— Doug Guido
Cats: I’ve had a few, all great, all different, all but one gone. Starting with the first one:
JASMINE
I turned 14 the summer of ’63 in our new home in a small town on the outskirts of Detroit. The shock of moving from the familiar city streets of the Motor City to a new home on 5 acres of former farmland, accessed by a gravel road, was truly a learning experience. My days as curb ball champion were over.
As I busily explored my new world, my older cousin Bob was getting married to a nice gal named Margaret. Bob’s mom was my Aunt Flo – still one the nicest people I’ve ever known. Growing up, their home wasn’t far from ours, so I would occasionally ride my bike over for lunch; Aunt Flo’s liver and onions with mashed potatoes is still a favorite memory.
Maybe because of my lunchtime visits, I was asked to be in the wedding party. This would be my first experience as such, and I nervously donned my rented tuxedo on the big day. In the wedding party, I was paired up with the bride’s sister, a 20-something- year-old woman from, I soon learned, Chicago. Sitting next to her at the head table, I awkwardly asked what she did there; her answer was that she raised cats. Well that stumped me and seeing this, she went on to explain that she raised Siamese cats and sold them – that’s how she made her living.
“Oh,” I replied, wondering if she was pulling my leg. “I like cats,” I lied, futilely trying to make small talk. Up to that point, I don’t think that I’d ever been around a cat.
As a matter of fact, so far in my short life, I knew of only two kinds of house pets: parakeets and dogs, and the dog was often housed outside. We’d had both, but the parakeet died and the dog ran away. As luck would have it, my mom, who had only recently learned to drive, went to the local Sears one day, where they were holding a “Name the Poodle” contest. Being a creative type, with a sense of humor, she filled out the form for “Serina de Roebuck.” That was long forgotten by the time the UPS truck came to our house – a first – with a live animal container. In it was Serina de Roebuck – Mom had won the contest! After our amazement wore off, we noticed that the poodle was a boy, so he immediately became Serano de Roebuck and was with us for the next 14 years.
I don’t remember much else about the wedding and returned to my new digs, adjusting to a new lifestyle. Although I resented the move initially, I soon learned to like country life, exploring nearby woods and fields. By an odd coincidence, our property backed up to the property of the Maybury Sanatorium, now a defunct tuberculosis facility where, in 1929, my grandmother Mary passed away from TB.
While winter weather was generally a time of enjoying winter sports in the city, the wintry conditions were much more threatening in the country. Standing at the end of our road and 8 Mile waiting for the school bus at 6am while the hawk tries to blow you away was a challenging experience. On one such blustery day, a UPS truck came down the driveway (again?), and delivered a live animal carrier that had my name on it. After Mom signed for it, I opened the card.
“Dear Doug,” it began, “The neighborhood kids brought this cat to me because it was hurt and they thought it was one of mine. It isn’t, but I nursed it back to health and now it needs a new home. Since it doesn’t have papers, I can’t sell it. I remember that you said you liked cats, so here’s one of your own. I call her Jasmine.” It was signed by Margaret’s sister from Chicago.
Well.
Jasmine was a beautiful Siamese, probably about 2 years old. Serano now had a playmate, and I had my first cat. Actually, she quickly became the family cat, with my little brother and Mom being her primary caregivers. As a teenage knucklehead, I had other things to do. Jasmine quickly adapted to our place, roaming the fields, hunting birds, mice, snakes and one day came in dragging a rabbit she’d killed!
I eventually went off to college and would see her in the summers, and subsequently moved out of state. I came home to my folks’ new place on a lake north of Detroit for Christmas in the mid 70’s and my first night back, Jasmine went into convulsions, violently jerking around spastically. Thinking she was cold, we tried to comfort her with a heating pad, to no avail. I held her, attempting to calm her, with no success. I finally drifted off to sleep; in the morning she was gone. I buried her in the yard next to the house.
To make matters worse, I couldn’t help but notice that Serano was doing poorly as well, frequently urinating on himself while shivering in the snow. I had come home to the realization that our pets go before we do. We talked it over and decided that it might be best to put him down, but no one was volunteering to do the deed. After a couple more days of watching him struggle, Dad and I took him to the vet; I buried him next to Jasmine. I may be a cat guy, but I sure loved that dog.
PETE
My college career took a left turn when I joined a fraternity and proceeded to flunk out a year later. That put me back home, trying to sort out the different emotions a young man experiences. Throw in the prospect of being drafted and it wasn’t a good time for me, such that my father eventually kicked me out of the house. Having no money and no prospects, I ended up in a friend’s tack room in the barn at Northville Downs racetrack. I’d gone from having drunken frat brothers as roommates to Lance – a palomino quarter horse.
As I slowly worked my way back up the food chain, I took a fancy to the gal cutting my hair in town, Rochelle. Sadly, my interest wasn’t reciprocated. One visit she reported that this was her last haircut, as she was leaving town, headed for the great northwest, British Columbia. Aware of my situation, she offered me her apartment in town. I said yes, sight unseen, as it had to be better than a barn, and at a price I could afford. The day I came to get the key and “move in,” (all I had were clothes; fortunately she left me her furniture), she surprised me with this:
“Doug, I can’t take my cat with me, so I’m leaving her here. Is that alright?”
Somewhat taken aback but not wanting to upset the apple cart (and being a semi-experienced cat owner), I accepted.
“Sure. What’s its name?” It was a large, gray domestic longhair.
“Miss Pussy. It’s only a couple of months old. I figured I’d eventually come up with a better name”.
With that, I had my second cat. Not long thereafter, I was accepted back at Western Michigan to finish my senior year and graduate. Miss Pussy accompanied me to our new digs in Kalamazoo. Unfortunately, one of the housemates, Ken, had a dog that couldn’t understand that while it was alright for the cat to poop in its box, it wasn’t okay for Benji the dog to poop next to it. Finding smelly loads in my room from time to time became a real drag; fate fortunately intervened.
I ran into Dave, a married fraternity brother who had just bought a house in town with a three-bedroom apartment above the main living area. He said it needed work, but he’d trade restoration labor for rent. I took a look, thought it didn’t look too bad and ran it by two other housemates to gauge their interests. They knew and liked Dave and were ok with trading labor for rent, so the move was made.
Of course Miss Pussy, P as she was called, made the move with us and enjoyed roaming the big old place, especially the attic where she’d find, kill and eat mice on occasion. Her resulting bowel movements were God-awful messes, but Dave loved the fact she was ridding him of pests. For some reason, Dave kept calling the cat Pete, not able to commit to P. Miss P also traveled the neighborhood, even to the extent of entering other houses to investigate other cats. One such visit ended up at the vet’s office, as she was scratched in the eye by another cat.
I filled out the forms at the veterinary office and left to go to a class. Upon returning, the vet asked me into the examining room so he could explain what he did to repair her eye lens. After explaining what he’d done and that it should be fine, he went on:
“I notice on the form that you put that it’s a female.”
“Right.” I answered.
With that, he reached around back of the cat and grabbed its balls, causing the cat to yelp.
“I can assure you that this is a male.” he said.
I was stunned; I’d had it for only a few months, but questioning its sex had never occurred to me. I left in a daze, from that and the bill! I was a part-time dishwasher at a local restaurant making $1.63 an hour, so a $200 vet bill was a hit. After I brought the cat home, I left for said job. A couple of hours later I called the house; Jeff answered.
“Hey, is P around?”
“Yeah, she’s here eating her food.”
“Could you get her please?”
“Okay, what?”
“Look into her eyes: Miss P is a guy!”
“Wow, no wonder it’s always in a bad mood!”
And so P became Pete, which made Dave happy.
After graduation, I took Pete to my parents’ home and went traveling around North America. A drunk woman ran me off the road upon my return to Kalamazoo, totaling the van, leaving me with no transportation and 25 stitches in my forehead. Home for six months to recoup both my health and my bank account before leaving again, this time for good. My travels took me to South America, then Florida and Texas, where I landed a good job that eventually sent me to Mobile. My folks visited me there from Michigan and brought Pete with them; he and I were now reunited for the long haul.
That led us to Tampa, where we enjoyed a couple of different residences with no worries as he adapted to each one seamlessly. It was while I was living at a lake house and Pete was sitting in my lap when I got a whiff of something foul. Thinking maybe he got into something, I started to examine him and saw something white on his cheek. Looking closer, I saw that it wasn’t on his cheek — rather, he had a hole in his cheek and I was looking at his teeth where they met the gums!
Shocked, I called the vet and took him in the next day. The prognosis wasn’t good:
“Feline leukemia,” said the vet.
“Can it be treated?”
“Yes, they can use radiation to kill this particular area, but there are drawbacks.”
“Like what?”
“Being so close to the eye, the radiation will blind his right eye. And there’s no guarantee that the leukemia won’t reoccur.”
There were more details and conversations about Pete’s condition with this vet and a second opinion vet, but the diagnosis remained grim. Unlike our first visit to the vet, when he was a she, I was making good money now and was willing to spend whatever it took on his health. The University of Florida had a facility to treat animals for this condition and I was prepared to pay. However, neither vet recommended it, gently asking, “Are you doing this for him or for you?” After a few tears and angry outbursts about life not being fair, I said goodbye to Pete. He’d been part of the family for 15 years. I buried him in that backyard.
BUNNY
After my life with Pete, I felt that I was done being a pet owner. Watching Jasmine die and putting down Serano and then Pete were experiences I didn’t want again. The only other time I’d felt that kind of pain was when my beloved grandmother died. While that felt like an unavoidable part of life, suffering from a pet death was self-inflicted pain; I decided not to let it happen again.
After going through a turbulent employment time, life settled down a bit in the late 90’s — I’d landed a good job and bought a nice home in a good part of town. The family room in the home was such that from my recliner watching TV I could see out the front storm door I had recently installed. Growing up in the north had somehow imbued me with the notion that storm doors were a necessary part of a home; I put one on every home I owned and this one was no different.
What was different was that one day, while reclining, I kept seeing something out of the corner of my eye at the front door. I’d look but see nothing; however, after turning back to the TV, something again seemed to catch my eye. I got up and investigated and there on the front stoop was a young cat, a domestic short hair, just past being a kitten. It looked up at me hopefully.
“Oh no, you’re not coming in here, I know your tricks!” Spoken like an experienced cat owner.
Later that day, watching as the little female explored my home, I realized that I had been willingly tricked into letting it in. So, was it, “Once a cat owner, always a cat owner?” I don’t know for sure, but I think so.
Anyway, what I had been seeing at the front door was a little hop the cat did, kind of standing up and rubbing up against whatever. She did it to the couch and my chair.
“Huh, you do a little bunny hop. Can’t say as I’ve seen that before. I guess I’ll call you Bunny.”
And so it was – Bunny and I became friends and housemates for the next 16 years. When I took her to the vet to be spayed, I learned that she was also pregnant, thus a bigger bill. A cat-owning couple came by to meet her one day. Looking down at her, Mariann proclaimed:
“Boy did you luck out!”
While Pete and I had a smooth relationship regarding outside privileges, not so with Bunny. She had a tendency to stay out late, and one night I found her badly beaten up, probably in a fight with a male cat. I rushed her to an all-night vet clinic, where you have to pay up front before they’ll look at your pet. I guess they’ve gotten stiffed in the past.
Bunny recovered from her injuries, but we established a new rule that she had to come in before dark. This arrangement worked well, but when the real estate recession hit, I was out of work and had to sell my place. We moved to a rental property, and Bunny adjusted just fine — with no issues. But the recession also drastically brought down housing prices, with properties selling for less than half of what they had sold for only five years before. We found a great deal on a townhouse in a nice community — but with a strict HOA — no loose pets.
And so Bunny became a house cat. Fortunately the property had a nice back porch, or lanai, where she spent much of her time. As she was about 11 years old, she had lost some of her spunk and desire to run around outdoors, so she relaxed into the good life. Until another change came around.
To be continued next month…with Sasha…
Originally from Detroit, Doug Guido graduated from Western Michigan University in Kalamazoo, after cramming a 4-year education into 6 years. Subsequently he set off on a “Siddartha” journey through North America in a ’64 Corvair Greenbriar camper van, covering 20,000 miles in six months. After arriving in Houston Texas, he entered the homebuilding field in the roaring ’70’s and ended up in Tampa in 1981. He has written short stories over the past thirty years, reflecting on various incidents in his life that he hopes are entertaining. His self-published memoir, I’m Only Living Once, is available in paperback on Amazon books.
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