Writing about the time our cat was killed by a stray dog, in our living room, with all of the doors and windows closed and locked got me thinking about our other cats. These are mostly bad pictures, but here's Harley in his usual spot and usual pose. As I said, he was a very sweet cat who even had the approval of the otherwise very disapproving Tasha.
Sampson was our first, and our only Pet Shop Boy. We were living in our first apartment together, and I made Mrs. Rodius go and visit him until she couldn't do anything but agree to buy him. He was so small, she carried home in her pocket, but he quickly grew to 20 lbs. We got Harley from a shelter a couple of years later to keep Sampson company. Sampson developed diabetes that we couldn't seem to control with insulin shots, and he didn't live to see the move to Texas.
Harley kept wandering around the apartment meowing, like he thought maybe Sampson was just playing hide-and-seek, so we got Tasha from the shelter in Austin shortly after we moved here to keep Harley company. She was 6 pounds and a year old, and had recently had a litter of kittens, but the kittens weren't with her when the shelter picked her up. She was starving, and apparently made a vow never to go hungry again. She's doubled in weight, and, though she soon stopped immediately eating every bit of food we put down, she still pays very close attention to the feeding schedule, reminding us when it's time lest we forget. Tasha apparently understood that she was moving into Harley's home, and always treated him with respect, and even affection. Puck, however, still hasn't made it into her inner circle.
Shortly after we moved into the money-saving townhouse, a feral cat started bringing her kittens into our tiny back yard. I immediately saw where this was going and begged Mrs. Rodius not to feed them. I knew when I said it that she was completely incapable of doing anything else, and soon we were buying cheap cat food for the mother and her kittens. Of course, what I feared came to pass, and other cats were attracted by the food.
I begged Mrs. Rodius at least not to start naming them. I knew when I said it that she was completely incapable of doing anything else, and soon we were buying giant bags of cheap cat food for the twenty or more cats that regularly returned to our yard. We participated in a trap-neuter-release program that another resident had started. We found an adoptive home for one kitty (Inky), and tried for another two (Eenie and Meenie), but that ended in disaster. The original mother (Mama) was notoriously wary of people and proved impossible to trap and spay, so she went on to mother several more litters of kittens that she taught to eat solid food in our back yard. She was almost always pregnant.
Puck was one of her kittens. He was probably, based on his markings, fathered by Oscar (the Grouch), a big-headed bully of a tom who ultimately did get trapped and neutered, but who always maintained his dominance in the yard. Most of the kitties were happy to come and eat and sleep in our yard, but almost all of them were extremely wary of people. Only a small handful were willing to let Mrs. Rodius touch them. As a kitten, Puck was one of those.
At first he was just willing to be in closer proximity to Mrs. Rodius than the rest. Mama was pretty quick to cut the kittens off to fend for themselves, because she was usually already pregnant again. So the kittens learned to get in there and compete with the adults for the food we put out. Puck's willingness to be within a foot or two of her, and later his willingness to let her pet him, was his strategy for getting his share of the food and more. The more he let her love him, the more he got not only cheap cat food, but cheese, deli meat, leftover chicken, and more. He eventually even started following her into the house. That's when I knew for sure we had a third cat.
Once she finally trapped him, neutered him, and brought him home, his transition from feral to housecat was difficult. We kept him isolated in a separate room, and she spent almost all of her time in there with him. He howled miserably, and it broke her heart. She almost let him back out again. But slowly, he adjusted, and he has bonded to her in a way that is just sickening to those of us (Tasha and me) on the outside of their special relationship.
Soon, though, he developed a urinary tract problem that required surgery to correct. We had been saving up money to take a tropical vacation, but we had to spend it on him. He's felt guilty about it ever since, and has worked hard to keep our home bug-free in order to earn his keep. We sometimes refer to him as the $3,000 Kitty, because, like the $6 Million Dollar Man, we had the technology to rebuild him, to make him stronger. He has never trusted me, only Mrs. Rodius. I think he was probably tormented by kids in the neighborhood when he was still a feral kitten. I never saw it happen to him, but I saw kids throw rocks at the other ferals. Puck is particularly distrustful of me if I have something, anything, in my hand. He only has love, and trust, for his beloved Mama.
There was something very vitally important for Mrs. Rodius about saving those abandoned, wild kitties whose lives were tough, and often short. I'm glad it happened at that townhouse, though. We learned a few lessons in that time, through the disastrously failed adoption of Eenie and Meenie, and the difficult trapping and neutering of Gwynny that kept her from becoming a housecat, though she had much of the same willingness to be touched that Puck had. Maybe Mrs. Rodius' powerful need for them ran its course. Maybe she learned that she couldn't save them all. In any case, now that we have moved, she hasn't felt, or at least expressed, the same undeniable urge to feed the few strays that have wandered across our path since, and I'm glad. Sometimes, though, I miss those hobos, and I wonder how many of the ones we knew are still out there, scraping out a living. Do you think they ever look through the window at the new owner of that townhouse and wonder what happened to that nice lady who gave them a safe harbor in the middle of an otherwise brutal world?
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Has This Ever Happened to You?
"I think someone broke in," Mrs. Rodius said. "And it looks like they cut themselves."
We had just come home from work, and I was still closing the front door as she walked in ahead of me. I followed her into the living room to see what she was talking about. My mind couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. It looked like a murder had been committed on our living room carpet.
We bought this townhouse primarily to save money while we straightened out our financial affairs and reduced our credit and student loan debt. It was a successful plan of action and helped enable us to buy the home we have now. But price was our first and greatest concern. We didn't research or explore the neighborhood much before we bought it, so we discovered over time that one of its drawbacks was a proliferation of loose dogs.
We learned something about our sweet, little Harley in this townhouse that we hadn't known before: he was tough and tenacious. He seemed to be more a master of the meditative arts than the martial. He was an active kitten that we adopted from the shelter. His owner had abandoned him there because, his information card said, he was "too much trouble." This was probably just a heart-string-pulling kind of marketing on the part of the shelter, but it worked on us. They called him Ernie because he came with a little doll of the Sesame Street character. He didn't look like an Ernie to us. He ran around like a little lunatic, and when he stopped long enough to sleep on me, he demonstrated a flatulence problem that would have been embarrassing in anyone else, but was just kind of adorable in him. He was consistently the most sweetly dispositioned cat I have ever known. He once went nose to nose with a skunk outside our apartment in Everett, Massachussets. I sweat bullets as I watched, and thought of what I'd heard about tomato juice baths. Harley was undisturbed, though, and only seemed to say, "You're a funny looking kitty. What have you been rolling in?" Then the two parted and went contentedly about their separate business.
As he grew older, Harley spent most of his time in meditation, and he was much more accepting of our adoption of Puck, a feral kitten, than his righteously bitchy little sister, Tasha, had ever been. He was a lover, so far as we knew, not a fighter. Mrs. Rodius and I were very much surprised, then, when a roaming Rottweiler barked at us through the open front window of our townhouse, and the 8- or 9-pound Harley, without a thought for his own safety, began charging at the screen. He rammed into it head-first several times before Mrs. Rodius grabbed him and carried him into another room. He threw himself against the screen with such determination that he bent the frame and almost knocked it entirely out of the window. "Aw," we thought. "How cute! The little guy's protecting his Mama!" All of our cats, we are sure, have thought of her as that: Mama. If she had not married me, she may very well have developed into the quintessential cat lady. They have always filled a deep and earnest need within her soul, and she, apparently, has done the same for them.
So we fixed the screen. We were careful not to leave windows open when we weren't home. We told the tale of our brave little Harley at parties. I for one, though probably not Mrs. Rodius, chuckled a bit at what a surprise the brave little boy would have had if he'd succeeded in getting at that Rottweiler. We thought of it as a charming little quirk to this small cat, like the fact that he clearly understood the mechanics of doorknobs, but without thumbs, was sadly unable to put that understanding to practical use. He stretched his full length and rattled the knobs, but his fuzzy little feet weren't able to gain enough purchase to make the damn things turn. We noted the Rottweiler incident as another interesting little fact about him, and then we kind of forgot all about it.
And it didn't come to mind immediately as we stood looking at the blood. It was soaked into the carpet. It was splattered on the entertainment center, the windowsill, the broken fragments of glass. We looked around, but nothing seemed to be missing. The TV, the stereo, the computer were all where we'd left them. Perhaps the burglar had cut himself breaking the window and decided to leave before he could make off with anything. But why did the bloody carpet look so smeared? Had he decided to roll around on the floor awhile, cradling his injured arm, or leg, or carotid artery?
Almost immediately, though, Mrs. Rodius said, "Where are the cats?" So we did some reconnaissance. Tasha came out when we called to her, but she was limping. Puck was hidden in the first place we looked: the deepest darkest spot under the bed. But Harley was not to be found. We agreed he probably went out the window to explore, but he wouldn't have gone far. He'd never stray far from his Mama.
And he hadn't. I found him in the back yard, stiff and still.
A new idea began to form for us about what had happened that day. But it seemed so bizarre, so surreal, that we called the police anyway. They sent out an officer, and we nearly begged him to come up with a more likely explanation. Harley had puncture wounds in his side, and his fur was matted like he'd been licked by a big, slobbery tongue. There was a trail of blood drops that began at the top of our fence. I followed it down the sidewalk to where it disappeared into the grass several units down from ours. The officer agreed: it looked like a dog jumped our fence, broke our window, entered our house, killed our cat, carried him into the back yard, jumped the fence again, and went on his merry way, probably with a minor wound from the broken glass.
Have you ever heard of that before? I mean, really. Is that, or is that not, a very freaky occurrence?
We took Harley's body to the vet, who confirmed that he had bled to death from puncture wounds in his side that were consistent with a dog bite. Mrs. Rodius sister and her best friend came over to clean up the blood while I boarded up the window. Once the window was replaced, there was nothing left to tell the tale of the carnage, except a faint pink stain, almost invisible to those who didn't know it was there. We had our suspicions about which dog had done the deed, but there was no way to confirm it. There was a Spuds Mackenzie dog that lived in a back yard in the direction the blood spots had lead. He was a bull terrier, I know now, but when I was trying to remember what kind of dog the Spuds Mackenzie dog was, "rat bastard terrier" was all that would come to mind. That dog had previously demonstrated his ability to clear his own fence and was frequently seen wandering around loose. Perhaps the glass wounds would have given him away, but we couldn't confirm it without making the accusation, and we'd already spent enough energy in neighbor battles over noise, and parking. We didn't have the heart to jump into another one with people who would probably not be willing to admit their fault anyway, even if the dog did have cuts on his belly. So we let it go.
We imagined the scene, though. The dog, in his wanderings, scales our fence. Harley becomes enraged at the interloper's audacity and attacks the window. The dog, seeing the cat, becomes excited and jumps up, his paws on the window. Sometime around this point, Tasha makes a frantic dash from the scene, pulling a muscle in her hip and accounting for the limping we will notice when we get home. Puck probably beat her under the bed, and for the first and only time in their lives, they are huddling together, unified in their terror. Harley and the dog proceed to drive each other to greater and greater levels of hysteria until finally the window breaks. From that point, we try not to imagine the scene any more.
We had our little Buddha kitty cremated. We moved him with us in his little box to our new home, because it just didn't seem right to spread his ashes there at the site of his murder. We thought about releasing him into our beautiful new garden, but Mrs. Rodius isn't yet ready to see him go. The previous owners built a deck, and installed a small pet door for their lhasa apso. The dog door is now a kitty door, and the first home project I undertook after we moved in was screening in the deck. Tasha and Puck spend most of their time out there now, watching the birds as they ransack the feeder I hung. Harley would have liked this place. I can see him curled up with Puck, something Tasha still, after all these years, refuses to do. I can see him out there in the last patch of afternoon sun, breathing in the smell of the flowers, eyes closed as he contemplates "the echo of the empty valley, bearing tidings heard from the soundless sound."
We had just come home from work, and I was still closing the front door as she walked in ahead of me. I followed her into the living room to see what she was talking about. My mind couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. It looked like a murder had been committed on our living room carpet.
We bought this townhouse primarily to save money while we straightened out our financial affairs and reduced our credit and student loan debt. It was a successful plan of action and helped enable us to buy the home we have now. But price was our first and greatest concern. We didn't research or explore the neighborhood much before we bought it, so we discovered over time that one of its drawbacks was a proliferation of loose dogs.
We learned something about our sweet, little Harley in this townhouse that we hadn't known before: he was tough and tenacious. He seemed to be more a master of the meditative arts than the martial. He was an active kitten that we adopted from the shelter. His owner had abandoned him there because, his information card said, he was "too much trouble." This was probably just a heart-string-pulling kind of marketing on the part of the shelter, but it worked on us. They called him Ernie because he came with a little doll of the Sesame Street character. He didn't look like an Ernie to us. He ran around like a little lunatic, and when he stopped long enough to sleep on me, he demonstrated a flatulence problem that would have been embarrassing in anyone else, but was just kind of adorable in him. He was consistently the most sweetly dispositioned cat I have ever known. He once went nose to nose with a skunk outside our apartment in Everett, Massachussets. I sweat bullets as I watched, and thought of what I'd heard about tomato juice baths. Harley was undisturbed, though, and only seemed to say, "You're a funny looking kitty. What have you been rolling in?" Then the two parted and went contentedly about their separate business.
As he grew older, Harley spent most of his time in meditation, and he was much more accepting of our adoption of Puck, a feral kitten, than his righteously bitchy little sister, Tasha, had ever been. He was a lover, so far as we knew, not a fighter. Mrs. Rodius and I were very much surprised, then, when a roaming Rottweiler barked at us through the open front window of our townhouse, and the 8- or 9-pound Harley, without a thought for his own safety, began charging at the screen. He rammed into it head-first several times before Mrs. Rodius grabbed him and carried him into another room. He threw himself against the screen with such determination that he bent the frame and almost knocked it entirely out of the window. "Aw," we thought. "How cute! The little guy's protecting his Mama!" All of our cats, we are sure, have thought of her as that: Mama. If she had not married me, she may very well have developed into the quintessential cat lady. They have always filled a deep and earnest need within her soul, and she, apparently, has done the same for them.
So we fixed the screen. We were careful not to leave windows open when we weren't home. We told the tale of our brave little Harley at parties. I for one, though probably not Mrs. Rodius, chuckled a bit at what a surprise the brave little boy would have had if he'd succeeded in getting at that Rottweiler. We thought of it as a charming little quirk to this small cat, like the fact that he clearly understood the mechanics of doorknobs, but without thumbs, was sadly unable to put that understanding to practical use. He stretched his full length and rattled the knobs, but his fuzzy little feet weren't able to gain enough purchase to make the damn things turn. We noted the Rottweiler incident as another interesting little fact about him, and then we kind of forgot all about it.
And it didn't come to mind immediately as we stood looking at the blood. It was soaked into the carpet. It was splattered on the entertainment center, the windowsill, the broken fragments of glass. We looked around, but nothing seemed to be missing. The TV, the stereo, the computer were all where we'd left them. Perhaps the burglar had cut himself breaking the window and decided to leave before he could make off with anything. But why did the bloody carpet look so smeared? Had he decided to roll around on the floor awhile, cradling his injured arm, or leg, or carotid artery?
Almost immediately, though, Mrs. Rodius said, "Where are the cats?" So we did some reconnaissance. Tasha came out when we called to her, but she was limping. Puck was hidden in the first place we looked: the deepest darkest spot under the bed. But Harley was not to be found. We agreed he probably went out the window to explore, but he wouldn't have gone far. He'd never stray far from his Mama.
And he hadn't. I found him in the back yard, stiff and still.
A new idea began to form for us about what had happened that day. But it seemed so bizarre, so surreal, that we called the police anyway. They sent out an officer, and we nearly begged him to come up with a more likely explanation. Harley had puncture wounds in his side, and his fur was matted like he'd been licked by a big, slobbery tongue. There was a trail of blood drops that began at the top of our fence. I followed it down the sidewalk to where it disappeared into the grass several units down from ours. The officer agreed: it looked like a dog jumped our fence, broke our window, entered our house, killed our cat, carried him into the back yard, jumped the fence again, and went on his merry way, probably with a minor wound from the broken glass.
Have you ever heard of that before? I mean, really. Is that, or is that not, a very freaky occurrence?
We took Harley's body to the vet, who confirmed that he had bled to death from puncture wounds in his side that were consistent with a dog bite. Mrs. Rodius sister and her best friend came over to clean up the blood while I boarded up the window. Once the window was replaced, there was nothing left to tell the tale of the carnage, except a faint pink stain, almost invisible to those who didn't know it was there. We had our suspicions about which dog had done the deed, but there was no way to confirm it. There was a Spuds Mackenzie dog that lived in a back yard in the direction the blood spots had lead. He was a bull terrier, I know now, but when I was trying to remember what kind of dog the Spuds Mackenzie dog was, "rat bastard terrier" was all that would come to mind. That dog had previously demonstrated his ability to clear his own fence and was frequently seen wandering around loose. Perhaps the glass wounds would have given him away, but we couldn't confirm it without making the accusation, and we'd already spent enough energy in neighbor battles over noise, and parking. We didn't have the heart to jump into another one with people who would probably not be willing to admit their fault anyway, even if the dog did have cuts on his belly. So we let it go.
We imagined the scene, though. The dog, in his wanderings, scales our fence. Harley becomes enraged at the interloper's audacity and attacks the window. The dog, seeing the cat, becomes excited and jumps up, his paws on the window. Sometime around this point, Tasha makes a frantic dash from the scene, pulling a muscle in her hip and accounting for the limping we will notice when we get home. Puck probably beat her under the bed, and for the first and only time in their lives, they are huddling together, unified in their terror. Harley and the dog proceed to drive each other to greater and greater levels of hysteria until finally the window breaks. From that point, we try not to imagine the scene any more.
We had our little Buddha kitty cremated. We moved him with us in his little box to our new home, because it just didn't seem right to spread his ashes there at the site of his murder. We thought about releasing him into our beautiful new garden, but Mrs. Rodius isn't yet ready to see him go. The previous owners built a deck, and installed a small pet door for their lhasa apso. The dog door is now a kitty door, and the first home project I undertook after we moved in was screening in the deck. Tasha and Puck spend most of their time out there now, watching the birds as they ransack the feeder I hung. Harley would have liked this place. I can see him curled up with Puck, something Tasha still, after all these years, refuses to do. I can see him out there in the last patch of afternoon sun, breathing in the smell of the flowers, eyes closed as he contemplates "the echo of the empty valley, bearing tidings heard from the soundless sound."
Monday, June 11, 2007
It Wouldn't Be Summer Without Them
I got some good work done on my sandal tan lines this weekend. These particular tan lines were shaped by the Mexican sandals. They're my favorite footwear because:
1. I got them in Mexico last summer, and they remind me of our week pretending we were the wealthy, resort-living types.
2. They were ten bucks! I wore a pair of $60 Nike sandals for four summers and even put new velcro on them. When one of the straps broke, I stitched it back together. I was determined to get my money's worth. I'd gotten my money's worth out of my Mexican sandals before we'd even left Mexico, so everything since has just been bonus sandal time. I should put that in my profile: I'm cheap.
3. They're sandals! This is the next best thing to being barefoot. Mrs. Rodius doesn't like to be barefoot because she thinks she has ugly feet. She doesn't. They're tiny, and as we all know, anything tiny is cute. But she still wears socks all the time, even around the house in Austin in the summer. Me, I'd be permanently barefoot if it weren't for sharp, pointy things and the societal standards that say that bare feet do not qualify as acceptable work attire. Not that they would be suitable work attire either, but I've been thinking about trying Crocs lately, mostly because the University Co-op has them in Longhorn orange and white. Even though they're full of holes, though, I kind of think they wouldn't be barefooty enough for me.
So for me, sandal tan lines are a sign of a good summer. So far this year, they've mostly been developing through yard work, but yesterday, I played 18 holes of disc golf with two guys I met through the Austin Stay-at-Home Dads group. I'm terrible at disc golf. In fact, one of the guys had never played before, and was flinging borrowed discs. He beat me by three strokes, and I've been playing for years, that's how good I am at this "sport." I feel obligated to put "sport" in quotes because disc golf probably approaches bowling in how much beer the average player consumes while participating. The SAHDs and I did not add beer to the competitive mix yesterday, though, mostly because beer doesn't sound so refreshing at 9:00 on a Sunday morning. But we could have. We'd have been well within our disc golfing rights.
So, there you go. A picture of my hairy foot. Happy Summer to you!
1. I got them in Mexico last summer, and they remind me of our week pretending we were the wealthy, resort-living types.
2. They were ten bucks! I wore a pair of $60 Nike sandals for four summers and even put new velcro on them. When one of the straps broke, I stitched it back together. I was determined to get my money's worth. I'd gotten my money's worth out of my Mexican sandals before we'd even left Mexico, so everything since has just been bonus sandal time. I should put that in my profile: I'm cheap.
3. They're sandals! This is the next best thing to being barefoot. Mrs. Rodius doesn't like to be barefoot because she thinks she has ugly feet. She doesn't. They're tiny, and as we all know, anything tiny is cute. But she still wears socks all the time, even around the house in Austin in the summer. Me, I'd be permanently barefoot if it weren't for sharp, pointy things and the societal standards that say that bare feet do not qualify as acceptable work attire. Not that they would be suitable work attire either, but I've been thinking about trying Crocs lately, mostly because the University Co-op has them in Longhorn orange and white. Even though they're full of holes, though, I kind of think they wouldn't be barefooty enough for me.
So for me, sandal tan lines are a sign of a good summer. So far this year, they've mostly been developing through yard work, but yesterday, I played 18 holes of disc golf with two guys I met through the Austin Stay-at-Home Dads group. I'm terrible at disc golf. In fact, one of the guys had never played before, and was flinging borrowed discs. He beat me by three strokes, and I've been playing for years, that's how good I am at this "sport." I feel obligated to put "sport" in quotes because disc golf probably approaches bowling in how much beer the average player consumes while participating. The SAHDs and I did not add beer to the competitive mix yesterday, though, mostly because beer doesn't sound so refreshing at 9:00 on a Sunday morning. But we could have. We'd have been well within our disc golfing rights.
So, there you go. A picture of my hairy foot. Happy Summer to you!
Friday, June 8, 2007
Boys Will Be Boys
At dinner last night, Mrs. Rodius said that Thumper must be sitting on her sciatic nerve, because she was getting a buzzing and burning sensation. She leaned a little to her left in her chair and said she was "relieving the pressure." I said it looked like she was letting one rip.
She was so genuinely shocked that I could suggest such a thing, I almost felt bad for saying it. If you never make a single joke in fifteen years about your wife farting in public, she really starts to develop a false sense of security.
She was so genuinely shocked that I could suggest such a thing, I almost felt bad for saying it. If you never make a single joke in fifteen years about your wife farting in public, she really starts to develop a false sense of security.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
T-Minus Seventy-One
Tomorrow makes 30 weeks, with only 70 days to go. I know I shouldn't be complaining, since, well, you know... I'm not the pregnant one and all. But I am ready for this to be over.
First, I'm ready to get started. In some ways it feels like I have been waiting my whole life to be a father, and I've certainly been waiting for it since the end of July last year. There's little in my job to challenge me or give me satisfaction or meaning. I'm not relied upon; I make no meaningful decisions and solve no complicated problems. I'm ready to find out if I can do this job. I'm ready to find out if I'm buried under the mountain of parenting minutia, or if I revel in it. I know, it will probably be both. But my past work experience demonstrates that I have a huge capacity for carrying on through the most soul-crushing monotony, so with the added bonuses of purpose and meaning, I think I'll thrive. I can't wait to find out.
Second, I'm ready for the pregnancy part to be over. I'm superstitious enough to cringe at saying that and whisper, "Not premature, though, please. Not premature." It's just been hard on Mrs. Rodius. Well, the first and third trimesters have been hard; the second flew by much too quickly. She was happy, laughing. I felt and saw the baby move for the first time. It was glorious. But now, she's tired. She's uncomfortable. She hates the way she looks. Her clothes don't fit. Her shoes don't fit. She can't get enough sleep. She cries more than she laughs.
And I'm not happy with my performance as her partner through this. I don't do enough to support her, or I do too much. I get mad at her for being unhappy, and angry at myself for being mad. I promised myself that I wouldn't drink while she was pregnant, because she can't drink either. But I broke that promise after three months and repeatedly since.
Ah well. We'll get through it. We've made it through tougher times. But 71 days through the middle of the pregnancy was too short, was gone before I really knew what happened. 71 days through the end, though, it just can't go fast enough.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Sanctified
Mrs. Rodius and I went to breakfast yesterday. We've been together for fifteen years, married for almost twelve. The couple that sat at the table next to ours took me back to those early days of our relationship, days when we regularly sickened those around us with the giddiness of our love. We prided ourselves on how often we made Mrs. Rodius' sister roll her eyes and tell us to "get a room." I almost believed that our love was different from the more mundane loves of other people, that we would remain giddy in our love together forever. Of course, we didn't. Love changes over time, as it must. Better writers than I have written on how the raging river of passion mellows over time into a deeper, broader lake. But as I watched the couple next to us yesterday, I remembered those days.
They smiled like maybe they couldn't stop. They touched like that, too; hand to hand, finger to arm, foot to foot. I watched them surreptitiously, but I needn't have bothered; they seemed not to know that anyone else was in the room. They talked and talked, about what I do not know. I'm sure it was vitally important, and completely meaningless.
It came to me then that there are moments in our lives when we are lit as if by a spotlight by the sanctity of our condition.
They smiled like maybe they couldn't stop. They touched like that, too; hand to hand, finger to arm, foot to foot. I watched them surreptitiously, but I needn't have bothered; they seemed not to know that anyone else was in the room. They talked and talked, about what I do not know. I'm sure it was vitally important, and completely meaningless.
It came to me then that there are moments in our lives when we are lit as if by a spotlight by the sanctity of our condition.
Friday, June 1, 2007
I Talk Too Much
The problem with everyone knowing that I'm working out to lose weight is they've all got something to say when I buy a Butterfinger out of the vending machine.
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