And I was not a tiger or an elephant.
I was not an alligator. (Crocodile?) No, alligator.
I was not a dancing bear or a tall giraffe.
I was only ME!
And that's the way I'll be,
Oh, that's the way I'll be,
I enjoy being an oyster!
from "Sweet Zoo" by J. Harris
(Barbra Streisand, "My Name is Barbra" LP 1965)
My Own Sweet Zoo
The BeginningOkay, fast-forward. In 1988, I fell in love with one of the puppies a friend's dog had, and begged them to let me have her, which they did. I named her Boogie, and she was the most precious thing. She was what we called a "cayootle" dog, or a Heinz 57 breed, and looked a lot like the dog in "Benji", only white. In 1991, I moved 70 miles back to New Orleans, and added a kitten to the mix the day before Halloween. Punkin' was a short-haired Calico, mostly white, with huge orange and black patches, and was very meticulous in her grooming, so what was white stayed white. Punkin' wasn't very crazy about Boogie at first, but Boogie was crazy about Punkin'. She eventually came to accept Boogie's grooming and playfulness, and they became best pals.
After my mother's poodle, Etienne, had to be put down (old age), she grieved so much, my dad caved in and asked me to get a puppy for her. She'd had a stroke and was partially paralyzed; my dad had had a heart transplant, and was still pretty frail. I knew it would have to be a small breed that wouldn't require grooming, other than bathing. So, we got her a Jack Russell Terrier she fell in love with the moment she saw her, and named her Precious. But she was a typical J.R.T. - a barking, pooping critter on speed and jumper cables. She proved to be too much for my dad, and so, Precious came to live with me. She quickly learned that there was no "alpha" about it - Punkin' was Her Supreme Royal Highness, Queen of the Zoo, and not to be messed with. Boogie knew that I was the "Alpha" of the menagerie, regardless of what Punkin' thought; occasionally, she put Precious in her place, but most of the time just tolerated this little ball of energy that would have given a Tasmanian Devil a run for its money.
In 1998, we moved in with my parents to take care of them; my father had brain tumors, and passed away three weeks later. A few months later, a friend told me about a stray kitten her brother had found on the road to her parents' house, waaaaaaay out in the country. They asked their nearest neighbors if they'd lost a kitten, but everyone said no. So, I adopted her, thinking she'd become mother's cat, and named her Widget. (Well, she was a girl, and small, so I considered "Midget" or "Gidget", but it was again the day before Halloween, and I thought I'd keep with the theme started with Punkin', and combined Witch and Midget, and came up with "Widget".)
Like Cats and Dogs
When I brought Widget home, the dogs were in their kennels, but Punkin' had free run of the house. She came to investigate, hissed, and ran off, but she eventually came to accept Widget. Boogie took to Widget instantly, grooming her and treating her like a her new baby. Precious, on the other hand, gave chase at every opportunity, which meant anything in the path of Widget's flight suffered claw marks. We tried to keep Precious and Widget separated, but we weren't always successful.In 1999, mother and I moved to the "Westbank"; two years later, I suffered a pulmonary embolism; a month after that, mother had another small stroke. I was mentally and physically exhausted, and ended up having to quit work to take care of the both of us. Precious was proving to be too much of a handful, so I found her a new home. We'd also acquired a few birds, and I had to find homes for them, as well.
Punkin' had always been prissy, devoted to me, but mostly gave others the cold shoulder. Boogie had proven to be Mom's little buddy, and try as I may, I could not stop her from sharing morsels from her plate with Boogie. But Widget was the true hero, and truly Mother's cat. Where Boogie and Punkin' slept with me, Widget slept with Mother. She'd feed Widget some of her yogurt and fruit (especially peaches) in the mornings, and Widget would wait until Mother was done with lunch and dinner, and climb up in the bed-tray to steal a lick of the bowl or plate.
In January of 2003, Punkin' passed away after a brief illness. She was about 11 and a half. Boogie and Widget took her absence well, Mother and I a little sadder. But in late April, a friend told me her cat had to get rid of a litter of two kittens as soon as they were eating solid food (her landlord was having fits). She said the boy kitten was black and white, and the girl had been born white, but quickly developed Siamese markings. I told her I'd take the little girl. We went immediately to PetSmart to get a collar and kitten food, and when we passed the display of Harley Davidson pet gear, I decided to call her "Harley". I had to work with her for a few days on eating and drinking from a bowl, but she caught on quickly. But I began to suspect all was not right, and off to the vet we went.
Well, all was NOT right. Oh, the kitten was healthy, but it wasn't a girl. It was a BOY! ACK! I didn't WANT a boy kitty, because of their tendency to "spritz". But by then, we were completely in love with him. So, eventually, after only one incidence of spritzing, he was neutered. And the sweet little ball of fur turned into a great big bruiser, well-named! He began to overpower poor little Widget, whom he outweighed by a good 8-10 lbs., as if either of them still had working "parts"! Mostly, though, it was a tolerant existence in my little zoo.
The Storms
In September 1998, Mother and I did what our family had never done before - evacuated for a hurricane. Early predictions put New Orleans in the path of Georges, so we packed up and fled to Beaumont. The trip was exhausting, and took a toll on Mother, and I prayed I'd never have to subject her to an evacuation again. Especially since George turned away from Louisiana, and headed inland over Mississippi.My hopes were dashed, however, in September 2004. Again, we were told Ivan appeared to be headed for Louisiana/Mississippi. By this time, Boogie was almost 16 years old, mostly blind, and was becoming more arthritic. I'd made reservations in Dallas, and it broke my heart to tell Mother that I didn't think Boogie would tolerate the trip, and that the time had come to let her go. So, the morning we were scheduled to leave, I took her to a vet who agreed to put her down and hold her body until after the storm. I made arrangements for a local pet crematorium to pick her up after the storm.
This time, however, my brother came with us to help with Mother. Although the cats did well, the three of us were totally wrecked from the ordeal, relieved but frazzled that the evacuation was needless, as Ivan turned and hit Alabama. Mother tried to get me to swear I'd never evacuate her again, but I refused.
In April 2005, Mother passed away unexpectedly. I'd closed the door to her bedroom, and the cats would sit by her door and meow and paw at the handle, wanting to go in. Widget misses sitting on the windowsill, and Harley misses walking along the bedrails and head and footboard of the hospital bed. (If reincarnation really exists, he'll come back as a gymnast, I'm sure!)
I'd been wanting another dog for a while, but had never felt the time was right. A few months after Mother passed away, I began checking the classified ads every so often, thinking I'd get a Maltese-mix like my aunt had. Then, in August, an ad for "Mal-Chu-Pom" (a mix of Maltese, Long-haired Chihuahua, and Pomeranian, although you can't see any evidence of Maltese in her) puppies practically leaped off the newspaper page, and I couldn't get it out of my mind for two days. Finally, I called, and learned only the runt was left, a little girl. For some reason, I wanted her sight unseen, but had to wait a week to meet her. But the moment they put her in my arms, I knew she was mine! They'd been calling her "Little Bear" because of her coloring and personality, and I'd chosen the name "Maggie" (for Dame Maggie Smith, a favorite actress), so she became "Maggie Bear".
Maggie had never seen cats before, and she was curious as all get out. Harley set her straight with a gentle, but startling swat; he and Widget both knew what dogs were, and while Widget accepted Maggie after a day or two, Harley took almost a week before he'd come anywhere near. A week after Maggie came into our home, however, we were again on Hurricane watch. Again, I made reservations, this time in Jackson, MS., and decided if Katrina turned as the others had, I could always cancel the reservations. But, by Friday, August 26th, we knew in our bones that Katrina was drawing a bead on New Orleans, and hurried to finish packing.
My mother's youngest sister and her husband would make the trip with me, along with their dog, Mollie. The next morning, we loaded my car, and took off. Mollie didn't want anything to do with Maggie, but even though she'd never seen cats, she was interested in getting to know them. Harley and Widget just kind of ignored Mollie, more concerned with dealing with Maggie, who was starting to come out of her shell with a vengeance. She and Harley started what became a daily routine, chasing each other across the motel room in a "Tag! You're it!" fashion.
We stayed in Jackson for three and a half weeks, until we couldn't stand it anymore, and made our way back to New Orleans. My family and I were heartsick for the areas hit by Katrina, but relieved to find personal blessings - my aunt's building suffered minor damage, but her apartment was fine; my house had some roof damage, a broken window, and the fence looked like a rollercoaster track, but was otherwise in good shape. My aunt's refrigerator was salvageable with a good cleaning, but mine was dead. (Both places stunk to high heaven!)
Harley, Widget, and Maggie were just glad to be home, with their big ol' house to run around in like crazy.
Today...
We're home, watching the rebuilding of the cities around us, and living a mostly-quiet life. While they go to the bathroom in relative privacy, I have company every single time, Harley and Widget on the vanity, and Maggie dancing on the floor. In winter, I have to fight for my own blankets. Widget turns her nose up when I offer her yoghurt or peaches, but Maggie's always standing by, ready to claim what Widget refuses. Harley is still curious, and has developed a wierd passion for rolling around on top of the washing machine, begging for scratchies. Maggie is terrified of thunder and fireworks, and teaching Widget and Harley to become just as clingy as she is during thunderstorms.Here are pictures of my boy and girls.
