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| Me and Am 2003 Web Cam shot, me doing the Col. Sanders |
It being Christmas, the order of the day in the Maryland
‘burbs was visiting relatives. I was not the only one in the procession. My
sister in law was visited shortly after my arrival by a relative who was also
traveling with a pet, a toy dog in a carrier. The dog in its carrier was set
down on the floor in the foyer. Amethyst, still in her carrier wasted no time in offering a back-arched,
hiss-and-growl welcome. This was laughed at by all, and tended to prove my
assertion that the cat I was with was not tolerant of anything else on four
legs. The animals were not amused. I was prevailed upon to take Amethyst down
to the basement. The basement was clean, spacious and warm. My brother was
working bit by bit on finishing it to match, or at least compliment, the nicely
appointed upper floors of their appropriately expensive piece of Montgomery
County real estate. I set up the cat box and let Amethyst out. She set about
exploring while I went back topside and chatted with my peoples. Eventually,
after a few drinks and much chatting, it was time to think about sleeping
arrangements. I assumed that my sister in law would not appreciate cat fur on
her upper floors. She had never said, as much, but it seemed to me a common
courtesy. At the same time, I did not want Amethyst to have come so far only to
be trapped alone in a new place. Peeking down at her, however, revealed a cat
in paradise, with much to explore. I took my sleeping bag and duffle bag down
to the basement. I got my sleeping bag all un-rolled. Meanwhile, upstairs, my
sister in law was preparing the guest bedroom. She must have asked a question
about it somewhere along the line, because I remember saying something like,
“no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sleeping in the basement with Amethyst.” Now,
a strange, parallel universe version of the hotel room drama played out. This
version featured the human “under the bed.” No sooner had this idea been
floated by words in the air then did my brother and sister in law arch their
backs and hiss. These are two very different cats, these two. My brother:
“You’re what? [Dry chuckle.] His wife: “You will not! You’re not sleeping in
the basement!” I: “I really am. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a sleeping bag. I’m used to basements. (I had a basement
apartment the last few years I lived in D.C. as an adult.) [My brother looks
down the stairs, checking facts.] “He does.” [Dry chuckle.]
I’ve mercifully forgotten the argument that ensued. I lost
some of it and won some of it. I was not permitted to sleep in the basement.
Instead, Amethyst joined me in the guest room. I don’t remember moving the cat
box. I can think of the excellent
argument against moving it, “it will just confuse the cat.” Did she get the run
of the house? I wouldn’t be surprised. Amethyst was a stunningly beautiful
animal, and one with a nearly perfect disposition. She was sociable (more so
than me!), gave her love willingly and demonstratively, and, not to be
underestimated as a winning characteristic, she was very chatty. I have to say
that I think once Amethyst had a talk with my brother and his wife, they saw
her point of view. That was that. We slept together as we always did in winter,
sleeping the delicious sleep of the weary travelers. At least one of us knew
where the toilet was. Amethyst remained a guest at the Mr. And Ms. Richard
Beck’s the duration of my Christmas visit to Maryland in 2003. She was, to my
knowledge, welcome back. She never made a second visit, of course. On the way
out, the Honda was repacked, and Amethyst was installed, free of her carrier.
As I hugged my brother goodbye, she was sitting expectantly on top of the
luggage in the back of the car, looking at us out the hatch window. It was A
Kodak moment, without a camera in sight. There was my brother, grinning and
shaking his head. Me, the artsy brother, always falling short of that worldly
success (but few succeed in America, contrary to mythology), always short
circuiting the rules of acceptable social behavior, poking holes in what’s left
of American patrician Calvinism, disappearing once again into the mists of the
open road with another outrageous encumbrance to normality, this latest one
could be seen talking to us behind the glass.
The next stop on our itinerary was Connecticut, a long
day’s drive up I-95. Now that there was a well-established routine to car travel
with cat, my restless, worrying mind was compelled to change it.
Approaching New York on I-95, I began to become apprehensive. What if Amethyst
became agitated while I tried to negotiate the George Washington Bridge, or the
Cross-Bronx Expressway? Memories of New York City trips stretched back to my
college days and beyond. My memories all seemed to involve crazy traffic.
Amethyst, needless to say, did not know Cross-Bronx expressway from ripped seat
in dead van. Her world had narrowed to the interior landscape of the Honda. I
darted off the interstate at the Edison rest area and put Amethyst in her
carrier. The carrier was nestled in the floor well, right behind the driver’s
seat. Once underway, the veteran feline traveler pitched a fit to protest this
capricious and purposeless confinement. She began to howl in deadly earnest,
accomplishing some vocal acrobatics that were new to me, just about the time
the traffic came to a halt in a massive bottleneck. Perched above the ground on
a lurching overpass, I sat listening to the cat yelling and rattling the roof
of her cage. As always, she found a format and worked it. It was yell, yell,
yowl, followed by rattle the carrier door with forepaws. Then came yowl, yowl,
yell, followed by rattle the carrier roof –also a functional door – with both
front and hind paws. Attentive to the crawling traffic, I could not see the
cat, but I could certainly hear what she was doing. There was no opportunity to
stop and undo what I had done, but there was plenty of opportunity to realize
the error of my judgment. I stuck a finger in the carrier’s upper grate.
Perhaps a friendly gesture would calm the beast. Instead, the beast hooked my
finger with a claw and pulled hard. It was my turn to yell. At long last, with
my wounded finger in my mouth, and an angry passenger in the back seat, the
logjam opened up and things got moving. At the first chance to do so, I pulled
over and freed Amethyst from the cage. I cranked up the tunes and made it to
Connecticut not too far into the evening. Amethyst never held much of a grudge.
She forgot all about being caged the moment she was free. She was a sociable,
charming pet during my visit at the home of my friend. A pet owner could not
have been more proud and full of self-justification.
The drive back, after New Year’s Day, 2004, was completely
without incident. Amethyst got comfortable with the idea of hotel rooms. She
stayed visible, used the chairs I arranged as jump-ups, and slept curled up in
my ventral side, as she always did. The moment came when we arrived back in
Champaign. I put her down at the bottom and let her climb the stairs. “Up you
go! We’re home! Remember this place?” And up we went. I’d gotten away with it.
