himself, left blinker on, and waits…and waits…while the person sloooooowy backs out. Meanwhile, on the other side of them is a little pickup truck that has the same idea. My husband sees what’s up and aggressively blocks the spot with his black Porsche and then pulls in. (Don’t judge, just because it’s a Porsche and a pickup truck, just don’t)!
As the pickup truck drives off, he makes eye contact and flips my husband the middle finger.
Oh, don’t worry, that stuff rolls off his back…he’s French, remember?
But it’s Christmas Eve for cryin’ out loud!
He walks in to get a quick burger, and realizes while he’s eating,
that middle finger, pickup truck guy is eating with some friends a few tables over.
So, he gets out a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
He then attached $20 and hands it to the waitress to deliver to the guy…and leaves.
The notes says:
Even though you flipped me the bird,
It’s Christmas Eve.
your lunch is on me.
The black Porsche.
As he glanced back, while walking away, he sees the guy showing the note to his buddies and looking around the cafe.
He’s my hero.
He’s my teacher
He really is an Avatar.
It is an honor to be his consort.
Xox
You guys,
Friday, someone I hold in extremely high regard showered me with a veritable social media love-fest. Everywhere I looked she went out of her way to say something incredibly kind.
For no damn reason.
I didn’t give her money.
I didn’t clean her kitchen or babysit her dog.
Truth be told I hadn’t even talked to her in a while!
I just woke up, scratched my ass, had my coffee, and commented on her blog. I didn’t even say anything particularly special.
The next thing I knew, she unleashed the Kraken of Kindness.
Feeling awash in immense gratitude, I was reminded of this post from last year regarding this very thing.
The feeling I carried with me ALL DAY Friday was beyond delicious. That’s why knowing this is so, so, very important.
Love.
Somebody somewhere loves you.
I know I do
xox
A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
― Jackie Robinson
I missed the email when it came in.
Contrary to what most people believe, I am NOT on social media 24/7.
It was Sunday so…I was doing assorted Sunday stuff; sleeping past six, eating pancakes stuffed with blueberries, carbs and gluten, (because on Sunday, none of that stuff counts and calories don’t stick. Trust me, I’m a Doctor*) and engaging in general, slovenly goof-offiness.
When I finally did check in, I noticed that one of my readers/friends had left me some very lovely feedback on Saturday’s blog, the one about viewing your life as a movie.
It always moves me when people take the time to write and tell me how something made them feel. I know everyone is crazy busy, so it’s much appreciated.
It’s like finding blue sea glass Like discovering a gem—gorgeous, out of the blue and completely unexpected.
My point is this:
I swear to God. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary to deserve it.
And you don’t even know it.
If you COULD somehow feel it you’d walk a little taller and maybe put on some lipstick.
I have teachers from grade school that I STILL revere and if they were alive…I know they would be surprised.
The same friend that wrote that email is herself an extraordinary woman.
Yet, she has NO IDEA.
In the jewelry world, she is a badass. She is an expert in time periods, stones, and things I can’t pronounce, let alone spell. Her lectures are always packed and she commands the stage like a rockstar. Believe me when I say, that many, many of us think she’s awesome — and I can assure you —she doesn’t know it.
Recently I was lucky enough to meet a brilliant, funny, and incredibly wise woman who resides in Paris.
An expatriate married to a Frenchman. She has such style and grace that denim has never touched her impossibly smooth skin. Her body would react so violently she would have to take anti-rejection drugs to wear a pair of yoga pants. Murphy (see, even her name is ridiculously cool), is so impossibly chic that French woman clamour for her style council and fashion advice.
I’m sure of it.
I’m also sure that wherever she goes, she leaves a wake of awesome-sauce behind her of which she is blissfully unaware.
Our friend Clay is knowledgeable in SO MANY fields. Just by breathing he can unintentionally make me feel equally stupid about music, computers and food.
THAT my friends is a trifecta of talent.
My husband continues to marvel at Clay’s humble manner and general down-lowness.
He’s a pilot and we didn’t know that for a year. He owns several patents, and again, we just somehow found out; and I’m pretty sure he invented the internet (sorry Al Gore).
In our estimation, he is a 21st-century renaissance man and he has NO IDEA we feel that way about him!
It’s startling when people let you know that they hold you in high regard. It’s like you were just going about your business, Lala la Lala, just being you—and someone noticed your sparkle.
It makes you want to straighten your crown and walk like a boss. It may cause you to strut. Like some serious red carpet strutting. Like Angelina Jolie on the red carpet type strutting. SHE is someone who owns her awesomeness. The rest of us mere mortals have to be reminded.
Which is why telling extraordinary people how much they’ve impacted you is a wonderful thing—please, do it. Often.
But I know it’s a safe bet that we each have several silent admirers who think we rock.
People we haven’t seen or spoken to for years AND people we see every day.
Isn’t that crazy wonderful?
There are people breathing your exhaled air, living right now, looking at the same moon, who think you’re covered in awesome sauce.
I do.
You’re all amazing!
Xox
*I’m not really a Doctor, I just play one on TV.
I’ve been in a sort of pickle these past few days. Not quite a dilemma—I suppose you could call it a quandary.
Yeah, that’s it—I’ve been in a quandary as to how to handle all this hubbub around the two essays I wrote for The Huffington Post regarding my divorce—and the quandary is this: There are two sides to every story.
He said—she said.
Suddenly my side, which after over thirty years decided to show up in my rear view mirror and then be published not once, but in two different essays, with an interview today on Huffington Post Live, is starting to make me a tad uncomfortable.
With all the distance, and water under the bridge; the fact that both my ex and me have gone on to find love again and lead perfectly lovely lives; and the fact that we are…friendly—has helped me approach the telling of the story of our divorce and the subsequent years afterward with a light touch.
With humor and gratitude, unicorns and love letters.
Now here’s the rub. I’m not so sure he sees things that way.
I haven’t actually had a conversation with him about our divorce in over twenty years, and I have no intention of re-opening that subject with him now, that is not an easy topic for us and last we spoke I can guarantee you—there were no unicorns or love letters mentioned.
You see, back in 1984 I left the marriage and he was not happy about it.
He swears he never saw it coming which always makes me shake my head in disbelief (I’m doing it right now), so I’m sure his story would read more like this: Blindsided great guy (he really was) gets the heave-ho from totally ditzy, hopelessly romantic and seriously deluded first wife.
True or not, that is probably his take on a difficult and painful situation from his past—and the problem is —no one will ever hear about it.
Since my side(s) of the story have gotten more traction, I’ve been dialing down the social media blitz that comes with having your articles reach outside of your comfortable circle of friends and family. Strangers are reading it and weighing in and THAT feels weird somehow.
I know my ex peruses my personal Facebook page so I’ve left both articles off of it, hoping for the best.
That’s the thing. One person talking about their experience as half of a partnership, a union, a collaboration—or a relationship—is missing a very important element—the other side of the story.
Liz Gilbert wrote about her difficult and emotionally wrenching divorce in Eat,Pray,Love,and the world sympathized—which eventually compelled her ex-husband to write a book about HIS experience inside of the same situation.
The Oscar-nominated screenwriter of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle, wrote Heartburn in 1983. The book was inspired by the events of her break-up with her second husband, the Watergate journalist Carl Bernstein, whom she discovered was having an affair with British politician Margaret Jay while Ephron was pregnant with their son Max. While it may seem as if he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on in the court of public opinion, Bernstein did threaten legal action for how he was portrayed.
All I know you guys, is that I‘m not so sure I’d like to read about what any of my ex’s thought about our relationship on Facebook or in The Huffington Post.
Even if they were kind about it, (which I made sure to be), I’m certain I’d disagree with all, most, some of what they had to say.
It’s too late. The genie is out of the bottle.
I have a blog where I talk about all aspects of my life—from my perspective—no holds barred—hoping to share the common thread that runs between all of us, and I can’t start being worried about what someone will think about it now.
I get to have “my view of the facts” as a friend said to me today, but remember—true or not—completely accurate or not—everything you ever read is just one person’s View of the Facts.
I often forget that, falling under the assumption that it’s the whole story.
What do you guys think?
Carry on,
xox
I don’t know if you guys saw this essay by Liz Gilbert on Facebook yesterday, it’s an important topic and if you’ve already read it — go make yourself a sandwich and then read it again because you probably missed something.
It is my belief that our tolerance for someone being less than kind to us starts in childhood when we are powerless to stand up to authority or “sass” back a teacher or family member who lobs something unkind our way.
But there’s no excuse for putting up with that shit once you’re an adult — no excuse whatsoever!
The unkind words of others can cut you to the core (because really, isn’t that their intention?)
Other people grow a callus, a hard surface that the unkind words just sort of roll off of, I’m probably one of those people; but don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t hurt — because it does.
Please take a minute to read this, it’s really good.
Here is the takeaway in a one sentence:
“Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.”
May I also say right here, right now, that you guys, my readers, my tribe, are SO freakin’ kind and thoughtful, and…nice! It’s a rare commodity on the Internet and greatly appreciated. Love you guys!
Take it away Liz—
xox
“Dear Ones-
So I saw it happen again the other day.
Last week I watched as a friend of mine got (quite savagely) verbally attacked by a friend of hers. As I was comforting her later, she said, while brushing away tears of pain, “It’s OK. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. I know that deep down she’s a really nice person.”
To which my question was: “HOW deep?”
I mean, if you dig down deep enough into ANYONE, you’ll find some traces of decency and humanity buried in there, right? (As they say, Hitler loved his dogs.) But how deep do you have to dig, in order to find that goodness?
How much toxic waste do you have to claw through with your bare hands, before you reach any evidence of hidden kindness?
How many layers of concrete do you have to blast through, before that person will let you see their one deeply hidden molecule of niceness?
And how much abuse do you have to take, in the meanwhile?
And is that really how you want to spend your life? Exhaustively trying to excavate scraps of decency from someone who has basically buried their goodness beneath a rubble of darkness?
I have the same reaction whenever I hear someone make these kinds of statements:
“I know she seems rude, but deep down she’s actually really kind.”
“I know he acts stingy, but deep down, he’s truly generous.”
“I know he lied to me and cheated on me, but deep down he still loves me.”
“I know she has a horrible temper and says awful things to her children, but deep down she’s a sweetheart.”
I don’t know, you guys. I don’t like it.
I’m not saying that you should throw people away or condemn them. Every major religion in the world asks us to search for the common light of humanity that is hidden within everyone. Of course you should always look for the best within people. Of course it’s enlightened to give people the benefit of the doubt. Of course it’s the highest virtue to forgive others for their shortcomings, as we would be forgiven for ours. Of course it’s compassionate to look at the difficult circumstances of a person’s life, in order to better understand why they may have turned out so broken, bitter, and mean. (Remember, though: Lots of other people had equally difficult destinies — or worse — and still find ways to be kind and generous to others.)
But it doesn’t mean you have to voluntarily expose yourself to abuse and cruelty.
Without denying the possibility that every thorn has its rose, I think it’s wise to keep your distance from people who repeatedly and consistently demonstrate injurious, neglectful, or flat-out cruel behavior. You can pray for them and wish the best for them, but you might want to cross the street when you see them coming, just to be on the safe side.
I don’t think it makes you extra spiritual to keep putting yourself in the pathway of degradation and suffering just because you have decided that — against all available evidence — this cruel person is actually a sweet person.
Generally speaking, people are pretty much what they show you they are — not what you wish they were.
People who behave cruelly toward you are more or less cruel people.
People who behave nicely toward you are generally nice people.
(Unless they are full-on sociopaths, of course, which most people are not.)
You can almost always count on that.
That being the case, I think you’re allowed to choose what sort of people with whom you wish to spend the precious waking hours of your one rare and beautiful life.
I choose to spend my life with people who are not afraid to wear their goodness and their niceness on the OUTSIDE.
I choose to spend my time with people who aren’t afraid to show love, or to receive love.
I choose to share my life with the nice humans.
I don’t find nice humans to be boring; I find them to be an oasis.
Keep it simple: Be nice to others, be nice to yourself.
ONWARD,
LG”
*This is a Flashback Friday piece written a while ago, about some questionable behavior on my part.
I watched several people walk right by it. I did too. Twice.
Obviously some trash had found its way onto the path and into the planters in front of the door to the Y.
It looked like as if it had made a break for it on the way to the dumpster that lived around the side of the building. It consisted of a few pieces of shredded paper, a power bar wrapper and parts of a banana peel. As I walked around it on my way in, I thought: Gee, someone needs to pick that up.
I’m sure the guy in the way too tight and shiny bike shorts, holding the door for me, thought the same thing.
After my 45 mins of extremely rigorous and effective circuit training (15 mins on the elliptical, 15 mins on the arm machines and 15 mins gossiping with Tina at the front desk)
I sprinted (walked slowly), with Bruno Mars still blaring in my ears, to my car.
When I saw that the trash was still by the doorway, I was annoyed, Jeez, that’s still there? I’d better go tell Tina to send someone to pick it up. And I walked right by.
What. an. assbite.
The sheer audacity of my own entitled ass-bite-ish-ness stopped me in my tracks.I looked around. Someone WAS sent to pick up the trash. Me.
I bent down, made sure I got all the pieces, walked back inside and threw it in the can that was next to the door. With my own, two, manicured hands. It took me less than a minute. Probably less than 30 seconds.
Sometimes I just shake my head in amazement…at my own behavior.
Who are we, when no one is watching? Are we assbites that walk by trash, or people in need? Do we turn our heads or pretend we’re on the phone?
Or are we people with some character? I think we can be both.
Back in the day, right after I bought my house, I LIVED at the 24 hour Hollywood Home Depot. I would walk down EVERY aisle like it was a gourmet market. Even the lumber department.
It was dependable, free entertainment, by the fact that it was consistently crowded with a cross-section of the most unique examples of humanity on the planet. It was the bar scene from Star Wars. AND, they played KROQ, an alternative rock radio station on the store PA after 6pm.
One night (It seemed I always needed a plunger or a dimmer switch at 11pm) in the aisle between electrical supplies and sprockets, was a sharp something or other that hadn’t been put back properly. As I absent mindedly strolled by, rocking out to The Clash, it jumped out and sliced my leg. Bad. Blood was suddenly EVERWHERE. It started to resemble a crime scene and as I looked around for help…crickets. There had easily been ten people on that aisle seconds before, and now it was deserted. Not a single soul.
People freak when they see blood. And a girl in denim overall shorts and Doc Martins hopping on one leg, howling OWWWWWWEEEEE loudly is certainly terrifying, I get it.
They don’t want to get involved.
I’ll never understand that. When you see someone fall, find a crying, lost child, or stumble upon a bleeding new homeowner –– see if you can help.
Be a person of some character. Even if no one else is watching.
Someone must have hunted down an employee, because a guy that looked like my brother, if my brother was COVERED in tattoos and wearing a Home Depot shirt, came to my rescue.
He quickly wrangled the guilty object that cut me back into its cubby, tied a tattered bandana around my ankle and told me to go get stitches and a tetanus shot.
In that order.
He also alerted me to the fact that I roamed those aisles “at my own risk.” Regardless, he was kind as he smiled and helped me back up on my feet.
It was then that my hero appeared. I heard angels singing.
He showed up with one of those flatbed wheelie things, and asked if I needed transport to my car. How chivalrous.
See…now this guy has some character.
Problem was, he resembled a biker/vampire, and I was sure the smell of my blood had beckoned him to my side. I declined his kind offer, and hobbled alone in the dark to my car, looking over my shoulder for a bat, or my scary pale, blood thirsty, knight in shining armor.
With all the cameras everywhere and YouTube video postings, we will all eventually get caught in the act. But we have a choice. Will it capture us in a random act of helping or hiding?
Tell me, are you the person that springs to action when someone falls or drops trash? Or have you caught yourself not wanting to get involved? Also, has something happened to you, and no one helped out? I’d love to hear your escapades?
Carry on,
Xox
It is my humble opinion that this applies to falling in love as well.
Love you my peeps,
Happy Valentines Saturday!
xox
Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost their pet.
While we were away I actually received a few calls, “Hey, I just saw your cat in my front yard” the lady five blocks over reported. I thanked her, explaining that he had returned home.
Damn, when I get back I’ve got to remember to take down any signs that are still up, I told myself; but I thought it was sweet that people were calling and I was thrilled that he was back to visiting his old haunts. So no red flags went up when we got a message mid-week, that someone had our cat.
“Please call me, it is very urgent that I talk to you. I think I have your Siamese cat.”
“Another Fraidy siting” I said out loud while Raphael dialed her back. Thirty seconds into the call I could tell by his face this one was different.
I remember we were sitting in the car, in a parking lot, but then I left my body as he gave me the news: this woman had found the upper half of a Siamese cat; an obvious coyote kill.
It had taken her days to reach us; for some reason his collar was missing, and as was his nature, that little shit was far from home. She had put “found cat” signs up in her neck of the woods, but it wasn’t until someone saw one of my signs and put two and two together that she had a number to call.
We went back, met her and her family, bringing pictures of Fraidy, just to make sure it was him. Of course, it was – but she really loved seeing photos of him alive and well.
This woman is an angel on earth, an animal LOVER and a mom.
Here is a beautiful letter she wrote to us after our initial meeting about my darling Fraidy and the gift he gave her family. This letter was Her gift to me.
July 15, 2006
“Dear Janet and Raphael,
It was very moving to meet you both. It’s strange to have shared something so personal with people I don’t know, and I’ve found myself wanting to tell you a little more about the day I found Fraidy. I need you to know – more than I was able to express when you were here – the gift your beautiful cat gave me.
Three days before we went on a family trip, my daughter’s dog Lulu, had been diagnosed with bone cancer. Our housekeeper, Angelica, stayed at our house taking care of her and all of our other animals. Lulu took a dramatic turn for the worse after we left town and died two days before we came home.
My daughter, Ivy, is 14, the same age as Lulu. She and Lulu were inseparable.
Everyone who knew the profound relationship between them believes that Lulu timed her death so Ivy wouldn’t be here to experience it. The trip home was one of the hardest of my life knowing that Ivy would walk in the front door and need to be told that her beloved soul mate had passed away while we were gone.
We got home Saturday night, June 24th. I was up most of the night consoling Ivy and woke up Sunday morning feeling completely helpless. I took our little dog for a walk in the neighborhood to try to find some peace with it all before the rest of the family woke up.
It was probably 7-7:30 in the morning. There are often lots of people walking at that hour, but on this morning the sidewalks were completely quiet. It was in this quiet, surreal state of exhaustion that I saw a beautiful Siamese cat in the yard of the home on the southeast corner of my street and Kraft.
The image that will always be with me was the peacefulness of his face. It was in such startling contrast to the attack that had been made on him. It was as though his life had been taken from him in the middle of a happy nap. When I petted his head, he was still warm, so I found him very close to when he died. Because he was laid so neatly in the yard, I can only assume he’d been carried there by a coyote who had been frightened off by something – maybe even by my dog and me walking down the street.
I ran home and came back with the car so I could wrap him in a towel, bring him home and keep him safe. (she put him in a large freezer in her garage) I came back later with Ivy to ask neighbors if they knew whose cat he might be, which is when we met Geralyn, the woman who later saw your sign which put me in touch with you.
I didn’t let Ivy see Fraidy, but she knew his death had been the opposite of how Lulu had died – inside, surrounded by our friend and other dogs. The experience of trying to help with someone else’s loss really helped her get through the first day.
When I hadn’t had any response to the signs we put up by Thursday of that week, I decided to bury him. I chose the back corner of our yard because it’s the most peaceful spot. It’s far from all the dogs, kids and gardeners, and is where I love to walk to get away from everyone. A couple of times a day there is a great shaft of sunlight that shines right where I buried him. I had a little service for him by myself when every one else was off at work and camp. (she is a famous illustrator, and she decorated a rock as a headstone with her art and his name).
I sat with him for a long time. The suddenness of his death put the suddenness of Lulu’s death in great perspective for me. The tranquility in his face reassured me of a greater plan, and gave me peace about our loss. It was as though he was saying to me that even this vicious attack couldn’t scratch his great spirit.
It is this message from Fraidy that has helped me help Ivy cope with losing Lulu in the weeks that followed. It has given me – and her – great strength. It’s made me believe more deeply that our next life is just on the other side of this one, and that animals travel between the worlds more easily and are certainly always around us to be our guides. The book I’m sending, http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Heaven-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0590100548
was written for children, but is exactly how I imagine the next life to be.
I didn’t do anything heroic helping Fraidy find a resting place.
He gave me a gift I will never forget, and I am very thankful for him.
When I contrast his free life with the way our cats live – perfectly safe, but the closest they’ve ever gotten to a tree is to see one out the window – I think he was a very lucky guy.”
That he was.
Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost a pet.
He was a rascal and a renegade. He was all of seven pounds, my gorgeous seal point Siamese companion.
I named him Fraidy Cat because I gravitate toward ironic names, I called our previous cat Doggie, because he was clearly a dog in a cat suit.
When I walked into the room to pick a kitten, they all scattered, except him; he ran up to me, meowing his face off. “Well, aren’t you brave, you’re a pipsqueak but you sure aren’t a Fraidy cat” I said as I scooped him up in one hand.
He looked at me with his cornflower blue eyes and that settled it, he’d sealed the deal and stolen my heart.
I’d always had indoor cats, it was better for their physical health and MY mental health; you see I’m a worrier; so if my cats were to go outside, Tom-cating around, not being there when I needed him, getting dirty, I’d knew I’d freak.
So he spent his days at the windows, howling to get out, jumping at the glass, shredding the screens.
I spent my days inside my very convenient denial, that is, until the guy I was dating at the time, a huge cat lover, took me by both shoulders, guiding me to the screen door, kicked it open and held me there while Fraidy bolted OUTSIDE and up a tree. He’d howled at the birds in that tree for two years, coveting their freedom, now he was up there, climbing among the leaves; I had to admit – he looked ecstatic.
That was the start of his outdoor life.
Being the rule setter that I am, I did instill some parameters – furry little rascals need boundaries.
When we shook the container of dried food – dinner time.
Once he was in for the night, that was it, he used the cat box and slept inside, on my pillow, or in my armpit.
I fed him and let him out when I got up. It became a routine that made us both happy. On the weekends, when I was around, he’d stick close to home, rolling on my little patio in the sun. Life was good.
The longest he ever stayed away was three days, and I lost. my. mind.
When he finally did show up, he was filthy and starving, with a far away look in his eyes – like he’d seen too much. He’d clearly lost one of his lives.
He didn’t have much to say for himself, and after twenty-four hours of my interrogation and his silent treatment – I made him promise that there would NEVER be a next time – and it was never spoken of again.
When I moved to my current house (which came with a cat door – it was a sign) he had a companion by then, Teddy, who was his polar opposite.
Teddy was a fat (I mean big-boned) Teddy bear of a cat, a grateful, gregarious, well-mannered rescue Siamese, who never went much further than the backyard or the front porch.
Fraidy, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement every morning when I’d open the door to the pantry so he could get to the cat door and start his day. He loved all the mature trees in the neighborhood and brought me presents on a regular basis, (dead birds, mice and once a baby possum) to express his gratitude for the change of locale.
The fauna around the house submitted a petition and formed a coalition to ban Fraidy from certain sections of their territory – but he wasn’t having it. ALL of Studio City was his domain.
Seriously –– All of it.
I found that out in the most profound way, when in June of 2006, seven years after moving to this house and navigating coyotes, traffic and other cats, Fraidy broke our agreement and went missing – for a long time.
It was an unseasonably hot Memorial Weekend, and after shattering his previous three-day record, I started to really worry, putting up signs and calling his name around the neighborhood.
That’s when I got the calls, from far and wide, coming from miles around. “Your little Siamese, yeah, I see him all the time; but it’s been awhile” one caller five blocks over reported.
“That Siamese with the red collar, he was in my backyard as usual just last week, that’s the last time I saw him. I’ll call you if I see him, I hope he comes back.” That lady lived across Tujunga, a big street with fast-moving traffic, which made my stomach turn, I had NO IDEA he was wondering that far from home.
One evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a cat walking up the sidewalk toward the house.
A small, skinny Siamese.
Fraidy?
I had all but given up, it had been seventeen days.
I stopped the car in the middle of the street, jumped out and called his name, and he came running over like nothing was out of the ordinary – but it was.
I swept him into my arms and ran inside calling Raphael the whole way. I couldn’t believe he was back. “It’s him right?” I kept asking.
It was weird, he hadn’t lost any weight, he still had his red collar with all his tags on, he was clean, un traumatized and purring away.
“Smell that” Raphael was now holding him, pushing his body into my face, “he still smells like your perfume” (I wasn’t wearing any that night) and he did, he reeked of my scent.
“Someone obviously had him” everyone said, happy that he’d reappeared.
“Yeah I guess; someone who wears my perfume which is discontinued and impossible to get.”
He seemed genuinely happy to be back.
Man I wish he could have told me where he’d been over a glass of wine and a can of tuna, I’m sure it was an incredible story.
A few days later we left for a week in Palm Springs with my whole extended family, a friend was staying at the house with the cats.
I felt uneasy, I didn’t want to leave Fraidy – his return to me after such a long time was so remarkable ; it was as if he’d returned from the dead. He was my Lazarus cat.
(To be continued)
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