cats – Page 2 – Bad Parenting 101

Separating the weirdly cool from the creepy.

There are plenty of cultural oddities for a whitey round-eye like me visiting Japan.

For starters:

Japanese Vending Machines.

Did you know Japan is about 500 degrees in the summer? Plus 99% humidity? Me neither. It’s so tidy and cool in the guidebooks. Everyone looks all nifty and suited up and un-sweaty-like. Have they photoshopped all of the melting tourists out of the pictures?

Luckily, every ten yards or so there stands a vending machine of happiness.

I’ve seen vending machines before, obviously, but not like these. They are tempting. They are sassy. And they dispense whatever you might desire: juice, milk, towels, ice cream, sweet iced coffee labeled BOSS. You can say whatever you need to say to that boss for 120 yen. That boss has been canned.

A great many vending machines are chock full of beer. Due to circumstances beyond my control, such nectar of the gods is strictly verboten. I struggled to avoid eye contact with the Asahi machines that cropped up on every other block. Given the weather, a cold beer looked damned tasty, even through the shower of perspiration raining down my face.

Oh, well. The spouse could always roll his cold can on the back of my neck.

Japanese Toilets.

What to do? From thejapans.files.wordpress.com

It was a little alarming the first time I sat down and perused a toilet control panel, too terrified to push anything. What invasive and embarrassing activity might commence? It is a vulnerable feeling to bare your behind and then submit it to the great unknown.

My two girls were not so tentative. I heard them locked in a stall, screaming and shrieking with laughter. Lord knows what was going on in there, so I retreated to the hallway, cheeks a bit flushed.

One finally emerged, breathless. “Did you push the button with a musical note?” she asked. Turns out, it had played the Star Wars theme. If the line had been shorter, I might have gone back to give it a go.

Sadly, in most restrooms, the music button only makes a loud flushing sound, but now that the note button seemed safe, I decided to step-up my exploration.

What I discovered is that many of the options are surprisingly refreshing. In fact, it was disappointing to arrive back in the States and remember that our lackluster commodes do nothing besides give the ol’ heave-ho to a variety of deposits.

And now…a quick word about the seat heater. It might be a nice feature in certain specific circumstances. Like, in the middle of winter…in your own home. But it was downright lurky to sit on a hot public toilet. It made me think of bacteria multiplying, and about the last pair of bare buttocks that had rested on the very same spot.

Pit toilets on trains.

from --------.com — You have to STAND on the bench. Yikes. http://urutoranohihi.blogspot.com/2011/06/toilets-in-trains.html

Pit toilets and trains do not go together.

You may be imagining the pit on the ground, which would not be so bad. No. On trains, the pits are at commode level. You have to step a couple feet off the ground and clutch the safety rail for dear life, trying to maneuver your pants to the ankle area with your free hand. Alternately, you can use your free hand to tuck your skirt into your armpit.

Who decided it was a good idea to dangle your hind-side over a hole while hurtling through the countryside at 240 miles per hour? Avoid. Trust me.

Toilet Slippers.

from --------- — Regular slippers, from japan-guide.com

Never step on tatami mats while wearing shoes. You probably know that.

Here’s where things get strange:

from www.sarahbetheisinger.com — Please tell me that is an “N,” because it really looks like an “H.” from http://www.sarahbetheisinger.com

When you get to the restroom, you have to take off those REGULAR slippers and change into your TOILET SLIPPERS. God forbid you get your slippers confused.

When all this takes place in your postage-stamp sized hotel room, absurdity reigns. Imagine opening the door to your teeny tiny room, removing your shoes to put on your regular slippers, shuffling eighteen inches to the bathroom door and changing your footwear yet again.

Also, it felt ridiculous to have the word “toilet” written on my feet. At least dogs can’t read.

Pickles.

Pickles, pickles, pickles.

What is it with pickles?

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. More pickles. Different pickles. Pickles as palate cleanser, as condiment, as garnish, as digestive.

It’s like the Eskimos with their snow, except you have to eat it.

Cat Cafés.

Traveling with children means you can’t simply do what the grown ups feel like doing all day everyday. In order to prevent a terrible snit–or worse, mutiny–we had to mix in destinations and activities that would amuse our tiny tyrants. Since we were trying to avoid places like Tokyo Disney, however, we tried to find things that were uniquely Japanese.

About two thirds of the way through our trip, the girls got very homesick, and started waxing nostalgic about our beloved, neglected cat at home. Cat Café, here we come.

The first cat café started in Korea, followed shortly thereafter by one in Osaka, but the pet rental phenomenon really took root in Tokyo, where they have about 40 cat cafes. Since most apartments forbid pets, these places feed the need to find furry love and a little zen-like escape from the frenetic, crowded urban life. One can also find bunny bistros, dog cafes, and an occasional goat here and there, but cat lovers head to places like Nekorobi, in Ikebukuro.

This was a lovely respite for all of us, except the spouse, for whom one cat is definitely enough (if only barely tolerable). He amused himself around Ikebukuro, which is an interesting little pocket of Tokyo.

In case you are secretly judging me, this was not just a place for crazy cat ladies. People go there and play with cats, of course, but only when the cats are interested. Otherwise, people read, and sip coffee, and work, and do regular people activities.

Best of all, Nekorobi had fancy vending machines. They had cubbies and sci-fi toilets. They had regular slippers and bathroom slippers, bean bags, and wifi. And cats.

Plus, no pickles or pit toilets. Perfect.

Couldn't read the menu, so I called this one Soul Patch. My fave. — Couldn’t read the menu, so I called this one Soul Patch. My fave.

My cat is the reincarnation of Chuck Berry.

I heard Chuck Berry is actually still alive somewhere, but I don’t think that interferes with what follows.

For those who are unaware, Mr. Berry is also known as “Johnny B. Bad.” I’m sure Google could enlighten you regarding the scandals which surround him. Please proceed with caution, though. I am already feeling a wee bit apologetic for what I am about to divulge.

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Elsie found me at the SPCA. The minute I walked into her room, she shimmied up me, licked my cheek, and unzipped my fleece with her teeth. It was unsettling but charming, and I didn’t say no.

As I was filling out the adoption paperwork, a volunteer went to pack her up. He returned 20 minutes later, wild-eyed and disheveled, and shoved the cardboard carrier at me. “Whatever you do,” he said breathlessly, “DO NOT OPEN THE BOX UNTIL YOU GET HOME.”

In hindsight, we should have tossed her in the trunk, but I foolishly sat with the carrier on my lap the whole way home. Elsie promptly destroyed my favorite sweater by clawing at me through the air holes, and sensing her anxiety, I tried to yelp as soothingly as possible. Next she pressed her face into the side of the box with such force she made a hole. Rather than let her escape, I pressed the carrier against me while she eviscerated my torso. Frankly, I was afraid she would jump the driver and we would all die.

Now settled, Elsie likes to leap out of nowhere to attack innocent children. She steals stuffed animals and rips their eyes out. She has taken over the loveseat, and will defend it by any means necessary. Do not even lean against that thing. She swipes bacon and roast chicken off my plate if my attention wanders for even a nanosecond. She perches on my shoulder when I sit down at the computer. If I don’t start fawning immediately, she digs her front claws into whatever bare flesh she can find and dangles her rear down until it hits the keyboard and ruins something important.

When my children have playdates, it is not uncommon for the visitors to express terror and frustration. “Can you please move your cat?” tiny voices ask me. “She is staring at me in a scary way.” I totally understand.

Still, she has a number of more endearing qualities. She quacks, for example, which is entertaining. She plays fetch. She sleeps curled around my neck like a scarf. She cleans my eyebrows, kneads my neck, purrs in my ear. And, she loooooves me. She follows me about the house, outside, even down to the corner, and holds a vigil for me when I go beyond that. When I drive up, she runs out into the middle of the street and lies down in oncoming traffic. She REFUSES TO MOVE, too, until I also walk into traffic and scratch her belly. So far, drivers have thankfully noticed and stopped in the nick of time, but they stare at the black fuzzy blob blocking their way. ‘Is that your cat?’ they ask, staring incredulously. Not really. I’m her person.

Elsie was the temporary name assigned by the shelter, and we tried hard to rename her. Nothing stuck. She does have quite a few nicknames, however, including “Buttwig.” Here’s where the ghost of Chuck Berry emerges.

When everyone is away or asleep, I generally do not close the bathroom door. I think ventilation can be your friend in there, and the bathroom window is essentially broken. In the event of an emergency, I could probably pry it open, but I would need a good 10 minutes to wrestle the thing shut before the hinges give out completely and I behead one of the neighbors. I’ve heard they frown on that sort of thing.

Trouble is, now that Elsie has moved in, she likes to hang out wherever I am–especially in the bathroom. Specifically, she likes to squeeze behind me on the seat and settle in. Buttwig. She licks my buttocks. Gross.

If I forget and complain about it, my spouse will suggest gallantly: “why don’t you just close the f*cking door?” That makes sense, of course, except that’s the sort of thing I would need to remember to do BEFORE I sit down. Also, it’s difficult to pry her off once she’s settled. Have you ever tried to pick up a clawed creature from behind your back?

I now have to flush before I stand up, too, or that cat will try and climb into the soiled toilet. What is that about?

I also tend to leave the door open when I shower to help with condensation issues (c.f. broken window). Elsie will hop on the side of the tub and stare at me with a spooky intensity that makes me blush. If she leaves, it is only to go and take a dump outside the door, so we can both marvel at the deadly aroma emitted by kitten poo. The she will return to befoul my fluffy white towel and stare at me some more.

Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for her odd behavior, but I can’t think what it might be.

The bizarre thing is that when I occasionally lock her in the basement or outside for the night–usually by accident–I find I miss that crazy cat. Where is my scarf, I wonder.

A neighbor saw me today, wrestling gigantic things out of the trunk. He offered to help, for which I was very grateful. As we lugged boxes into the house he noticed Elsie. “Um.” Long pause. “Is that YOUR cat?” he finally asked. I was a little embarrassed to say yes. “She seems very sweet,” he said, “but completely crazy.” Agreed.

Regarding Slasher and his sad demise (part II)

Over the years, my feisty cat Slasher slowed significantly, for which my five-year-old daughter was particularly grateful. They had spent her first four and a half years as sworn enemies, but now, too old to hunt or even make it to the top bunk, he stayed in and spent the whole night on Josie’s bed. Sometimes, the whole day as well. Those two were suddenly inseparable.

By late February, we knew we had an old, ailing cat, but we didn’t realize he was dying, so we headed to paradise for a family vacation. By the second night away, the catsitter was calling. Slasher wasn’t getting up much at all anymore. She brought his water dish onto Josie’s bed and called me to express concern. I spent the next few days anxiously touring volcanoes or pretending to relax on the beach…then hurrying back to the rental to phone the sitter and sob. Poor Hannah. This was not the first time a pet tried to kick the bucket on her watch. She stopped by twice a day and called with updates. Since he was 18 with few systems functioning properly, we all knew what was coming. We just wanted him to hold on until we got there.

When we arrived home, sandy and bleary-eyed, it was four in the morning. I saw immediately that he was skin and bones, lying in a pool of urine. I stripped the bed and cleaned him up as best I could. I tucked Josie in fresh sheets and made a pile of baby blankets beside her for Slasher. In the morning, I tried to move him to a cozy, waterproof spot downstairs where I could comfort him and make vet calls at the same time, but when he collapsed trying to drag himself back to Josie’s bed, I relented.

The next couple of days are a sad, sad blur. Crying while driving. Crying in the grocery store. Crying at NPR stories, at the funnies, and anytime someone asked, “how are you?” Acknowledging his distaste for the vet, we had him put to sleep at home, while we held him and stroked him. No one could get his eyes to close, though, so he continued to stare at me in his scrappy, crusty way. For days.

In my house, it takes quite a while to prepare for an appropriate burial. Photographs must be taken. A coffin must be made…and decorated…and further embellished with sparkly items. A grave marker is necessary, as is the name plaque. This all takes time, as you can imagine. Time when said dead pet remains lying around our house. I noticed that this seemed to cause other parents some anxiety, so I started to tell them about the dead cat before the playdate, and reassure them about proper handwashing, et cetera. That only made things worse.

“Where are you keeping him?” one mother asked, completely perplexed. As I was answering, I realized that letting your child sleep with a dead cat was a little unorthodox. Believe it or not, it didn’t feel anywhere near as creepy as that must sound. He was swaddled in his favorite little blanket, in a shallow wooden box, with a couple of cat toys and a fairly peaceful expression. Except for the staring, I mean. Josie couldn’t sleep without him there, and Slasher wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, so it just made sense at the time. I knew it wasn’t a long-term plan. I think Josie got a couple of nights with him after he was sealed in his coffin, as well, while we prepared for the burial, but then we had to transition her to a stuffed cat, and lots of extra bedtime stories. “Who will bury me when I die?” she asked the night after we finally laid him to rest. I couldn’t answer.

We still miss that guy like crazy, but there’s a new cat now. Elsie plays fetch and sleeps on my head. She squawks and perches on my shoulder and often does that Halloween cat pose with fur on end and back humped into the air. She’s worming her way into my heart, too, but there’s no telling if she’ll schmooze and head to the bars like her predecessor. Just got her outdoor shots and her tags, though, so we’ll know soon enough.

Regarding Slasher

I once begged a ride home from Death Valley and the guy driving kept asking: “Wait. Where do you live? Which cross street? Where on that block? Which side of the street?” Since we were still about ten hours from the city, I started getting a little nervous. Finally he said, “Then YOU must know that cat Slasher.” ”Well, yeah,” I said, surprised. ”He’s my cat.” Ed had to pull over and call his wife. ”You’ll NEVER BELIEVE this!” he yelled into his phone. ”I JUST MET SLASHER’S OWNER!”

You may think I am exaggerating, but it was not uncommon for complete strangers to greet my cat by name as we passed by, while ignoring me altogether. That furry guy knew everyone. He hung out in folks’ garages while they tinkered, and lolled on their stoops on sunny afternoons. He knew where to go for tuna and extra love, and I tried not to get too jealous when I saw him coming out of other houses. He was quite a gentleman, after all, taking me on walks, spending time with the elderly, and escorting one woman home from public transport every evening. He was even mentioned in the student guidebook for the American College of Traditional Chinese Medicine: ”Absolutely no pets allowed, except guide dogs and Slasher.” Meanwhile, we got phone calls from bars and restaurants that he frequented, often late at night. ”Do you have a cat named Slasher?” they would ask. “That depends,” my husband would say. ”What’s his tab?”

Not everyone loved him, though. As evidence, he was missing quite a bit of both ears. German Shepherds feared him. Dog walkers couldn’t stand him. And if you had a cat allergy, he made sure to bite your ankles and shed all over you. Some lawyer actually threatened some vague sort of legal action, claiming that he had terrorized her and her dog and then followed them “in attack mode.” While I found that letter endlessly entertaining and hung it on the fridge, even I had to admit a healthy fear of him, fueled mostly by our frequent trips to the vet for his hyperthyroidism. Have you ever tried to lovingly shove a ferocious beast into the side door of a cat carrier? Slasher would get so worked up clawing my arm for half an hour that he never failed to excrete a giant, malodorous turd on the way to the vet. I assume this was an expression of dismay regarding my disrespectful behavior. Thank goodness I discovered a top-loading cat carrier before losing a limb.

Love or hate, you had to admit he was an exceptional cat, and until March 2, I had the honor of catering to his every need.

Here’s where the story gets sad and a bit demented. In my defense, there is a lot of gray area in parenting, and sometimes it’s hard to decide which path will lead to a greater need for therapy. Tune in tomorrow…

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