By Thomas Lynch
One of these days she will lie there and be dead.
I'll take her out back in a garbage bag
and bury her among my sons' canaries,
the ill-fated turtles, a pair of angelfish:
the tragic and mannerly household pests
that had the better sense to take their leaves
before their welcomes and my patience had worn thin.
For twelve long years I've suffered this damned cat
while Mike, my darling middle son, himself
twelve years this coming May, has grown into
the tender if quick-tempered manchild
his breeding blessed and cursed him to become.
And only his affection keeps this cat alive
though more than once I've threatened violence -
the brick and burlap in the river recompense
for mounds of furballs littering the house,
choking the vacuum cleaner, or what's worse:
shit in the closets, piss in the planters, mice
that winter indoors safely as she sleeps
curled about a table leg, vigilant
as any knickknack in a partial coma.
But Mike, of course, is blind to all of it -
the gray angora breed of arrogance,
the sluttish roar, the way she disappears for days
sex-desperate once or twice a year,
urgently ripping her way out the screen door
to have her way with anything that moves
while Mike sits up with tuna fish and worry,
crying into the darkness, "Here kitty kitty,"
mindless of her whorish treacheries
or of her crimes against upholsteries -
the sofas, love seats, wingbacks, easy chairs
she's puked and mauled into dilapidation.
I have this reoccurring dream of driving her
deep into the desert east of town
and dumping her out there with a few days' feed
and water. In the dream, she's always found
by kindly tribespeople who eat her kind
on certain holy days as a form of penance.
God knows, I don't know what he sees in her.
Sometimes he holds her like a child in his arms
rubbing her underside until she sounds
like one of those battery powered vibrators
folks claim to use for the ache in their shoulders.
And under Mike's protection she will fix her
indolent green-eyed gaze on me as if
to say: Whaddaya gonna do about it, Slick,
the child loves me and you love the child.
Truth told, I really ought to have her fixed
in the old way with an airtight alibi,
a bag of Redi-mix and no eyewitnesses.
But one of these days she will lie there and be dead.
And choking back loud hallelujahs, I'll pretend
a brief bereavement for my Michael's sake,
letting him think as he has often said
"Deep down inside you really love her don't you Dad?"
I'll even hold some cheerful obsequies
careful to observe God's never-failing care
for even these, the least of His creatures,
making some mention of a cat-heaven where
cat-ashes to ashes, cat-dust to dust
and the Lord gives and the Lord has taken away.
Thus claiming my innocence to the end,
I'll turn Mike homeward from that wicked little grave
and if he asks, we'll get another one because
all boys need practice in the arts of love
and all boys' aging fathers in the arts of rage.
We had a perfect autumn day -- temperatures in the low 60s, sky brilliant blue with a few wispy clouds -- for our annual fall foliage tour of Frederick County parks, Middletown shops, and pumpkin patches. We went first to Gambrill State Park, then stopped at the Snallygaster before heading to Washington Monument State Park, where we had a picnic before climbing to the tower. Then we went to Gathland State Park, where we visited the museum, which isn't always open, before heading to South Mountain Creamery, which was having a festival with visiting animals and food samples since last weekend's Frederick Festival of the Farm was largely rained out.
We saw more animals at the petting zoo at Jumbo's Pumpkin Patch, but the pumpkins themselves looked so picked-over at this point in the season that we ended up stopping for a pumpkin at a farm stand closer to home that always has large, nice-looking fruit. We came home for a late dinner as it was getting dark, so it was a long afternoon, and I will let the photos tell the story:
This is the garter snake that Adam found sunning itself up on the rocks.
The Washington Monument of Washington County, seen here from the field of boulders below...
...was playing host to thousands of stink bugs, as were the buildings in Gathland State Park.
The leaves around the ruins at Crampton's Gap (were Gathland is located) were spectacular.
South Mountain Creamery was having a festival with other local farms, including one that raised these alpacas and others that provided many of the food samples at the tents.
This calf was born the day before yesterday. It tried to nurse on my hand, my arm, my shirt, my hip, and everything else that came within range of its mouth.
At Jumbo's we got to pet calves as well, plus goats and sheep, and Adam got to balance a pumpkin on his head.