Rascal

I've been dreading writing about this, but I must. I won't feel complete closure until I do. Offer up my little piece of tribute, of eulogy. Anything that takes up such a piece of your heart, mind, and time deserves a few paragraphs penned in its honor.

People who don't have pets think it's silly when their owners grieve them with the intensity of a lost human loved one. Even some people who only display a casual relationship with their animals look down on the people who perform funerals for gold fish and dogs and gerbils.

But then there are the people who regard their furry (and scaly or slimy or whatever) friends as members of their families. The frequently crocheted quote "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened" rings true. It's a special kind of relationship. Cats love unconditionally. No one can dispute the comfort a purring cat perched happily on his or her owner's lap, eyes slightly closed and paws kneading, provides. There's no question of the unfailing love behind the green oval eyes.

Rascal sat on my lap for ten years, his love never failing and his paws never allowing a morsel of food to make it to my mouth with an attempted interception. He dined better than most people, preferring bacon above all else. Though he was largely governed by his stomach (and easily manipulated by the all-important word t-r-e-a-t), his heart is the most memorable part of his kitty personality. He was a very sweet animal, not at all bowing the general cat stereotypes of disdain for humans.There is no disputing that he loved us from the moment we extracted him during his first days of life from between Grandma's porches to the last time he exited our house.

He punctuated my child- and teen-hood with the needed experience of pet ownership. With animals comes the responsibility and companionship necessary to growing and maturing. Though I was devastated to learn of his disappearance, it seemed somehow darkly fitting that he died a mere week before I returned home for my first break from college. One of the largest pieces of my childhood now divides my life into childhood and adulthood, life with and without Rascal.

The night I returned home, the first thing I saw was his little dry food bowl sitting sitting expectantly and full. That sight coupled with his abandoned toys and scratching post littering the living room floor drove the reality of his disappearance home. But as I sat crying in the midst of his things, I wasn't mourning just my precious pet. I was mourning the loss of my life was it was before.

Rascal was the best first pet anybody could I have, and I'm incredibly for the ten years he brought joy to my life. I refuse to think about what terrible fate he most likely met and relish the many, many memories he gave me and my family. He was a remarkable cat and my best friend for half of my life. I will miss him.

And many years from now, when I have a family of my own, we will have a precious family cat too, so my kids will know the all-important love of an animal.

Sex and Swings

I promised, more to myself than anybody unfortunate enough to read this, to tell the story of the rickety swing set behind my friend's house.

I was in forth grade, and he was in third. This, of course, meant that I was ever so much more worldly than he and could explain things he'd never fathomed. He looked up to me unquestionably, and I valued him highly as a dear friend and protegee of sorts on all things regarding neighborhood children politics.

Any serious discussions we had occurred in one of two places: the miniature-sized trampoline enclosed in the fence in his backyard (which is where he confessed what his parents called his "puppy love" for me and the first and definitely not the last place I disregarded honest affection for superficial and unattainable attention) or the swing set.

This afternoon, we had ventured to the swing set. Neither of our parents knew it existed and it was a few houses down from his place, so naturally we felt rebellious and isolated. In the safety of the weeds and rust, we were free to talk about the most taboo of subjects.

His sister had just called that morning to announce she was pregnant. This was her second child, after what I now realize was a deeply controversial teenage pregnancy that caused great rift in the family. My friend was deeply curious and deeply conflicted.

At first, his eyes were wide with pride at getting to be called "uncle," a grown-up title. He had been too young to fully enjoy the event the first time around. Then his thought process turned the idea over slowly and horror crept into his face, which he looked to me to absolve.

"How does it happen?"

Of course, he meant makin' babies.

Like an actual parent, a moment of panic struck me. Should I lie? All I knew I had gleaned from television and the forth grade version of sex ed and the "Alice" books from the school library, but it would probably be enough to satisfy his curiosity. I gathered my thoughts and answered deliberately. I was never good at sugar-coating.

"They had to have sex."

The word only garnered a small glint of recognition in his face. His parents were pretty over-protective, which explains his sister's adolescent behavior. He'd probably only heard the word in a negative context. A swear word, a forbidden action. Something that caused his parents and sisters to fight.

"Does it-- hurt her?"

Even at that young age, I remember being touched by his deep concern for his sister's welfare. "Maybe," I replied, "but it musn't be too bad if people keep doing it." I thought this was a good balance between honest and reassuring.

He contemplated this for a moment and then switched to new kind of possible damage. At this, the methodical pumping of his feet and the creaks of the rusty swing both halted, and the only sound was his voice and the ubiquitous Texas wind.

"Did she have to... be naked?"

I answered this question with odd clarity. I explained which parts essentially had to be uncovered, and that it didn't actually need to take that long for it to work. I left out, what I considered mercifully, that all the parts were probably uncovered and the length of their marriage suggested it probably took longer than he'd like to think.

I could almost hear his brain processing the information. All at once, his feet began pumping again. They scraped the bone dry ground and a plume of gritty sand enveloped him for a few minutes, and then he swung through it as if it were the confusion that clouded his brain moments before. The smile had returned to his face.

"Maybe they'll name him after me."

I ignored the assumption that the baby was to be a boy, and started my own swing back up. The thing rocked back and forth dangerously in the ground, but our innocent confidences ensured us that it would never tip over while we were sitting in it.

And it never did.

Barbie Jeeps

Maybe it's the weather. Something about this time of year, where it gets just a little bit colder every day, but not cold enough to warrant the full on Michelen-man winter coat, makes me think of the days I spent playing outside with all the neighborhood kids.

This weather was perfect because the combination of a light jacket and constant running kept your body temperature just perfect. The air was crisp and cold and felt good in your lungs. Gone was the dry hot Texas summer, replaced by the crunchy leaves of fall.

On my way home from school, I pass this little quaint house where two small children live. Many afternoons, they're playing in the limited but present backyard their middle-of-town location provides them. Their house is always decorated up for the holidays, currently displaying an array of pumpkins and turkeys.

My favorite playtime game to watch them engage in is the wonders of the electric Barbie jeep. Those little cars were the greatest thing ever when I was younger. Everybody wanted one. I never had one, but had friends who did, and their usefulness was never taken for granted. I watch the siblings squished into the seat, driving forward and then reversing in a slight semi-circle, laughing with pure joy. They couldn't be going more than seven feet, but their imaginations were taking them much further.

I miss those days when an electric powered Barbie Jeep and a fall afternoon were all I could've hoped for. Driving past them in my real life, gasoline powered car capable of traveling miles and miles, I envied their ability to go five feet and have great fun.

I miss playing on the jungle gym behind my house. On Base Housing, they installed random playground equipment in the grassy part between the houses on every block. Our block just happened to have an old, silvery steel jungle gym--my mom viewed it as public enemy number one. She was utterly convinced this jungle gym would cause us great bodily harm. Her favorite was "you will fall and get your mouth caught on one of those bolts and it'll rip your face clear in half!"

While that possibility was remote at best, one of my neighbors (a much older boy might I add) fell off and broke his arm. Of course, Mom was totally vindicated and we no longer had a good argument against her irrational prohibition of the beloved climbing apparatus. We still played many a game on it when she wasn't home, and it remained forever "home-base" during spirited games of tag. But eventually the powers that be over Base Housing also ruled the gym unsafe and had it removed.

We were forced to relocate to the rickety swing set behind my friend's house that Mom didn't know about. Oh, there's a good story on that swing set. I shall have to save that one!

I'm not sure how this went from talking about little neighborhood kids to the significant playgrounds in my life, but I do want to go outside and play now.

Faith and Santa Claus

I heard a song today that included the line "I don't really miss god, but I sure miss Santa Claus."

And I thought, I don't really remember ever believing in either. I'm sure I did believe in Santa Claus at some point though, before I could remember. I wish I could remember.

That kind of excited, ardent faith is something I'm not sure I've ever felt. The only thing I remember regarding my feelings toward the existence of Santa Claus was laying awake at night, listening to parents argue about what they bought for who, because they thought I couldn't hear them. I was slightly insulted by the ruse. I was probably ten or eleven, but they still treated the event like I was younger. That was probably because my brother was still that young.

It's actually kind of amazing, like a worldwide conspiracy, to keep kids believing in Santa as long as they can. They didn't work very well on me, I guess. Always a skeptic.

I remember when I caught my mom snapping plastic eggs together on Easter. My dad, always the more sly, secretive parent, was TDY in Saudi Arabia, leaving Mom to man the holiday alone. I was still in elementary school, so I guess she assumed I still believed in the Easter Bunny and that I went to sleep instantly when my head hit the pillow, like my then-toddler brother.

My bedroom and hers shared a wall, and I could hear the plastic eggs and rustling of paper and her cussing when she dropped something that rolled all over the floor. When she came near the door, I slipped out of bed and cracked my door open, leaning against the frame with my hand on my cotton, Pikachu-adorned nightgown. "Hello Mom."

She froze in the hallway and threw her hands behind her back to conceal whatever bounty she was toting to the living room. "The Easter Bunny, uh, I scared... why are you out of bed??" She fumbled in the hallway like I was her mother and she was a teenager caught sneaking back home after breaking curfew.

I laughed, smiled knowingly, and went back to bed, leaving Mom confused with her bags of egg-shaped chocolates. It wasn't like I'd reached a milestone in my childhood or anything, but looking back, I think maybe it was the first time Mom noticed me growing into my own person, a doubting and thinking individual. And Dad wasn't there to deal with it.

The next morning, I reprised my role as the excited, gullible kid for the sake of my little brother's enjoyment and my mother's sanity, but it kind of sucked a little magic out of the whole deal. Maybe I was gypped too young, cheated out of a few more years of believing, or maybe I never really did believe and just pretended all along.

Maybe I'm still just pretending, always pretending.