Sister #4 is in Las Vegas for our cousin Lisa’s wedding. I’m here at Supergenius HQ with her two cats. It’s been just over a month since Paco died and I’m kinda surprised by how quickly I had acclimated to life without cats. It’s nice having Pugsley & Mabel here, but at the same time I’m all “damn cats leave my stuff alone!”

People keep asking me in hushed, timid tones if I’m going to get another cat. It’s a simple yes/no question and yet every time someone asks me I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know. Maybe. Right now I don’t feel the desire to have another cat, though sometimes I do look at pictures of adorable kittens who look just like Paco and Madison did as babies and in that moment I want all the cute kittens. Then I remember the reason kittens are so cute is that they’re total assholes and it’s that cuteness that keeps you from not murdering them 800 times a day when they’re climbing the curtains for the 29th time.

The idea of bringing a new cat into my house seems weird to me, which probably means I’m not ready. Just having Pugsley & Mabel here is weird. I feel an odd urge to make sure they stay out of Paco’s spots, even thought neither cat had shown any desire to lay in his place. There is probably still some low-level grief sticking around this joint.

A few weeks ago BFK, who has two cats and two dogs (and two children while I’m listing stuff), asked what I do now that I don’t have any pets. She wanted to know who I talk to.

“Well, I sing a lot more now,” I said. “I talk to the tree [a Meyer lemon tree Sister #3 got me for my birthday last year], to myself, to the Internet. I’m pretty sure some sort of murdering rapist has broken into my house in a daily basis because of a random noise I heard upstairs.”

My reluctance in getting another pet makes me feel a little bit like a heartless monster. Like what kind of weirdo wants to live all alone without any form of companion? Probably a serial-killer in training or a bitter spinster aunt really coming into her bitter spinsterhood.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point, but until then the tree and the music seem to be enough.

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So I meant to write the weekly “It’s Sunday & I’m Boring” post last night but I got caught up in the “Downton Abbey” finale and then some other stuff that I can’t remember. This is what I started about my boring Sunday:
As far as boring Sundays go, I really out did myself this week. If there were an Academy Award for Boringness, I would be nominated in every category and I would win each one.

I was super boring yesterday, a day filled with the kind of sloth and nothingness that makes modern woman feel guilty because she has this strange compulsion that all the hours of all the day should be filled with productivity and meaning. Most of my hours yesterday were filled with TV and snoring.

I’ve decided to start watching “Firefly” because my life has been void of meaning since I finished watching Buffy after Christmas. I tried an episode of “Angel” and it didn’t sit well with me. Now I spend hours scrolling through Netflix in search of all the TV I missed when I wasn’t watching TV for those three or four years in the early aughts. I decided to try “Firefly” because it didn’t seem like too much of a commitment and well, Joss Whedon seems to do something for me. After two (or maybe three episodes) the jury is still out on this one. I filled a lot of my Sunday with this.

I also filled my Sunday with a nap, some Scientology, and delicious caramel brownies that I brought to family dinner, where The Tibbles showed off their old-new Macbook, a sexy black number that the paid for themselves by pooling all their Christmas and birthday money.

And after family dinner I dropped fifteen-year-old Jaycie off at a friend’s house because they didn’t have school today and she made me justify all the random bullshit opinions I spew about everything musical. Our conversation went something like this:
Her: You don’t like Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes?
Me: I thought I did, but I was wrong.
Her: What?
Me: They’re the Barenaked Ladies of your generation.
Her: I don’t know what that means.
Me: They write insipid songs that are ridiculously catchy and burrow into your brain whether you like them or not.
Her: Oh, and how are The Lumineers are the new Train?
Me: It just means they suck and their not very good song are everywhere, and that is the TRUTH! Stop questioning your elders or I’ll pull this car right over, missy.

In related news: I used Google Maps’ iPhone App to maneuver my way out of the twisty, turny, caked with ice, dark cul-de-saced neighborhood her friend lived in to get home and it was the awesomest thing ever. I might not drive anywhere ever again without the Google Maps lady telling me where to go.

In totally Monday news: today is the anniversary of Madison’s death. In his honor I had a Shamrock Shake.
It was not good people. I don’t know what McDonald’s has done to their shakes to make them unshakelike, but it is a serious downer. They’re like cold fluffy cups of not-even-related-to-ice-cream substance with whipped cream and a cherry. Barf. Also, why is it all striated? Those stripes are full of yuck. Be warned.

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I don’t like zombies. I don’t find them funny or offensive or ironic or anything but annoying. And yet here I am describing myself as a sadness zombie because I can think of no other words to describe how I feel. I lurch about the empty-feeling Supergenius HQ without engaging my brain. When my brain engages I cry, and my eyes are sore from all the crying. I’ve spent hours since Saturday with my glasses off, head tipped back, and the cool bottom of my water bottle resting on one of my eyes in hopes of reducing the swelling.

Today, though, is better than yesterday. Yesterday was six episodes of Dawson’s Creek while working mindlessly on the sorts of projects that didn’t require too much thought. Yesterday was listening to the songs “Lloyd, I’m Ready to Be Heartbroken” by Camera Obscura and “Are you Ready to be Heartbroken” by Lloyd Cole and the Commotions twenty-two times in a row (this was before the Dawson’s marathon). I even pondered for half a minute downloading “Broken-hearted Savior” by Big Head Todd and the Monsters, but my brain came roaring back to life for 32 seconds and screamed “OH HELL NO.”

The irony here, if you go for that kind of thing, is that I never wanted to be a woman who blogged about her cats. For a long time, I was so much not the woman who blogged about her cats that my friends didn’t believe I actually had cats. It was the fear of being labelled a Crazy Cat Lady that kept me from writing about my cats. But eventually, I reached the point in my life where I didn’t give a damn what people think, and wrote about cat-penguin love and donut hole stealing.

Now, all I want to do is write about my damn dead cat because the mourning feels so singular, so lonely. He was my cat, and mine alone. I never shared him with anyone, and now I feel like it’s my job to make sure people know he existed and that he was important to me.

Madison, or as I often called him Mad Season (because of that 90s alterna-supergroup), was the one constant in the last sixteen and a half years of my life. Roommates, boyfriends, friends, jobs, they all came and went, with Madison by my side. In fact, once around the turn of the century I chose Madison over a boyfriend. The asshole had decided that if he and I were to move in together that Madison would have to go. I decided instead that the asshole should just go.

Paco, who has always been a pretty needy cat, is even needier now that Madison is gone. He spends a lot of time perched on the footstool (on top of my feet). This picture breaks my heart a little not because my house is a mess (careful picture viewers will see the Dawson’s Creek boxset splayed on the floor), but because in the background there is only one peanut butter cup where there used to be two.

I took Madison to the vet in his. He died in it, which I like to think he appreciated. It was one of his favorite spots, well that and the folded up paper bag next to the refrigerator. When I got home from the vet on Saturday, I threw Madison’s peanut butter cup right in the garbage. I thought having it there would be more painful than not having it there, next to Paco’s.

I was wrong, because it’s all painful. Walking from the garage into Supergenius HQ is painful, because I open the door and immediately look for Madison. He was a greet you at the door kind of cat. Being in the kitchen is painful because Madison was a demander and would want his water or food freshened every time you walked into the damn room. Eating breakfast, or well, frankly, anything is painful because Madison who was raised, that last semester I was in college, on Potato Oles and McDonald’s French fries, was a beggar. I always gave him the last sip of milk from my cereal bowl.

There’s nothing else to say. I’ve determined sadness zombies don’t need conclusions because saying anything other than I am sad and I miss my cat just takes more than I’m willing to give right now. Though I should say thank you. Thank you for your kind words of condolences and indulging me during my mourning.

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He was named after my favorite U.S. president, James Madison. What else is a sassy twenty-three-year-old PoliSci major to name a beautiful orange kitten? My dad had suggested Cinnamon, because apparently he thought I was still twelve in 1995.

Madison came into my life in July 1995, a belated birthday gift from my youngest sister. He was always meant to be my cat. I lost him twice. The first time was only for a few hours. The second time he was gone for a week, and I had begun to make peace with the fact that I’d never see him again. And then as quick as he had disappeared he popped out from underneath my parents’ deck. We were never separated after that.

He loved McDonald’s French fried and Pringles. If you ate a tuna fish sandwich with Pringle, the cat would lose his kitty mind. He was particularly adept at finagling open a box of donut holes and scooping one out.

Madison was the perfect cat for me. He was independent for the most part, and only asked for attention when he really wanted it. He’d often climb up next to me and rest his paws on my thigh. He never sat still when you’d pet him, and I’d often say, “Madison, you make petting you into some sort of Olympic sport.”

I loved the hell out of that cat. He was so much a part of our family that, much to my humiliation, my mom had a Christmas stocking made for him (Paco too).

Tonight when I went to make dinner, I realized I hadn’t seen Madison for most of the day. I called his name, something he always answered to, and when he didn’t come I worried.

I climbed the stairs slowly, like a victim in a horror movie, calling his name. I found him on the floor near the foot of my bed.

“Madison!” I yelled. He couldn’t even turn his head, instead he let out a soft whimpery meow.

My tears fell immediately. “It’s okay, Madison.” I said and lifted him up. “It’s okay.” He couldn’t walk. He could barely move. I brought him downstairs and we sat in the La-Z-Grrl. I pet him for awhile and cried and told him that I loved him and it was okay. I did that until I could hold it together enough to call Sister #2. She, Ben, and Max went with me to the emergency vet where I had Madison put down.

“What’s wrong with him?” each of the very nice people who work at the Vet asked.
“He’s old,” I said.

It all happened really quickly, and for that I’m thankful. I did not want him to suffer. I loved him too much. For the past few years I’ve been preparing myself for his death. I knew it was coming. Death always does.

Sixteen is a long time for a cat to live. I’m honored that Madison spent so much time with me. I’m gonna miss the hell out of that cat. God, I loved him.

The post In memory of Madison (1995-2012) appeared first on I Will Dare.

Back in January, I went over to BFK & Atom’s house for dinner. We had just polished off the pizza and were chatting about stuff the way people chat when, without any provocation that I can recollect, I launched into The Donut Hole Story.

The Donut Hole Story has quickly become one of the greatest hits in Supergenius Lore. Not because of greatness of the story but rather because of my propensity to share it without realizing it.

That snowy January evening I launched into The Donut Hole Story. I told BFK & Atom about how I had a package of donut holes on the counter. It was the kind of flimsy package that clicked shut, popular at the Cub Foods bakery. As the story goes, I was sitting in the La-Z-Grrl doing my thing when I heard a ruckus. I can’t describe the ruckus, but I know one when I hear one. It was a mild ruckus, not enough to cause me to rise from the La-Z-Grrl to investigate, but enough to cause me to look up from whatever I was doing. But then the ruckus was repeated and forced me to go see what the hell was going on.

What was going on? My fifteen-year-old cat, Madison (not pictured), had managed to open the donut hole box, flip one (there were at least a dozen in the box) onto the floor and was eating it.

About midway through the retelling of The Donut Hole Story I stopped, looked at BFK & Atom and screeched, “I’m telling a cat story.”
“Yeah,” Atom shook his head at me and gave me the kind of look you give to someone who has hit rock bottom and discovered why yes, they really are an alcoholic. “You are.”

The fact that I did not die from embarrassment right there is a testament to how comfortable I am with those two. I think it also indicates a rather important step in accepting my crazy cat ladyness.

Being a single woman of a certain age with a bookish persuasion, I have lived in constant terror of being labeled a Crazy Cat Lady. Married women who love cats, they somehow escape the CCL label even if they’re totally cat-crazier than the single ladies (*cough* Sister #2 *cough*).

There’s nothing attractive or interesting about a CCL. Once you get stuck with the CCL label it’s all downhill. No, once you’re labeled a CCL you’re at the bottom of the hill. There’s nowhere lower to go. Maybe the grave, but that’s about it.

But telling people random stories about your cats? That’s like the sixth step to CCLhood. The first five? I passed them all long ago.

Today I marked another milestone in my journey to Crazy Cat Lady. I bought cat furniture. I paid actual money to bring furniture solely meant for animals into my house. Yes, I bought Paco (pictured) and Madison matching cat beds. I call them the peanut butter cups and the cats seem to love them (which might have to do with the catnip I sprinkled in them because I was too impatient for them to investigate the beds on their own).

I was going to tell you some other things about my cats but then I realized I just wrote 534 words about cats and that might be enough for one post.

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