Another Anniversary

Whenever I feel stressed, my longing for my husband looms strongest.  And so, I give you some more thoughts about Charles.  I wrote this on the one year anniversary of his death, and it still holds true today.

And so it has been a year since you left me. Three hundred and sixty-five days.  You are gone to a land or place where I cannot follow; but you come to me still - with a smell of you on the air or, as this morning, your scent on my hands; sometimes, a glimpse of something familiar out of the corner of my eye - but when I turn you are not there.  I see you in deju-vu and in my memories of our time together.  I feel you in my heart big enough to break me open, and in my mind’s eye, I see you laughing, your face lit up, arms akimbo; a true raconteur, drawing us all into your story.  I remember you, beautiful man, loved by all - funny, witty, charming, elegant and oh so handsome!  (A profile like a Roman god - a face to break a heart.)  And alone, in the small corner of my heart, I remember the quiet, intimate moments that only you and I and God shared, my beautiful, sweet Charles.

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Charles had a cat, Baby.  He was full grown when he came to us.  He strolled up the driveway one day, pure white with a few caramel markings and blue eyes so beautiful, they didn't seem real.  We were sitting on the front stoop and he walked up to Charles, yowled at him (totally ignoring me) and then walked into the house and never left Charles again.

Baby belonged to a neighbor down the street - dare I say it - white trash like nobody's business, hugely obese, raising her three grandkids but treating her 8 cats better than those children.  She had a huge RV that she parked on the street, against city regulations, and bribed the parking enforcement people so she could keep that behemoth parked in the same place on street cleaning days.  Everyone in the neighborhood despaired of her.

A couple of weeks after Baby (as Charles named him) came to live with us, he and Charles were in the front yard hanging out.  When Charles was home, wherever he went, Baby went.  I was in the kitchen cooking.  Suddenly, the front door flew open and I heard Charles yell, "He's MY cat now!" and then the front door slammed.  What is going on? I asked as Charles pulled the front windows shut and closed the drapes.  They're trying to take Baby!! he said.  Who??  I asked.  Those KIDS!  He stood in the dining room clutching the cat looking all of ten years old.  What?  I laughed. I went to the front door and looked out.  The three grandkids of the aforementioned neighbor were standing on the sidewalk looking at our house.  They were 7, 5 and 3.  Yes, my husband was terrified of three children, the oldest of whom was probably a third his size.   What's going on? I asked them.  We saw Marshmallow, the middle one said.  That's our cat...Oh Lord, I thought.  You see, this is a problem because Charles loved that cat.  And Baby aka Marshmallow loved Charles.  I sighed, told the kids to tell their grandmother to come down and sent them on there way, while my husband hid quivering in the shadows afraid of the brutal gang of toddlers.

A little bit later, the grandmother slowly made her way to our house.  She came to the door in her tent/shift and she was barefoot.  I invited her in and she sat down on the living room chair and, to my complete horror, put her bare feet which were absolutely filthy on the matching ottoman.  I was both mesmerized and repulsed by those feet.  Dirty, black soles, long nails with dirt embedded around the toe bed.  I couldn't believe those feet were on my ottoman.  I prayed she wouldn't start rubbing her soles against the fabric. I wondered if I had ever even seen her in shoes, certainly she owned shoes?  There was nothing to be done regardless, I couldn't very well ask her to take her feet off the ottoman, it would defeat the purpose of the ottoman in a way and be rude in a situation which would require great finesse, I thought.

The conversation began - and I'll note here that Charles had hidden Baby somewhere in our house.  Apparently, he had no intention of giving Baby back.  So, she says, my grandkids told me that Marshmallow lives here now?  I look at Charles, who is not answering, just staring at our neighbor with overt hostility. Yes, I finally answered.  We didn't know he was one of yours, he just showed up and never left...Well, she said, I don't really care if he lives with you.  I got enough cats.  Charles face lit up like he had won the trifecta at Santa Anita.  I am just wondering one thing, she said.  What's that? I answered, glad to give her something since she has given Charles full custody of Baby.  Does he shit in your bed and shoes like he does at my house?  I was stunned into silence.  Was she kidding?  Um no....no, I managed finally.  No shit in the bed or shoes yet.  Okay, she said, well that's what he does.  She hung out a while, small talking and it was painful. We just wanted her to take her dirty feet off our ottoman and go home.  Finally she did.

For the record, Baby shit in Charles' shoes one time.  It was his white leather, old man shoes which I hated with a passion.  We'd argue about them, but Charles would not throw them out. He loved them and said all the men in Palm Springs wear them - Yes, I'd yell, if you are A HUNDRED!!  (So, I confess, that I was glad that Baby had done what I could not, and the white shoes were gone). Charles, however, was incensed and I am sure he was even more pissed because he knew my concern about his shoes was totally feigned.  He picked Baby up by the scruff and holding Baby about an inch from his face yelled at him and then threw him outside. Baby never did that again.  


Baby loved Charles, And Baby was in love with Charles. Baby was a gay man trapped in a cat's body.  Our female cat, Little Girl, would hunt mice, rats and birds and Baby would take them when she wasn't looking and come into the house and leave them on Charles' pillow - a little feline love offering, so to speak.  Baby laid on Charles' chest and Charles would pet him until they both fell asleep in a little afternoon nap.  Baby would jump through the sunroof of Charles' Mercedes and try to "go with him".  If Baby could have manifested as a human, I wouldn't have stood a chance.  Not that Charles would leave me for Baby (at least that's what I told myself) but Baby would have most certainly killed me and dumped my body in the Santa Monica Mountains so he could have Charles all to himself.  For sure.  

Their bond was unbreakable.  When Charles lay dying several years later, Baby stood sentinel on the edge of the bed for 4 days; no one could move him.  If we tried, he hissed and tried to bite anyone who dared.  He lay there, sphinx-like, guarding his master, his love.  I understood then why the Egyptians took their cats with them to the tombs.

After Charles died, Baby began to fail. He got sick and almost died twice.  I spent thousands of dollars on him and then I just said "enough".  I told Baby if he got sick again, that was it. He held his own for a while after that.  One day, a couple years later, he disappeared.  I combed the neighborhood, plastering photos of Baby on every pole and street corner. Nothing.  About six weeks later, my neighbor came running into my apartment.  She thought she had found Baby.  We walked down the street and there he was - living a mere 6 houses away with two gay men.  His name was Eduardo now.  After we talked, they very graciously gave him back to me and I walked back to my house, Baby/Marshmallow/Eduardo in my arms, so happy to have found him.  Once inside, I put him down.  His perfect, gorgeous baby blue eyes looked directly into my hazel ones (It was so sweet - he remembered me!) and then he squatted and took a big shit on the living room floor, never once blinking or breaking eye contact with me. And it wasn't just shit, it was diarrhea - and lots of it, it just blew out of his ass like a fountain.  Uh-huh. Message received.   

I picked him back up, walked him 6 houses down the street and gave Eduardo back to the gay boys.  I settled for going to visit him every day and I took him treats and fattening cat foods.  He was very thin and rickety.  He let me feed him and brush him and pet him and he purred when I was there, but he never came home again.  He just stayed with his men.  He didn't live much longer after that.  He didn't die of ill health or old age - sadly, he was mauled to death by a raccoon.  The raccoons get pretty big in LA eating out trashcans.  I cried when I found out; but really it was okay because Baby was finally reunited with his true love, Charles.  As corny as that sounds, I believe it in my deepest heart.

Charles and Baby - a love story for the ages.