I have about 30 large boxes and trash bags in my attic and a cat on the first floor. None of them are mine. I am holding the boxes for my children. The definition of “holding” appears to be “items stored until such time as decades later, they are discovered by heirs who are embarrassed they ever owned them.” Every time I make small noises about getting rid of anything, I am reminded that at some time in the distant past, I sold a bunch of old comic books at a garage sale. These were apparently of such extraordinary value that whoever bought them was able to immediately retire and is now going yachting with Jon Gosselin.
Every once in awhile, I visit the boxes and bags. This occurs mostly when the air conditioning refuses to condition the air and I walk up to the attic where the compressor and other strange, metal boxes and tubes are in order to inspect what is going on. I make it as far as the very high pile of boxes and bags that sit squarely in front of all the mystery equipment. I stand on tiptoes to see over the pile, come back downstairs and call Terry, the nice man who installed my air conditioning and who I’m sure by now awaits my call each year.
“My air conditioner isn’t working,” I say, and Terry asks, “Have you changed the filter?” I sort of stall and say very weakly, “Oh, I think so.” Terry knows I am lying, but he is a kind man. He agrees to come over and take a look. He is a great AC Man because he is able to get Behind The Pile. Apparently, Getting Behind The Pile is all it takes to correct whatever is wrong with the AC.
The cat is another matter entirely. My daughter purchased the cat during her first year in college, knowing that pets were not allowed in the dorm. After about 15 minutes when the cat was discovered and banished, she called me and asked me to take it. When I suggested that perhaps she shouldn’t have bought it in the first place, she threatened to “take it to the shelter where they will murder it. That’s what you want, right?”
Fourteen years later, the cat resides here. Her name is Miracle because the first day she came here, my BMW convertible was stolen (who would have suspected that if you leave the car in the driveway on a Saturday night with the top down and the keys on the dash, someone would take it?). The next day, the Fairfax County Police found the car. My daughter said it was because of the cat. Hence, the name Miracle.
Miracle at first lived here, then with my ex, then with the cousin of a friend. She is back here and will remain here for the remainder of her life. The remainder of her life seems to be unlimited. She has never been sick, in spite of my husband constantly fretting about her “certain upper respiratory infection.” She just snots a lot. It’s one of her more endearing qualities.
Another is that she eats her food one piece at a time, after removing it piece by piece from her bowl and depositing it on the floor. She freaks when she can see any part of the bottom of her bowl. The bowl full at all times. My favorite, though, is that major sedation is needed to take her to the vet or the groomer. I’m not talking about the cat. I’m talking about us, after the visit is over. The last time she was at the groomer, they called and sheepishly asked us if we could please pick her up even though they weren’t quite finished shaving her. Apparently, in the battle between the groomers and the cat, the cat won, although she emerged looking like a punk rocker straight out of the spin cycle.
Thankfully, age is mellowing her, and coming in and out about 5000 times a day as well as checking her food bowl, seems to be all she is able to deal with. Her only other activity is to monitor the nest in the tree behind out house. The baby birds have hatched, and Miracle stares at the nest while the Mama Bird screams obscenities at her. My husband does also. He keeps a large, scary spotlight at the bedroom window to scare her off. He’s probably in greater danger of blinding himself than preventing a baby bird attack.
I’m not worried. I believe Miracle is harmless, and I believe my husband will probably never use the spotlight. If I change my mind about either, I’ll call Terry to take control.
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