I didn't know you had a cat

"I didn't know you had a cat."

People said that to us all the time.  But we did.



He wasn't much for parties.  He was more of a hang out on the pillow watching Netflix kind of guy.

If we needed the carpet systematically shredded at every doorway to expose fiendishly sharp nails to bare feet in the night, he had us covered. Likewise if our laptops were somehow devoid of cat hair and the keyboard required some random paw strokes to complete that Powerpoint presentation? Fiki to the rescue.

God forbid you should actually want to read a book.

It was futile to think he would use a scratching post when there was upholstery available in all kinds of expensive fabrics and formats.



When we first brought him home, almost seventeen years ago, he made a beeline for my overstuffed office and disappeared for three days. We found him hidden behind my CFA notebooks, skinny and scared.  Later, it would still sometimes take us hours to locate him, purring in a nest of cables and wires behind the television, or daintily tucked into a basket of bills that was seemingly far to small to hold him.



He was wild for the scent of strawberries.

"Ra-FI-ki!" I would yell into the darkened yard, after he madly made a break through the side door we'd foolishly left cracked open.  All I could hear was the tinkle of the bell around his collar as he headed out for all the adventure freedom could bring. Most of the time, he wound up howling at the door to our bedroom, grumpy and damp, a few hours later.  Once, though, I found a raw notch in his ear from a knock-down, drag-out ear-splitting* battle he had on the lawn at 2 am.

He rocked that notch.



He was wary of strangers, but not unfriendly. Regulars earned a stroll-by and pause for a rub down the back. My niece earned a special gift** placed under her bed in exchange for all the Pounce and bedtime stories when she visited.

He was not fond of closed doors.

But he could be extremely "helpful" with Christmas wrapping.

After years of avoiding my daughter because of her childhood tendency to either grab him and carry him everywhere or run up to him and yell, they finally reached a truce as one of them matured.

He was completely devoted to my son, as they both made the same lifestyle choices of remaining prone in comfortable places with entertaining things to watch.

He tolerated and then taunted Blackjack, sauntering through the kitchen and claiming the couch as soon as the dog retired to the porch, one eye open to watch the cat preening contentedly in his just-vacated spot on the rug. It was almost as though they took shifts being the family pet, and Rafiki had nights.



Night was really our time, his and mine.  He'd walk over my husband's legs to sit on me and watch TV, and then wait patiently as I sat at the kitchen counter and answered email or drafted blog posts after everyone else had gone to bed.

Mostly he was nearby, in companionable silence.  More recently, with the puppy refusing to politely excuse herself from the kitchen like her predecessor, I'd head down the hall and hear the bell following me as he emerged from a chair or under the bed. Teeth brushed, I'd carefully climb under the covers only to find a solid form taking up all the foot room. Inevitably, he would migrate and nestle down right on top of my head, kneading blissfully away with his claws, snarling my hair and purring so loudly I was sure he'd wake the rest of the family.

Then, we would sleep.

Yes, we had a cat.



I wish with all my heart we still did.

Rest in peace, Rafiki

1998-2015

* Literally, he split his ear.
** Dead mouse. He was also an ace lizard tail remover.

Grumpy Old Lady Makes Gluten Free Cookies

I have felt A LOT like Grumpy Old Man lately.

All these KIDS going to COLLEGE and AFRICA and DRIVING and dating WOMEN FROM FLORIDA.

All these puppies who eat SCREEN DOORS and VALUABLE SUCCULENT PLANTS.

 Sure, they're cute and happy, but they are TOTALLY NOT DOING ANY CHORES RIGHT NOW.  

I want things the way they used to be. When kids stayed home and paid attention when you talked to them. When dogs stayed, period. When life was simple and cookies were made with a crapload of gluten and WE LIKED IT!

Friggin' progress.

Bark! Bark!

Right around the holidays, we started talking about it.

Tentatively at first, because we were still so tender and upset, then more analytically and then, at last, giving ourselves permission to be hopeful, with a fair amount of actual giddiness.

I mean, who were we kidding, right?  We had been expertly trained by our big guy on how to be a dog family, and to let all that work go to waste would be almost criminal.  We couldn't do it.

We decided to get a puppy.

Not a replacement, because there can be no such thing, but someone furry and new and special in their own way.

I began my research.

ME: [Googling on my laptop] What breed is like a Bernese, but is not a Bernese

GOOGLE:  Here are images of Bernese Mountain Dogs and websites full of Bernese Mountain Dogs and breeders of Bernese Mountain Dogs and they all look just like your dog that you still miss so much you can barely stand it.

ME: [incoherent muffled sob]

I stayed away from Google after that. Eventually, I found a breed that sounded amazing.  Huge and hairy and friendly and smart.  There was a breeder just a few hours away who was due to have puppies on my husband's birthday.  I told her all about our loss and our family and she loved the whole thing. It was a sign. We were thrilled.

The puppies were born, and the photos began arriving. Nine adorable balls of fluff rolling around with their exhausted mom.  My daughter was besotted with them, and I was, too.  My husband, a bit concerned about just how huge and how hairy these things would grow up to be, consented to sending in our deposit.  With so many puppies, the breeder was glad to set one aside for us newcomers, even though other families had been waiting for years.  We signed up for puppy class and bought all the puppy things.  We began counting down the weeks until our little one could come home.

My son was appalled. We should be rescuing a dog, he said firmly.  There were all kinds of animals needing good homes. These purebred dogs didn't need us. There's a dog out there who does.

Yes, I agreed, distracted by a fluffy curly tail in my inbox.  But look how sweet they are, honey. These puppies need homes, too.

Would it be rambunctious Miss Red, or shy little Miss Yellow? Identified only by their adorable bow collars, we could only speculate, as the breeder would be matchmaking when we met.  Miss Orange was awfully winsome, too.

Pick up day was set, less than 10 days away.  After all these weeks, the sheer level of email cuteness and anticipation was staggering.

Then came the staggering email of cruelty.

To: Puppy-obsessed family I have been taunting for three months
From:  Nutjob Breeder from Hell
Subject:  No puppy for you*

I just now noticed that all of my puppies are perfect.  I asked my friends who are puppy experts, and they agree. Every single one of them is going to be a champion show dog. Since you are only going to be bringing the puppy home to love it like mad and make it part of your family, and not parade it around a ring on weekends to earn trophies, I have decided you are unsuitable.  If I had a flawed puppy, I would have given it to you.  But I don't. 

True story.

So instead of Miss Red or Miss Orange or Miss Yellow, who are likely piling up accolades and blue ribbons at this very moment, we rescued Miss Juneau, the mutt.

Turns out she is the perfect puppy for us.**

More photos of Juneau can be found daily on Instragram, #juneaudiaries.  

My son was right all along. Mutts rock.

There are no words

I can't put down in words what it is like to have a dog in your life.

Especially this dog.

I could try "love".

But that wouldn't even come close to how wonderful it feels.  

It's like this:

And this:

Mixed together.

It is even harder to put down in words what it is like to not have a dog in your life.

Especially this dog.

I could say, "He had cancer."

I could say, "It came on very fast."

I could say, "We spoiled him like crazy and tried everything we could and hoped against hope that he would be OK somehow or at least not leave us quite yet and seized on every optimistic word and decided that since he still smiled whenever he was around us and liked those little chicken treats even when he wouldn't eat anything else and he had that familiar bounce in his step when he left the doctor and he knew I'd be home in two days and that the chemo was helping, they said it was helping god damn it, that because of all that he shouldn't die in his sleep, in the night, all alone, and be found very still, very cold, outside our bedroom door in the morning."

I could say, "I miss him so much I can't breathe."

But those words wouldn't even come close to how gut-wrenchingly miserable this feels. The keyboard is so wet with tears right now that I'm surprised it's still functioning.

I'm a little surprised I'm still functioning, too.

I say to myself, "He's OK now. "
I say to myself, "He was lucky to suffer so little, and to go at home in peace with his family nearby."
I say to myself, "Read that Rainbow Bridge poem. Believe the hell out of it."

None of those words do a damn thing for me.  I've tried. I hear them. I repeat them. I keep trying.

Finally, I say to myself, "He knew he was loved every single day of his life. Even the very last one. And you should be thankful for all of those days.  You were lucky, so lucky, to have him."

Finally, those are the only words that help.

Today would have been his 8th birthday. RIP Blackjack.  

Click here to read the collection of Blackjack stories from the blog.

Click here to see the beautiful website that my niece made in Blackjack's honor.
And to everyone who has been so very kind with words of comfort and compassion, with shared memories and shared deep grief, those words and hugs and thoughts have been appreciated beyond belief.  The measure of a great soul is how many people felt its presence, and by this yardstick, my goofy, gentle, sweet giant puppy had one of the greatest.  

Please click back here to check on me later.  I'm really hoping to feel better soon.

I'll turn it in later for partial credit

I gave myself an assignment to post about this*:

But then I came home and found this:

Sigh.  The damn dog actually ate my homework.

* A gluten-free version of my Sugar and Spice Pumpkin Bread with a Pecan Glaze.  I'm pretty sure it was good, but only the furball can say for sure.  I'll have to make it again later this week, taste it real quick, then let you know.