Where Baxter *really* went

This made me spit a mouthful of herbal tea all over my keyboard. Glad I was at work on my Dell and not at home on my beloved Mac.

Eulogy

This morning from my kitchen window, I beheld Mrs. Next Door Neighbor standing outside beside Richard the Beagle’s chain-link fence. She was petting Richard with one hand while holding something resembling a small furry ball in the other.

A small furry ball that was most definitely not Baxter.

I felt my lower lip pooch out. Small furry not-Baxters could only mean one thing.

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Baxter Update

I saw Baxter yesterday - only the second time this summer. He was standing in his driveway, staring at the side of the neighbor’s house. I walked slowly toward him, calling his name over and over. He didn’t move a muscle. I called louder - nothing. I got within five feet of him, shouting, and still he did not alter his position, staring fixedly at nothing on the side of the house.

Baxter is stone deaf.

I finally got him to notice me by waving my arms in the air as if hailing a low-flying plane, like that guy in Platoon. Even then, he didn’t so much notice me as my shadow moving around, breaking up the sun in front of him. He started in surprise, and turned to look at me like, “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on a brotha like that?”

He crouched as if to run away, then must have decided it wasn’t worth the effort, which I suspect is considerable at this point. I was able to get a few little pets in, but he soon shrunk away from my hand, so I’m pretty sure petting is more painful now than soothing.

Baxter’s hips poke out, his eyes are bleary, his orange fur is fading to brown and feels like cheap carpet. God damn, that cat’s old.

Technorati Tags: cats, pets

“Woman! Woman! Your cat!”

This morning Kevin summoned me to the window to prove once and for all that Baxter is indeed still alive and kicking. Actually, he was snooping around in my violas for some mysterious reason.

When I went to give him some sugar he ran away (or rather, hobbled hastily away), which kinda hurt my feelings. But I guess it has been several months, and he is 92 years old, so he probably has no idea who I am. And I guess maybe he mistook my ecstatic enthusiasm for something more threatening as I charged at him brandishing my digital camera.

Some things don’t change, I’m happy to say; I was able to lure Baxter back to the edge of our yard with a handful of food. He still wouldn’t let me pet him; he either has arthritis that makes petting painful or it will take some time for him to trust the Crazy Lady again.

This portrait of favorite curmudgeon is also the inaugural post in a new category: Rib Eye.

Starting today, I’ll be taking and posting one photo a day for a year. Never fear, lords and ladies of letters; I won’t abandon you. I’ll still be writing my usual pithy posts, just augmenting them with visuals. Rib Eye is a year in snapshots, Uppity close and personal.

Photo: Baxter, 05/23/07 7:30 am, Uppityville WA

Technorati Tags: geriatric cats, photoblog

Baxter’s Retreat: A New Wrinkle

This is Richard, my other neighbor’s brand new beagle puppy.

Richard hopped and wiggled his enthusiastic way into the neighborhood just a few weeks ago. He’s the cutest, sweetest puppy ever — and probably the most hyper; he is always in joyful motion, just like a puppy oughta be.

Richard’s domain is a neighbor’s back yard which is just across an easement from mine… and Baxter’s.

I wonder if perhaps Baxter, at 92, just doesn’t have it in him for happy, spastic, ya! ya! ya! puppy love?

Technorati Tags: puppies, geriatric cats

Mea Culpa

Retraction: It has come to the author’s attention that a certain geriatric* cat is very much alive and comfortably ensconced in the home of Mr. & Mrs. Next Door Neighbor.

In fact, these sources tell me, Baxter is morphing daily from tomcat to housecat, preferring kitty bed to driveway box, cat litter to garden dirt, and lounging to hunting. He’s even taken a liking to being scratched behind the ears, as the elderly are wont to do.

Therefore, I, Uppity Rib, hereby do publicly apologize for accusing Mr. Kevin Fixer of fabrication and conspiracy regarding the cessation of metabolic processes of the aforementioned cat. Kevin is “not only the kindest and most loving sweetie ever, but also the most honest and truthful.”

*Baxter is 19 years old, not 17 as I reported previously. He is 92 in people years.

“I taught I ta a putty tat.”

Kevin woke me up this morning with a cup of coffee and a mutter: “Your cat’s out there.”

Given that I was barely awake after a rather sleepless night of heat-induced tossing and turning, it was a full minute before what he said registered. And then I smiled to myself in the darkness. Baxter.

A few minutes later, I came downstairs and, clutching my steaming cup of life, stared blearily out of the kitchen windows. “Where is he?”

“He was out there on the porch,” said Kevin. “He’s skinny. And old.”

I watched for several minutes, but Baxter did not appear and my elation turned to suspicion.

Kevin had frowned deeply when I related my scary Baxter dream, had harrumphed worriedly at my Where’s Baxter post. He had a fit on Saturday morning when he caught me watching Sylvester and Tweety cartoons and pouting.

“Do I need to turn that off?” He started to pace, which is the masculine equivalent of wringing his hands.

“What?” I asked.

“I am an engineer,” he explained. “I am paid to fix things. In fact, I am a highly-paid Fixer,” he added somewhat facetiously.

Kevinism translation: “When something is wrong, I am supposed to fix it. And when something causes you discomfort, I am supposed to fix it instantly and permanently or you will leave me for a more competant Fixer.”

So I wouldn’t put it past Kevin to try to fool me into thinking the old B is still around, all summer. “Oh, you just missed him!” he’ll say as the empty elevator doors close, like Dolly Parton in 9-to-5.

I’m reserving judgment at this time, but we will know soon enough: I’ll put a handful of food out on the porch this morning, and if it’s still there in the evening, the jig is up for The Fixer.

————————————————-

UPDATE 04/25/07: Alas, I was not able to do my cat-food experiment because I couldn’t find the bag. (Damn spring cleaning.) But I’m going to do it tomorrow morning for sure - so tune in for the verdict.

FYI, I got in a fair amount of trouble for this post. Apparently Mr. Fixer did not appreciate having his integrity questioned. He has steadfastly protested his innocence, and in fact is winning at the polls (see post Comments). Yet lack of hard evidence continues to hinder his case. This morning when Baxter failed to appear, Kevin was heard to mutter “That cat is framing me!”

I’m worried about Baxter.

Last night I had a terrible dream.

I look out of the window of my kitchen door to find something small and sinister on my porch.

It is a dark mass, so black it’s hard to distinguish. But as I stare I realize it is a cat, a furry black cat lying on its back with its little paws drawn up to its chin, like an otter. And judging by the flies on it, it is dead.

“Kevin!” I shriek. “Baxter died and the neighbors couldn’t bear to tell me so they left him on the porch!”

As you might remember from previous posts, Baxter is my neighbors’ hundred-year-old (in people years) tomcat. He is also the semi-willing recipient of my fawning devotion, like a third nephew.

I love animals, but because I am allergic, I can’t have any of my own. So I try to woo the neighborhood pets who come around into thinking I am their dotty but lovable Auntie Uppity who will pet them, feed them and put them in my will.

This strategy has been most successful with Baxter, who lives next door and is too old to run away. For four years, Baxter has allowed me to spoil him, i.e., feed him every time I walk out my back door. In exchange, Baxter tolerates a few caresses and scritches behind the ears.

Phlegmatic as he is about our relationship, I think somewhere in his kitty soul Baxter knows he is doing me a spiritual service. He knows that letting someone love you is as crucial to life as water. So between the brownie points he’s racking up in the heavenly dimension and the free food in the earthly one, he really can’t lose.

But our rendezvous ceased abruptly this winter. After 17 years of prowling the gardens by day and sleeping in a box in the driveway by night, Baxter has finally withdrawn inside the house, where the warmth soothes his arthritic bones. I’m sure he whiles away the hours curled up on the couch contentedly, watching TV, doing jigsaw puzzles, and reading pulp fiction. I’ve missed his croaky demand for food every day when I get home from work, but I’ve been happy in the knowledge that he’s warm, safe, and…well, alive.

I’m starting to wonder, though.

The last Baxter sighting was on an unseasonably warm January afternoon. Kevin spotted him sitting on our front porch, surveying the lawn like he owned the place. Typical, actually, and thus reassuring. Since then, no Baxter, but I’ve figured surely when the weather warms up, he’ll come trotting around again, expecting, like a Hobbit, his ten or eleven meals a day.

But I haven’t seen Baxter yet this spring, even though the temperatures have been in the 60’s at times. I wouldn’t be too worried, except that a few months ago, I asked the neighbor lady how Baxter was doing and to my alarm, she started to cry.

“He’s not dead yet!” said her husband, in the exasperated tone that indicates they’ve had this conversation before.

“There’s nothing I can do for him,” she mourned. “I just try to make him comfortable.”

As much as I love Baxter, 17 years is damn old for a cat. In just the four years we’ve lived here, he’s gone from being old but spry to ancient and arthritic; from imperiously cantankerous to wearily, resignedly mellow. He’s lost weight, hair, eyesight. And memory, apparently, since he sometimes croaked for food mid-chew.

Kevin and I have made a deal that the first one to see the neighbors will inquire about Baxter and report back immediately. I just want to know so I can stop having dreams and start grieving. I mean, there’s like seven stages of that, isn’t there? I need to get started if I want to have a decent summer.

Baxter’s had a long, happy life brimming with love. In his last years, he let me top off the tank, for a small fee. I would have paid more.

Fenile dementia

When referring to her cat Spencer’s ability to jump rapidly from one narcissistic desire to the next, forgetting each successive thing as if it never existed, my friend Diana used to call it “10-second Cat Memory.” I am here to testify that this condition does indeed appear to be hard-wired into feline DNA.

Take Baxter, for instance. Baxter is a regular fixture at our back doorstep every morning and every evening, waiting to be fed, which we do without fail. But poor Baxter, once he’s eaten a few mouthfuls, appears to have trouble remembering it.

Within moments of the morning’s first few chews, Baxter will look up - “Hey! I’m at the back door!” - sit down about an inch from his food and start meowing. Kevin or I will come outside again and rattle our finger around in the dry food. Baxter, hearing a noise, will look down - “Hey! Food!” - and start (or resume) eating. Until he gets distracted by something, say, the sound of chewing, and stops. Then he’ll look up- “Hey! The back door!” - and meow again. And so on.

This routine could go on all day, but I’ve never let it for fear of Baxter’s stomach exploding. “Hi, Mr. & Mrs. Nextdoor Neighbor, I’m really sorry but we blew up your cat.” No, I’ve been making up ways to distract Baxter from the idea of food, such as petting him until he runs away (which takes about 2 seconds).

Kevin’s last words to me this morning before work were, “Your retarded cat is out here again.”

Technorati Tags: cats, memory, feeding patterns, amnesia

Lost In Translation

Sometime last summer, upon realizing the 10-year anniversary of our non-legal union* was fast approaching, Kevin and I decided we’d go to Europe for a few weeks. We figured we had a couple years to save up for it.

We soon realized, however, that the milestone was approaching faster than we thought - my nephew turned 9, which meant that somehow we had “lost” a year and September 2006 was, in fact, our 10th. (It’s a good thing I have nephews, who tend to have very regular birthdays, or we wouldn’t be able to keep track of anything.)

And so planning and saving for the trip to Europe in the fall accelerated to warp speed, and now it is a mere two months away. This means that we are alternately thrilled - we both love to travel - and terrified - as languages are neither of our strong suits. Luckily the internet provides many opportunities for learning common phrases in other languages.

Therefore, in preparation for the Great Adventure, I’ve taken on the challenge of learning one useful phrase in either French, German, Dutch, or Italian per day.

Today’s Useful Foreign-Language Phrase comes to you courtesy of la France:

Can you read my pet’s microchip?
- Pouvez-vous faire lire le transpondeur / la micropuce de mon animal?

Leave it to the French to invent a “petbot” that doesn’t poop on the sidewalk. I’m bringing one home in my suitcase. (Don’t tell Baxter.)

* No, it’s not even a Common Law marriage, as there’s no such thing in our state. Good thing; we’d have to move.

Technorati Tags: French language, european vacation, pet microchip, common law marriage, living in sin, Godless liberals, fornicators