I Wish I had Nine Lives
My cat, Petunia, will be 18 next month and she’s definitely on her 8th or 9th life. Over the last six months she’s lost half her body weight and tends to vomit fairly regularly. She’s still getting around okay, but I recognize that it is only a matter of time before her luck runs out. Instead of landing on all fours, she’ll be four feet deep and pushing up daisies. Petunia has been with me nearly half my life and for the last ten years she’s been the only other female in our house. It goes without saying that I’ll miss her when she’s gone. The litter box—that’s another story.
Cain and Dexter
My friend, Maggie, just posted a picture of her cat celebrating his 5th birthday on Facebook. I suggested he didn’t look too happy in his hat and her response was, “5 in cat years is practically a midlife crisis.” I can relate, Dexter—the existential crisis of middle age is no joke.
This cat related comment came just a few days after my other friend, Shannon, asked how Petunia was doing. When I explained my fear that the grim reaper was near, she paused for a moment and smiled. Then she said, “I got something for your Midlife Pickle. If you get another cat, and she lives as long as Petunia, the new cat could potentially outlive you. And even if you happen to outlive it, it’ll probably be your last cat.”
Well, shit.
This sentiment embodies my midlife pickle. It’s a reminder that life is finite. There will be a last time my dad tells me a lame joke, a last time I hug my mom, a last time my kids have me sing Love Me Tender to them at bedtime, a last time I kiss my husband, a last time I have a drink with my brother, a last time I get an encouraging text from Molly, a last time I eat pizza....a last time I get a new four legged friend.
I guess this means we all need to slow down and take everything in because we never know if it may be the last time.
Oh, and remember Toonces the driving cat? I bet he’s been dead for decades.
