Well, I’m a little late with my Christmas greetings, but I hope your day was a good one.
Once again I spent my Christmas with just my kitties, but this year I didn’t feel so alone. In the past I’ve shared more in depth feelings about the day, but frankly, I’m feeling pretty neutral about it. Don’t get me wrong, I celebrate the birth of our Savior, but as far as being alone–no biggie.
I finally finished all the Christmas scarves for my brother and his family and plan to mail them in the next day or two. The box I needed turned out to be bigger than I expected, so I’m anticipating the postage could get pretty high. Given the bad luck I’ve had with the USPS lately (the yarn I ordered for said scarves was lost twice, but was eventually found for one package), I hesitate to ship ground. But my finances may force me to do so.
Anyway, this is my ten-year anniversary with Word Press, and I value the friendships I’ve developed over that time. Thank you all for your support.
I’m so excited. The USPS found my lost package and delivered it today. After waiting ten days (that’s ten days since I knew it was lost), I did not expect this. In fact, once I was directed to put in a missing package search request, I didn’t expect it. But here it is.
I just had to let all of you know about this. Only fair since I wrote a less than flattering piece about the USPS. Okay, I didn’t say anything nasty, but telling the truth was negative enough.
I do have to add I have another package that now appears to be lost as well. However, that happened with the previous two (the first was found the same day I put my missing package search request in), so I’m semi-hopeful this one will eventually make it to my mailbox.
So now I can finish my gifts for my brother and his family. No, they still won’t get there in time, but I’m okay with that right now.
For our Christmas luncheon, everyone in my writing group traditionally writes a one-page story or poem. We take turns reading each other’s pieces out loud, then guess who wrote what. Apparently I have an identifiable style, because everyone guessed mine correctly! Anyway, here’s that story:
Sloopy Squirrel lay curled up in despair. His mama had trusted him with the nuts, telling him they were for the family dinner on Christmas Eve. These are very special nuts, she’d told him, the kind Sloopy and his brother wouldn’t get to eat often, but the humans in the backyard had carelessly tossed them away. They looked so good.
Yes, he’d eaten them. Every last one. It didn’t seem like much until he’d finished most of them, then his tummy began to hurt. Shortly after that, his heart began to hurt. He’d destroyed the family dinner! He’d taken the gift of these nuts and selfishly eaten all of it. Sloopy was a young squirrel, but he knew right from wrong. Sort of.
So Sloopy decided to look for some more nuts on his own. He peeked out of the tree. Up ahead a little girl hopped on some squares in the sidewalk. She’d been nice to Sloopy before, even wanted to pet him, but that scared him, and he ran away. This time he boldly went before her, stood on his hindquarters, and begged. Did she know about begging?
“Hello, little squirrel,” she said, bending down before him. In her hand she held, hmmm, not nuts, but it looked delicious. “Would you like a Snickers bar?”
Sloopy crept up to her slowly. A Snickers bar? It looked like it had nuts in it. She proffered the candy, then dropped a piece of the bar in front of Sloopy. He sniffed it, looked at her, and chirped in delight.
“Take it,” she said. “I have more.” She broke it in two. Sloopy grabbed both pieces and stuffed them in his cheeks. He scuffled away, back to the shelter of the tree.
Mama and his brother stood there, waiting for him. “You ate the nuts, you naughty squirrel!” Mama cried out.
“I hate you!” His brother added.
Sloopy spit out the candy and looked expectantly at them both. “Merry Christmas.”
So Sloopy saved the dinner treat he’d ruined, and never felt tempted to eat the Snickers bar before Christmas Eve.
Today I found myself feeling particularly frustrated with the U.S. Postal Service. I’d ordered some yarn eleven days ago, and the USPS had estimated the package would get to my mailbox in five days. It hasn’t arrived yet. In fact, I had to place a missing mail search request, and the USPS says they’re looking for the parcel. I don’t expect them to find it.
I know there are factors I’m not aware of, and I try to be patient and understanding. This is yarn I ordered for Christmas gifts I’m knitting, and I needed it this weekend to give me enough time to finish project four of four. I’m pushing it, I know, and it’s not the USPS’s responsibility to make up for time I’ve lost. But it is their responsibility to deliver my mail.
I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that my gifts won’t make it to my brother and his family in time for Christmas. It’s disappointing. I was excited to send these hand-knit presents, knowing that my family would appreciate them. I can still send them later, of course, but it won’t be the same.
I’ve written before about how difficult the holidays can be for me, and this was one way of coping–giving a special gift to people I love. Now, don’t get me wrong. I won’t fall into a deep state of despair. But I will be sad.
Still, I’m looking for the good in this situation. If I thought giving these gifts would help me cope, perhaps some other form of giving will help as well. I haven’t really formulated an idea about what that would be, but surely there is something I can do, even at this late date. For that matter, there are some things I am doing.
Some co-workers and I adopted a little girl from the local Angel Tree and have bought her toys and clothes. I’m excited about that. I’ve knit some hats for the Giving Tree at church, and those will go to families of kids at a local elementary school. Some of these families live in hotel rooms with no heat or worse yet, their cars, and struggle to make it through the winter. I’d like to think what I’ve done will help.
I need to focus on the good. I’ll make it through, no matter when I get my yarn (which I’ve reordered–ever the optimist). It hurts that my plans will be broken, but they won’t be shattered, and a year from now, who will know the difference?
Paco came into my life in a roundabout way. I first learned about him when I renewed my apartment lease and asked about the costs associated with getting a cat.
“Rent’s an additional twenty-five dollars a month,” Carrie, the leasing manager, told me, “and there’s a five-hundred-dollar non-refundable deposit.”
I felt a tightness in my throat and tears welled up in my eyes. I’d been ready to adopt a cat for some time, particularly after my break-up with a long-time boyfriend a month before. “I’ll have to wait. I just don’t have that kind of money.”
“If you want a cat, I’m trying to find a home for one.” Carrie pushed her chair away from the desk and placed my file in a drawer.
“I really can’t afford it.”
She brushed the air with her hand and started telling me about a sweet little kitty the maintenance man, Jim, had rescued. Jim had been concerned about this kitten’s survival for some time, as he appeared to be homeless. During a classic Nashville downpour, Jim watched the kitty tread carefully along the edge of the fountain that sat in front of the apartment management office. In a heartbeat, the cat disappeared. He’d fallen straight into the fountain.
That tumble did it. Jim rescued this poor kitty, who was futilely trying to claw his way out of the water, and brought him to Carrie. She took him in. Since then she’d been trying to find the kitty a permanent home.
It took me a moment and some more protests to realize she had dismissed my financial concerns when she brushed the air. If I took this cat off her hands, there would be no additional charges. Eagerly I agreed to adopt the kitty, and we arranged a date and time to pick him up. I needed to wait until payday to get a litter box, cat food and a toy or two.
I took on that cat sight unseen and accepted Carrie’s word when she told me how adorable and friendly this little guy could be once he got to know you. A potentially disastrous mistake.
Paco, at an estimated seven months, had feet and ears too big for his scrawny little body, a narrow face and a long nose. Not the least bit adorable. What’s more, he bit. My ankles, my legs, my arms and my hands all faced attack at any time, night or day. Not the least bit friendly.
“Mom, I have to learn how to love a homely, angry cat.”
“I’m sure he’s better than that.”
Mom kept reassuring me that Paco must be cuter and sweeter than I thought, until she visited us.
“Once he puts on a little weight it should be better.” She held Paco until he bit her.
The Late Great Paco
Gaining weight wasn’t a problem, however, it took some time to train Paco not to bite, and he never completely broke the habit. Years later, when he spent time at the Cat Clinic to treat some illness born of old age, it broke my heart when clinic staff placed a sign on his cage saying, “Stay Away! He BITES!” Of course they fed and cared for him, but he lost out on what little affection the staff might have shown him during his lock up.
Paco and I needed each other. Shortly after he came into my life, I began to deal with the effects of childhood sexual abuse. For days on end I fought an oppressive depression, one that sat on my chest like a weight. While not exactly suicidal, I struggled with a desire to escape this overwhelming pain. However, when I looked into Paco’s face, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. If I died, I knew no one in my family had room for another cat. He likely would go to Animal Control, and that would be the end of him. That couldn’t—and wouldn’t—happen. Not on my watch.
He sat a few inches from my side when we watched TV together. I would knit, and mercifully he responded when I stopped him from playing with my yarn. “Rule Number One – no playing with Mama’s knitting,” I intoned as I placed my hand gently over his front paws. In short order we had that rule down.
Coming home became the best time of day for me, and likely for him as well. As I sat in traffic I thought, twenty minutes to Paco. Ten minutes to Paco. Three minutes until I pulled into my parking space. I’d hurry to our apartment and open the door. He’d dash outside, but after the first time or two that didn’t worry me. He would run up the outside stairs and trap himself in a corner, purring away as I reached down to pick him up and carry him back home.
One holiday weekend I visited my brother two thousand miles away and brought Paco to my mom’s for caregiving. When I got back and went to pick him up, he dashed toward me.
“He waited for you all weekend,” my mom said. “At 5:00 Friday he was at the door waiting for you, and he sat there until I moved him at 10:30.
“Oh, poor kitty,” I murmured to him.
“Then he sat in the living room corner the whole time. He only moved to use the litter box or drink some water.”
From kittenhood on, Paco never stopped loving his favorite toys, some golf-ball sized foam balls. I’d toss them down the hall and gleefully he would chase after them, then I’d switch places and throw the balls the opposite way.
He would signal he wanted to play with the foam balls by rolling one into the den from the hallway, so it landed right in front me. If I leaned over to check on him in the doorway, he’d duck as if to make certain I wouldn’t realize the ball came from him. I got the hint, and the ball-tossing would begin. If I failed to respond in a timely manner, a second ball would roll before me, knocking the first one as if playing croquet.
In the last months of Paco’s sixteen years I more fully treasured him. Accused of a crime I did not commit, dealing with an ongoing investigation and facing a criminal justice system I did not trust, often my only solace came from Paco. My mom had moved three states away and I had no family nearby. I couldn’t discern between my friends and my enemies. Yet through it all, I had the comfort of his precious love. On days when my legal situation appeared particularly bad, he sensed it and would burrow onto my lap, weighing me down so I couldn’t get out of the chair until he allowed it.
In the end, kidney failure separated us for the final time. I whispered to him in his last moments, “you saved me, Paco Bear.” He growled as was his wont, but it came out a weak growl. I knew the time had come to say good-bye and let go.
My World With Words 
You must be logged in to post a comment.