A Little Tribute

We've just returned from the vet after having Keith, our moustachio'd cat put to sleep. We don't say put to death because euphemisms are much easier to digest. I guess they're like putting curved edges on angles, cushions on pin-points.
He's been part of our family for about 11 years now, wandering in and out of our life through the cat door (when there was one) or knocking on the door with muddied paws, munching his way through interestingly named foods which would be palatable to the human by name but definitely not by smell.

My two boys, one bigger than the other, are both in tears. It's their first real death. We all loved Keith, and it's the first time 'something' the boys have actually loved has been permanently lost. He cannot be repurchased or recycled, he's popped his paws and that is it. No happy ending.

As we clustered around our small ginger pet to say goodbye, we'd, to that point, assumed he'd be given a tablet and the offer of a day or two of rest - then he'd be home again traumatising the birds. The boys left the room (on their own wishes) and I held Keith as life left him on the sterile, stainless table. I could hear the boys in the waiting room and I can't remember hearing them sob so, gut wrenching sorrow. I wasn't much help, as I was wracked by guilt for not realising he'd been so ill.

Keith seemed to have settled well into our new home. His first morning, only a week ago, saw him enjoying the novelty of new cat doors. He no longer had to beg on the welcome mat - he woke me at 6.30am by whacking me on the eyelid with his paw. He was always keen to eat. If we could be as honest with our own appetites.

We chose him from behind a wire cage at the SPCA and little did we know that we'd acquired a cat in the full throes of cat flu. But he survived. He travelled from our address in Auckland, flying with us to Christchurch then back to Auckland. He rattled bowls in Beach Haven and made his name in the Point. He dined at several addresses, at least three, but we suspected there were a few more.

Stella, my neice, called him the 'kissing-hissing cat'. But to be fair on our ginger pet he very rarely scratched, and even tonight as he fought getting into his cage, he didn't try to scratch or bite. He never did. He chose when he would offer affection, it was always his perogative and a delight when it was offered. Lucy, a beloved bearded collie, was his favourite sport.

But now he's gone.

Sleep isn't looking very promising tonight.

Stretching the Truth

Playing the dating game is not all knights and white horses. In the world of dating, the shire might turn out to be a shetland, the armour more like grandad's favourite cardy, all holes and lint.

And once dating has progressed to the point where it's all tongues and touch, there are the practicalities that need to be addressed. But alas the promise of prophylactics although necessary, is none too romantic.

A friend told the tale of her knight as they flounced and floundered he procured a holiday sized box of the before mentioned. Some were unpackaged and unfurled as the moon yawned and the stars twinkled. The night galloped ahead, and it was all pillows and talk. An engaging and satisfying evening.

The two were not to meet for a week or so. After dinner but before they flew between the sheets, prophylactics were again mentioned. She was a little perplexed as to why further rubber recruits would need to be bought as from memory the initial supply had been ample. Her brow furrowed but she didn't mention the absenteeism of the rubber friends. Perhaps, it was a memory lapse and they were simply gathering dust as they jogged towards their expiry date. Or perhaps not.

But as the days turned to weeks, she did wonder. Perhaps the barriers of the night were not simply absent they may have been unfurled somewhere a little remote, where the maidens were fair. Where libidos could saunter and roam and not be hindered by the constraints of the city or conscience. Or perhaps not.

And so in a game where as we mature, we assume we know and understand the rules, we are none the wiser. Actions and words seldom meld and things done and words uttered are often misunderstood and misinterpreted. The straight shooter is wished for but ne'er found.

Of course, questions could've been posed and answered but in the ensuing silence disappointment squandered promise.

As I sit with the dishwasher humming and the cat purring at my feet, I hope the night ahead will be fuelled by happy dreams, and as I wrest with a yawn... a little sleep.

Truth Trudge

The truth of the matter is that we should be packing.

The house fairy did make an appearance and with the bang of a hammer and a little nod as we signed away our souls to an Australian bank, the Pt Chev Team now find that we might be in need of a new name. Once we've moved we can't truthfully say that we're the Pt Chev Team. Mind you how many Whos are left in The Who? But I digress.

Interestingly, 'true' is pressed under 'trudge' in my dog-earred Oxford. To remain truthful could be seen by some as a bit of a trudge. Trudge... a solid if not dogged word, Budge's slower cousin. Now Veracious could be stoical Truth's hard-lined cousin, all tattoos and teeth. Veracious, lounges beneath Venus in my Oxford. Lucky Veracious. I am not qualified to comment on the truthfulness of the goddess of love, one would think though where love is concerned, not all comments are completely trustworthy in the throes of passion. Look at poor old Milo, her arms have flailed her, did they lose their grip or did Veracious rip them off in the heat of the night as they lay pressed and gasping between the pages?

I'm starting to look at my little Oxford in a whole new light, a more seductive glow. Look at the passions it houses, some perhaps, which never rest but simmer and weep through the pages. The secrets that must lie hidden between the lines.

I seem to be on an alliterative trail - Trudge - Truthfulness - Trust.

Trust, the godmother to Truth? She could be wearing sensible brogues and a twin-set with pearls. She could fold you to her breast, but as you press your ear to her heart you can only hear the rhythmic beating of a robust organ, no flutters or quick, lusty beats ever rattle her rib-cage. And in her kindly embrace you can easily be fooled that Trust is indeed a fool albeit a kind one but a fool no less. And a fool can have the wool pulled down over her eyes but her heart can still break. I'd suggest enjoy the embrace but don't mistake Trust with Stupidity.

Stupid surprisingly wrestles beneath Stupdendous, the later none of us minding to be accused of. Stupid lolls without intelligence or cleverness, it could be placed on the car dashboard and left to crack and blister in the sun. Stupidity is not something we relish being accused of, but it shouldn't be confused with Trust or Kindness. These two traits can often temper Stupidity.

With Sod squirming beneath Socrates, I suspect I'd better get back to the kitchen cupboards.

Pointless

We're moving. Not quite sure where yet but somewhere a skip away from the Point and a hop away from our folks.

As the financial world's contenance furrows its brow in constipative gloom, pockets become very small, so tiny that entry and exit is made decidedly difficult...

But every cloud, however dark, has a silver lining.

The Point Chev Team is looking to find a new home. It's seize the day because without global recession we'd have fared like a snowball in a very hot place in the housing market of old. We're faring better in its cooling embers.

After six months it's becoming increasingly obvious even to the optimistic that the 'house giving fairy' has buggered off. But if she returns with wand waving, then so be it, she'll be welcomed by all of us. Failing that there're estate agents.

It is through our, to date, empty endeavours that I've rediscovered the joys of language. The language of realty is a thing to behold.

There are the obvious: 'TLC' - read as obliterate and try to start again on sheer cliff face; 'Cute' means you could swing a legless and headless cat with ease; 'opporutunity knocks' translates as knock me down and start all over; 'alfresco dining' would suggest the roof needs some serious surgery; and, 'a hidden gem' means to make it sparkle will cost you upwards of an arm and three legs.

But poets of old are not restricted to volumes stabilising ancient tables (and here I apologise to poets both past and present). The new poet now enters the realm in the guise of the real estate laureate and once in cyber-space creativity can bounce and bound along at a happy and often unedited pace.

'Just like a little black dress' is the headline, an interesting analogy, you just have to read more... 'Sexy and alluring with a classic look that has stood the time, this home is just like that little black dress...' The house, cosy, was more like a dressing gown than party dress, but hey beauty is in the eyes of the beholder to wring a cliche and not put it in the dryer. More Miss Haversham than our Rach.

'My friend, let's not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of itself. Let's find this present moment of life, tomorrow when we pass from this mortal world, we will be with seven thousand years old people. To rush there we shall not. I say get this character dwelling and forget about the fear of that mortgage. The sound of the drum is good from within earshot, so is the feeling of ownership once you take possession. Use this dwelling to your liking, live in it yourself, let others live in it while you collect rent, possibly set it up as your workplace, your options are endless. Be swift in moving to take possession. For my friend this is what I will be telling you if you were my own kin.' (author unknown realty laureate)

And for the same house, different agent but one with no obvious 'authoratic' aspirations…

Located in a central location is 1930's brick & tile bungalow. Full of character with many orginal features. Separate lounge & dining area with two double bedrooms that are bigger than the average.Parked on a full 511sqm level site with private sunny backyard. Just a short stroll to ... Don't delay! Call me today! (author unknown).

And I'll add these as I see them, because they shouldn't be left to the purchasers alone, many are pearls cast from a cyber shell.

But I digress. We still lounge at the Point, and two Point members are not the most enthusiastic of home purchasers. And at this stage, the usually optimistic one, is thinking that we might be lounging here for some time to come...

Sigh.

Kitty Spitty

There's something about cats. Volumes of cute-to-puke books featuring these engaging pets lie crammed in bookshelves. There may be two or three on our shelves with words of wisdom and wonderment attached to each claw. With the advent of Photoshop, the indignities suffered by cats has been increased immensely, but I'm not here to protest as I have yet to suffer the indignities of digital witchery and luckily cats don't read books. Mine don't anyway.

Many cats have wandered in and out of our lives, some making big impressions, some indents more tangible than others. I've loved all my cats but for very different reasons. I won't expound on the virtues of our domestic flea-bearers, I wouldn't want to have to compare any of mine with yours. Mine would always be the fairest of them all, probably, also the most cynical.

You always remember your first...

I remember the first time I saw Elvis. He was small and ginger and with his tiny eyes closed he ate his way into my heart. When he was weaned a few weeks later he padded straight into our lives, claws sheathed... at first, anyway.

And so the legend was born, but not in Memphis, in Mt Roskill. He soon moved to Te Atatu, although neither home could quite compare to Gracelands he made both homes his own. Mind you, there were a few chip fires at No. 1 and I can't help but wonder if Mr Presley didn't have the odd fire engine attendance with his alleged penchant for deep fried peanut butter sandwiches. Our record, although the accolades for procuring such a treat for the neighbourhood kids really should rest with Mum, was three fire engines. Sirens and everything.

So there he lived in relative peace with Lola our entrenched and streetwise family cat. Her collar jingled with displeasure at her first sighting of the ginger bundle of fur... and teeth. We came to know about the claws and teeth a little later but poor old Lola suffered indentations long before us.

I told Elvis everything but sadly he wasn't overly responsive. His attention span lasted as long as the can opener edged around his Chef can. Treats were often snuck from the kitchen to gain his love. I never reacted when he'd wait at the top of the stairs and jump out, striking with outstretched claws. When bare legs were left unscarred, school tights were the winter victim of choice. Luckily, in spite of his delight at giving us a daily fright, none of us fell back down the stairs. No doubt to his disappointment.

Elvis welcomed the entrance of Leroy, our pyschotic Great Dane. How he loved being picked up in the big dog's jaws and hurled across the room. I didn't laugh the first time I saw it, I thought the dog was going to eat my cat. But unlike us, Leroy never growled or showed any real aggression towards Elvis. None at all. We on the other hand lived in fear of the dog but that's another story (must've had a happy ending as I'm here tinkering in cyber-space). When the malevolent cat was toturing us, he and Leroy were best friends, they'd sleep together, eat together and play together. Leroy was everything to Elvis that I wanted to be.

Then there was Blonde who jogged with me, only making herself known when something sinister was afoot whether it be a snappy dachshund or pipped tom. Topsy, a skittish and skinny cat we attended when my grandmother could no longer wait on her. Benny, perhaps the most adored, I can't start, I wouldn't now where. Frank for her ability to be cuddled at length. And Herman who grew in to his forehead, and Keith our moustachioed ginger who lives with us at the Point.

But my favourite story belongs to an annoymous ginger who strayed into our lives. Dad, had the magnificent idea to gift him to Nana. This was very kind and thoughtful of him but Nana's great passion was her birds.

At 7.00 in the morning her garden was a picture of Hitchcock's 'Birds' as the winged creatures flocked and flew to her well placed lumps and slices of bread. It would never have come as a surprise if the White Cliffs had sprung up from the excited cloud of brown. This spectacle was repeated each evening at 5.

Ginger was to make a dent on the cloud. One by one, feather by feather, the cloud diminished as did the cliffs. His proud em-plonkment of his feathered hunt dropped on the doorstep did not endear himself to Nana. At one point he relocated more than five winged ones to the welcome mat after a garden hunt.

Nana would sigh and transfer the gifts to the rubbish bin.

But all feathered friends are not equal.

In a small wooden bungalow across the road, a treasured, fattened pigeon cooed and wooed. Its character enchanted and delighted. But sadly the bird's operatic career was halted in full flight.

And the night after the chirpy bird lost its flight, Ginger disappeared.

To this day we're not quite sure where he is, or if he still is.

I suspect, 20 years on, we'll never know.

The Later Dater

Listening to the radio one day, the announcer noted that 'kids' (under about 25) were horrified at the thought of anyone over 40 having sex. In fact, many questioned assumed that folk stopped this act at about 39 and looked upon those acting upon such primeval urges as repulsive, even obscene. I squirmed in my forty-something hide.

Now assuming that the kids are wrong, and I have anecdotal evidence to suggest this. Take Viagra (or not, as the case may be), its ads are not targetted at the young and nubile. Current statistics divulge that older folk returning to the dating scene are picking up more than their dates due to omitting to use barrier contraceptives. In fact, if the ads are anything to go by, older folk are rampant albeit well-heeled sex fiends.

But what of real folk re-entering the dating realm? Why bother, surely a cup of tea and re-runs of Dad's Army should be enough to satisfy their needs? Companionship is the first ship pushed into port. Now this may be a lovely ship to set sail on, but companionship could be scored with a small furry animal or a blow-up doll. Lust is hardly ever alluded to in the older daters repertoire. This could be due to suspect hips or cranky backs but I suspect it's more to do with the misconception of age.

Stories of older daters are somewhat precious (our memories aren't what they once were) and much funnier than when we were young. When young, we'd cringe into our dacquiris at the unfairness of it all. Older daters revel in the full glory of embarrassment. Afterall, breasts are not where they once were nor bottoms as pert.

A very good friend, fell for a pony-tailed, single dad. He was witty, charming and quite buff. So all the ingredients were in place for a date or two or even three.

With dim lights and soft pillows, he carressed her with words and their adventures raced into the night. They were no longer cheering on the side of the soccer field Saturday morning, they were now on a much more grown-up playing field.

One morning after their exertions, the pony-tail hopped out of bed and made his way into the shower, afterall he needed to get ready for work.

My friend lay on the crumpled sheets, as the sun started to trickle into the room. One ray, as if a spotlight, fell on a small picture on the wall, drawing it to her immediate attention.

Looking over, she couldn't quite make it out. Getting up, she moved closer, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. Her eyes widened as she looked. Dropping her glasses to the floor she picked up her clothes and dressed quickly.

In the frame sat a miniture shrine to pony-tail's ex-wife. She was smiling in one, laughing in another, comtemplative in that shot and harrowed in another.

He re-entered the room, just as she was stepping into her shoes. Not wanting to make a scene, she kissed him briefly on his de-stubbled cheek and clattered away.

As she sat in her car, the shrine flashing in her thoughts, she held back tears. Creasing her brow, the smell from the kiss lingered. But she couldn't quite make it out. All she knew was that its smell was something very familiar, she just couldn't think what.

Then she remembered.

Nit shampoo.

Smiling to herself, she turned the key in the ignition.

Songs of Joy

Tragedy and joy make up each of our lives. If we're lucky, joy is buttered a bit thicker and goes right to the crusts.

While growing up whenever a 'tragedy' struck me, whether it was a heart being harpooned or a doll's head crashing down the stairs, my grandmother would always soothe it with the prosaic phrase 'It's not an arm or a leg'.

At first, I rebelled against this usually testily applied lotion. Of course it's not an arm or a leg, I've just been dumped and it's as if a rhinerous has rootled about in my chest cavity and removed my heart. There wasn't an arm or leg in sight, for goodness sake, just lots of blood and tears. But roll my eyes, and beat my chest, Nana always knew best and took little notice of my distraught laments. Not that I was a drama queen but if I was, I would've been in silent movies because I can't for the life of me remember anyone taking me particularly seriously whatever misfortune I'd befallen. It goes without saying that it was never my fault.

Sometime later, my husband harpooned me with the news that "there was someone at work ... and she likes me and I like her". "That's nice, dear," didn't escape my lips but as I was ironing at the time (his business shirts), I tried to throw the steaming appliance at him but a stoic plug saved him and the carpet bore the brunt of my despair.

Now, had Nana been alive, I'm sure she would've tried the "It's not an arm or a leg" but since she was no longer here to dish out such wisdom, Dad stepped up to the mark.

But unlike Nana, Dad had a different approach to salving grief. His way was quite unique, he trawled through his extensive collection of CDs to triumph with the most gut wrenchingly, depressing, usually country songs to dissipate my grim moods.

Flopping down on their couch I'd arrange myself in the foetal position of despair, Dad would pop his head around the door. He'd smile brightly, then he'd cross the jamb, CD in hand. Placing it reverantly into the CD player he paused before hitting the play button. Turning to me with a look of fatherly concern he'd give me a brief synopsis of the song (dirge) that was about to be played.

The songs, and sadly I can't remember them as they'd make a great divorce compilation were the sort that you'd want to commit suicide to. Many were along the lines of some chick's bloke's heart's been swiped by some floozy (probably a first cousin) and they've packed up and left the wife and 14 kids to mourn his passing. These ones were just plain depressing.

But the fun ones, the same ones that started to cheer me up were much more proactive. These ones were quite graphic in their revenge which usually involved guns and the odd cliff. These were great to linger over, plot and have sweet dreams by. And so my broken heart was mended in part by Dad's unique attention to lyrical detail and the appropriate application to a given situation.

Not many years after this, in fact only a few months ago, Dad had a stroke. It struck him down and we were not sure whether he'd live or die. As we watched him with tubes and needles and pale, pale skin, we willed him to live, making bargains with our Catholic God.

And he lived through the first night. We didn't sleep that night as we flicked through the 'what ifs' and demented over the 'if onlys'.

The next day, I drove with Mum to the hospital. Following the labrynth of corridors that seem to ensure all hospitals look the same whether London or Auckland, we found ourselves at Dad's bedside.

He was pale and drawn. A screen bleeped and blipped behind him. His eyes, blue as a spring day, stared but they didn't stare knowingly or lovingly, they just stared. We tried to humour him to get Dad out from behind his eyes, but he seemed to look right through us. There was no recognition.

Leaving him for a moment, we walked over to the nearby window and stared out. Trees in the park, green, just as they were yesterday. Grey apartment building, nothing changed there either. Looking over to the bed, something had changed. My father, lay confused and lonely because of a severe brain haemorrhage. Mum and I stood in combined misery.

That's when I remembered Dad's therapy. The depressing array of melancholy which was enlisted to lift my sorrow. Standing there I tried to remember a song that I could perhaps sing to Dad, something that was pertinent and cheerful.

Then Paul Simon's song Red Rubber Ball popped into my head (I'm not sure if I was thinking about the ball of blood which was now lolling around in Dad's head).

Returning to his bed, I leaned over the rails and started to sing... "yes, it's going to be all right..." But I'm not a lyric person, I'm a hummer so the words did not fire out naturally, they were searched for and any word that 'fitted' grabbed at. As I struggled through the lines that I thought I knew, the first veil lifted and Dad slowly but surely finished the song by speaking the lyrics.

I've thought of a few more songs now that are just perfect for the hospital bedside and I'm sure it would be a hit...

If I Only had Time...