A Cat's entitled to expect, These evidences of respect

England has Maggie Smith. We had Daisy.

Rescued from the Chicago Humane Society in July of 1998, after Chloe had begged endlessly for a cat, she became part of our family and moved with us from Illinois to Georgia in 2003. 

Even so, she never lost her Chicago accent.

She endured the addition of a baby in 1999 and a parade of interloper cats, but she never lost her sense of feline entitlement, her, pardon my French, top-doggedness. 

She was the Gateway Cat, after all.

As President for Life of the Pussies for Peace, Daisy led the charge against the war in Iraq before dissing that war was cool. She always said she didn't want people to die for a lie, even though she didn't hold silly humans in high regard.

Writing under the pseudonym Maureen Dowd, she offered her unique take on current events and occasionally provided the catlike voice overs for several cartoons. Uncredited, of course. Because she was all about the art. 

Sophie, that brave, strong girl, was home alone with her when Daisy took her last breath. She called each of us to let us know that the Q was gone.

I thought it fitting that Daisy died on Edward Gorey's birthday because I can't think of his art without thinking of cats.

To Daisy, we raise a glass, or dip our paws in it.

To Daisy - 

Who liked the children best when they were sleeping, and....

Who never let us forget who was in charge.

Daisy Q. 1998 - 2013

Rest in peace, Daisy. We were better having known you, at least according to you.

(Title is a line from T.S. Eliot's The Ad-dressing of Cats)

Treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough

When my first paycheck arrived, the last vestiges of the clouds of despair parted, a ray of sunlight fell upon the quaint paper check* and the sweet voices of faeries sang an ancient ballad of a bank account not overdrawn.

Aside from the paycheck, the ability to be among bipeds who make great conversationalists and a general sense of being a productive human being**, this job puts a major crimp in my life. No time to read blogs, surf the internet, or work on my Used Dental Floss of the Stars collection.

That's not to say I'm not grateful. I'm ever so. Every time I answered the phone yesterday with "Good (morning/afternoon), (name of the organization), this is Lisa." I felt gratitude for being able to do one of the things I do best - greet people then hand them off. And I don't even have to wear a blue vest to do it.

I'm reminded at this moment that you can't just greet newborns or cats and then hand them off.

"Hello, Baby, this is Lisa, how can your daddy help you?" or "Hi, kitty! You're so cute! Now let's find someone to scoop that litter......"

I'm in limbo because I've been filling in for the receptionist since last Monday so my real job hasn't really began. I've spent so little time at my desk that it's week three and I haven't set my own voicemail or spilled anything on my keyboard. A good start in my experience!

Oh, and before I forget - if you want to know what really matters to a company's customers or an organization's members, answer the phones for a week. There's much to learn.

So while I try to gather what little wits I had about me, I hope you know that I'm missing reading those of you who blog. My rss feed reader got so full, it's going to be on an episode of Hoarders. Google is threatening to expose my search history to my mother if I don't clean out my email. 

This doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that while I'm in the probationary period of this job, I don't plan to get pinched surfing the internet during work hours.

Until I'm a little less consumed, I hope you'll accept my apologies and know that as I'm toiling away at the multi-line phone, I remember how much you all kept me company while I was home being kneaded by cats.

Speaking of - the cats had a fur-shedding row the other day over the proper spelling of the word whoa. Some were dead certain it's spelled w-h-o-a and two others insisted on the spelling w-o-a-h. Thankfully, order was restored before the police showed up at the house. When I got home, I tried to get to the origins of the kerfluffle but no one was meowing. Finally, I took my favorite kitty, the one who isn't so bright, aside and got some answers as she licked at the Mariner's Catch pate I used to lure her into conversation.

"Why do you guys need to use the word whoa anyway?" I asked, my voice like cream.

Her eyes shifted, searching out bewhiskered spies. "It was just a conversation," she said between tiny bites.

Unsatisfied, I pressed her. "Ivy, does it have anything to do with the photos of the horses I found on the google history?"

She swallowed audibly then daintily licked her lips. "Horses?"  Her breath smelled of fishy parts.

I know faux ignorance when I see it. "Ivela, spill or I won't let you sleep in Sophie's room."

She blinked. I could tell she was thinking it over. Her Pillow Pet rests at the foot of Sophie's bed and she does not like to sleep without it.

"It's not a horse. It's only a very large dog......"



*Can't wait for the direct deposit to kick in!
**Which is really nonsense because keeping house and raising kids is productivity.

Resistance is futile

1990. MathMan and I strolled through the baby department at Carson Pirie Scott looking for a gift for our precious niece (who just had the nerve to graduate from my alma mater Indiana University). I was struck by the delicate beauty of a pair of newborn socks. My hormone balance tipped, my voice went up two octaves and in that instant my campaign to grow our family from two to three became my goal like it's Mitch McConnell's goal to see to it that President Obama is a one-term president. I was uncompromising.

A year and half and one purloined used condom later, we had this.

1994. Chloe was such a good baby that I decided we needed another. I started making advances toward MathMan who insisted that he liked the kid we already had. I assured him that we could keep her, too. The hospital didn't have a trade-in program anyway.

After some "convincing," we had this.

1998. Back from a misguided attempt to go home again, MathMan and I moved the furniture back into our house in Illinois and tested out the mattress thus producing this before we even discussed what we'd do next....

Later that summer, Chloe, who had begged for years for a cat, finally got her wish. We visited the Chicago Humane Society and brought home the only cat that was younger than a year old. Mean, territorial. Vicious with her claws, but Chloe loved her and named her, ironically enough, something soft and beautiful. Daisy. Daisy the Hellcat. From Hell. Of course the cat fell crazy in love with MathMan.

2003. The move to Georgia. Daisy remained in Chicago with our wonderful neighbor Dan and his cats until we got settled because we didn't know where we were going to stay when we got here.

November 2003. Daisy was retrieved and settled into her new home with all kinds of cool windows to gaze from and a stunning array of wildlife visiting the bird feeder aka The buffet.

Nathan and Sophie felt left out of being owned by a cat. Chloe made it abundantly clear that Daisy was her cat. A want ad. Free to a good home.

We'll take two.

2004. A pregnant cat is treed by a dog. A sucker brings her in because the tails of hurricanes have been passing through and it's miserable outside. Four kittens are born behind Sophie's bed.

Of course we keep the runt.

Who are you calling a runt?

 2009. I'm hanging out with Becky and not answering my phone when Sophie calls. She's attracted another cat and can we keep it please? Pretty please?

MathMan is disgruntled. Enough, he says. This is insane, he says. It's madness, he concludes.

He's all bluster in the face of this face.

 July 15, 2011. MathMan, Chloe and I arrive home from seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2. Sophie and a couple of the Covered Bridge Springs Tarts are on the back porch squeeing about this.

Please, People of the Internets, save my marriage. Free to a good home. Not the husband. The cat. He's precious, affectionate, has a high tolerance for cuddling. Needs a place to live because six cats? That would be crossing the crazy line. Five cats may be crossing the crazy line, but six? We'd be outnumbered.

And yes, I did just conflate cats with kids. At some point, both are just as darling and just as annoying. True, the cats won't care for me in my dotage, but there's hardly any guarantee that my children will either. I assure you though, when it's time for the tough choices to be made, I'll play dirty. I'll remind them that they and the cats are here because I insisted on making it so. Left to his own devices, MathMan would likely be living a wonderful, carefree life with a hot car, a hot girlfriend and more money than he knows what to do with. See how I ruined it for him with my bright ideas?

That's what he gets for drinking tequila shots on October 1, 1987. A lifetime supply of Lisa.

Listen, if you know of anyone who needs or wants a cat, please email me at lisa h golden dot gmail dot com. We'll figure out how to get this kitty to you even if it means  I drive him to you. In fact, he's so smart, he might even drive himself.

Until then, he'll be soaking up the love and leaving gifts in the litter box.