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I had been in a good mood. In late April I had seen the orthopedic surgeon who handled knee and hip replacements, and my surgery was scheduled for May 31. I had addressed my neighbors about taking care of the cats for the four days I was expected to be away, and everything was going smoothly.
Then, in early May, I had a week of terrible stomach cramps and serious gastrointestinal issues. The attacks came with no warning. A healthy person with no mobility issues could have made a dash for the bathroom in record time, but it was impossible for me to move any faster than a snail’s pace. Along with that impediment, I had to fight my way to the bathroom because any time I headed in that direction, Stella decided to accompany me so she could lie in the bathtub and watch me use the toilet.
Damn it, Stella, move! I yelled as she sauntered ahead of me.
I swear, that cat is a dead cat, I later told cAnnabelle. I don’t see how she gets any fun out of watching me take a bathroom break. She freaks me out.
Well, Stella’s a bit crazy, you know.
She loves you, Daddy, Thatch spoke up. Stella likes to be around you. We all do!
Well, I wouldn’t mind that if she would stay out of my way while I’m making a mad dash.
Annabelle laughed, I can hardly call that crawl you make to the bathroom a “mad dash.”
She and Thatch had a good laugh over that.
Don’t laugh, Missy! I’ve seen you come in and hang out during my misery,
My interest is purely anthropological, she stated.
And she’s not really crazy, Annabelle, Thatch stated. Stella’s sweet.
She’s a bit crazy, Thatch, not really crazy like Daddy! she responded.
The situation with my bowels had me terrified. For all I knew, something was killing me. Luckily, I had a date with what my HMO calls my general caregiver the following week. It was my usual three-month checkup, and I needed as well surgical clearance for the hip replacement.
There was no surgical clearance. The doctor nixed any surgery until I saw a gastrointestinal specialist to determine the cause of these violent eruptions. Instead of a hip replacement on May 31, I had an appointment with a gastroenterologist. I missed that appointment because the car service for the aged and infirm was over thirty minutes late and I had to reschedule the appointment for the following week. That gave me a chance to fret over my mortality.
For the first time since my radiation treatments in January 2022 I fretted about death and how it affected my household. I had three children to think of. I didn’t want to die and leave them homeless. I needed to know that Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella were safe and cared for until it was their time to join me. Some days, watching them destroy the apartment and create chaos, I was immobile with such intense affection and concern about their future that I would suddenly burst into uncontrollable tears while they gaped and wondered what the hell had possessed me.
What’s that noise? Annabelle called from the litter box. Thatch! What’s that noise?
It’s Daddy, Annabelle! Thatch called back to her.
Is he crying again? Is that what I hear?
You better get in here. I don’t know what to do.
Annabelle ran into the living area and jumped up onto the computer table to look at the screen. Then she turned to face me. I was listening to YouTube ad weeping like a wild thing.
Stop that! she yelled at me.
That achieved nothing. She stepped off the table onto my lap. She then stood up on her back legs and slapped me with a front paw. It didn’t hurt, but it so surprised me that I ceased my wailing.
You slapped me, Annabelle! I said in surprise.
There, Thatch! she said to him. That’s what you do when he starts these ridiculous crying fits. Just belt him like I did.
I’ll try, Thatch mumbled.
So, why are you sitting here crying over . . . Gordon Lightfoot singing . . . “If You Could Read My Mind?” I thought you were working on your ballet!
Well, I was, I explained, and I was listening to my iTunes, Tchaikovsky’s “The Sleeping Beauty.”
And?
It ended, and the next thing that came up was Cat Steven’s “Teaser and the Fire Cat.” I hadn’t listened to that album in maybe twenty years? Maybe more?
And then . . .?
“Moon Shadow” is on that album.
What is “Moon Shadow?” Sounds stupid to me.
Well, Annabelle, if you must know, that song – along with Neil Diamond’s “I Am, I Said” – were the two big songs during my very first love affair in August, 1971. Oh, God, I started crying again, that was over fifty years ago.
You’ve gotta stop this, Annabelle snapped. He was crying this morning while he cleaned the litter, Thatch! He’s working my last nerve with these fits. Now, stop it.
I tried to pull myself together. Well, Annabelle, I was listening to “Moon Shadow,” and I hadn’t thought about Bill Ross in – I swear – maybe twenty years. But . . . I suddenly needed to know where he is, how he is, and if he’s well. it’s hard enough to lose track of someone you dearly love, but to learn, when you do locate them, that they’ve passed on is unbearable. I don’t even know if he’s alive, but that stupid song made me get up and turn off the iTunes. Then I logged onto YouTube and listened to other songs I loved in the 1970s.
So, what’s going on with you? What were you crying about this morning?
I had a panic attack about dying.
Are you dying, Daddy? Thatch asked.
I don’t think so, but I worry about leaving all of you.
Are you leaving us? Annabelle asked.
Well, not intentionally. I get worried about things, and I go to pieces.
Well, I’m tired of this. You can go to pieces on your own time, just not on mine.
Annabelle, you’re being mean to me.
It’s called “tough love,” Shape up. And stay off that computer. She leaped off my lap and sauntered over to Thatch. “Moon Shadow?” Is it really a stupid song?
No, I stated, it’s a wonderful song. The whole album is wonderful. The problem is this, Annabelle: the mind gets old and forgets things, but the heart never forgets. You’re going about your day with not a care in the world or a thought in your head, and suddenly a glimpse of something, a scent, a tune, and you find yourself weeping on the floor.
There was a long pause while Annabelle stared at me. Then she turned to Thatch and said. He never makes any sense to me, never! Oh, well, where’s Stella?
In the bathtub, Thatch answered.
And you say she’s not crazy, Annabelle answered she wandered toward the bathroom.
The day passed quietly. Now that I had an appointment with a gastroenterologist, my stomach cramps ceased. Is it psychosomatic? I wondered. Maybe Annabelle’s right and I am crazy!
Annabelle, get back here! I yelled air the cat strolling leisurely to the window. You didn’t eat your breakfast, Missy!
She leaped onto the windowsill and ignored me while Thatch and Stella ran to her dish to eat her breakfast. I turned away in anger and retreated to the kitchen to make my cup of coffee and pull a container of yogurt from the refrigerator.
Damn it, I thought, why isn’t she eating?
Although I was worried about the situation, I decided I would wait for her to tell me why she had not eaten breakfast for three days. I had noticed that she was sneaking bites of dry kibble during the day, so at least she was easting something. I put the coffee, yogurt, and spoon onto my teacart and rolled it into the living area.
I opened my emails. There was a ballet question from Doug, and inquiry about my Appalachian Christmas show, a reminder from my HMO about my appointment with the gastroenterologist, a petition to punish an animal abuser, and too many requests for donations.
I answered the emails needing a response, deleted the donation requests, and answered the ones from Doug and the holiday show. Before I finished my coffee, I took my morning medications. It was time to begin the kitty cleanup. I loaded the teacart with my cup, empty yogurt container, and spoon; then I dropped to the floor to pick up the cats’ empty dishes. I set out two bowls of kibble, rose to my feet, and pushed the cart back to the kitchen.
After I had washed the dishes, I wandered into the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, give the cats clean drinking water, and clean the litter.
Hello, Stella, I said as I walked into the bathroom. She was reclining in the bathtub, but she sat up as soon as I mentioned her name. As she sat on the edge of the tub and watched me, I washed my face and brushed my teeth. As soon as I cleaned the water dish and filled it, she jumped off the tub and took a long drink.
Were you waiting for me to do that? I asked her. She didn’t answer, so I got on my knees to tackle the litter box. As I sat on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub, the front doorbell rang.
Oh, crap! I thought. What lousy timing.
I’ll get it, Annabelle called from the living area.
Are you sure? I called back.
You’re busy. I’ll get it.
The doorbell rang again, I quickly finished the litter box, set the trays and filter in order, and very cautiously rose from the floor. By the time I had fetched my cane and limped from the bathroom, I saw the apartment door closing. Annabelle had a small paper bag in her mouth.
What’s that? I asked. Who was at the door?
She set the bag down. It was a delivery for me, Daddy. See?
What is it? I asked.
It’s my breakfast.
You ordered breakfast?
You do, too. Sometimes. And dinner! Thatch! Stella! Let’s eat!
Thatch ran from the cat tree and Stella ran from the bathroom. They eagerly smelled the bag. It did smell tasty, and I suddenly craved a fish sandwich.
What is it?
Trout? I’m dying to try it. I ordered enough for the three of us.
She picked up the bag and headed toward the linen closet. Thatch and Stella followed.
Wait! I called out. Who did you order that from?
Grubhub! You order from them. Should I have ordered from another place?
What restaurant?
La Cat-ina! Any more questions? I’m starving!
No . . . no more questions, Missy. I sat down at the computer.
Good, Annabelle muttered. Come on, kids, let’s eat.
Wait! I called. Annabelle turned back to look at me.
What? She asked.
Annabelle, who paid for that delivery?
Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.
©2023, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 