TO ADOPT, OR NOT?/PUSSY GALORE

In the Aftermath

Then there were two

The other day at the grocery store, I reached into my bag for my wallet and instead, pulled out a sparkly purple collar. There was a round, gray tag hanging from it. On one side was the name “Dooley,” and on the other, our phone number and the word “Chipped.”

I felt a stab to my heart. I’ve been carrying around Dooley’s collar since the day we set his soul free. Thus far, I haven’t been able to add it to the bag of collars that hung ‘round the necks of our furbabies who passed before him. Just as I haven’t been able to take his box of ashes out of the brown, paper bag on our living room table. I’ve wondered why I’ve been so resistant to going through those motions that I’ve gone through for years, but, I know the answer.

Setting Dooley’s ashes next to the boxes marked “Jolie,” “Pokey,” “Andy” and “Red,” would make his absence all the more real — and painful to bear. Especially at this juncture in our lives.

Years ago, we never thought of keeping the cremains of our first two kitties, Nonee and Maggie, and I’ll always regret that.

I keep meaning to purchase a large urn in which I can intermingle them all, but, as is my wont, that’s one of the tasks I keep putting off, for “tomorrow.”

Our cats have always worn collars, in spite of them being strictly indoor kitties. That’s how anal my husband and I are when it comes to their wellbeing. Plus, we’ve always enjoyed choosing just the perfect collar for each of our babies.

Conor and Lorna seemed to have adjusted to Dooley’s absence, although Conor, always a crier (and a soprano!), wails loudly at certain points during the day. He’s perfectly healthy as he never misses a checkup. But, it’s disconcerting as I have to wonder if he’s looking for his friend. And, that breaks my heart.

In years past, there was never a question of our not adopting again. We felt, and still do, that saving a life and opening our hearts to another cat was the ideal legacy for those we’d lost. But that said, we are no longer “young.” At least by societal standards. And, as I’ve said before, I have great anxiety about the need to outlive Conor, eight, and Lorna, six.

Alright. I know I’m being somewhat neurotic here and this is where I could use your help. Part of me dearly wants to adopt again as I believe it would bring new life to a household that sorely needs it. For multiple reasons.

Then again, there’s the question of “how old?” I know from experience that integrating a kitten into a home with established cats is easier than bringing in an older cat, one that probably needs a home more, yet also, might screw up the dynamic between our other two. Either way, it’s never a cakewalk.

Although…there was a time, when we adopted our beloved Andy at three years old, and did everything possible to make his transition into his new home as smooth as possible. We were already adept at all the necessary machinations. We prepared our den for his arrival so that he could have a room to himself, brought him home from the shelter, and whisked him into his new digs.

We had three other cats at the time. Pokey, Jolie, and Red. Of course, they were curious as hell, and the three of them stood guard on the other side of the closed door where Andy was. Of course, there was a little bit of hissing and the like, but nothing we didn’t expect.

Until the next morning, when we awoke to find all four of our precious felines gathered in the hall, as if Andy had been part of the family for years.

You see, we forgot that Pokey knew how to open doors and sometime during the night, he sprung Andy. I’ll never forget that. After that morning there was no need to sequester our sweet boy. He had such a chill personality that none of the other three felt threatened by him.

Oh, those memories.

So now, I’m left wondering. Should we take the leap and adopt, again? Or, not? We’re already blessed, sharing our lives with our “ginger man” and our “little spitfire,” but, then again, wouldn’t it be wonderful to provide a forever home to another kitty, who needs love and comfort?

I mentioned that I was neurotic. Here’s another example of the way my mind works these days. With the state of the world as it is, especially the terrifying consequences of how callously we’ve treated this precious earth, i.e., “climate change,” my thoughts veer toward the dark side. As in, “it would be easier to flee with two cats, rather than three.”

That’s pretty damned sad. Am I the only one who feels this way?

Something that struck me the other day: One of the many emotional downsides that accompany aging is the notion of “taking a chance.” We’re afraid to take that leap, yet we’re afraid not to. We don’t want to mess up, yet we don’t want to regret that we didn’t live what’s left of our lives to the fullest.

It’s a quandary, folks, and I don’t have any answers. If you do, I’d love to hear them.

As always, thank you for reading.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. She is currently pitching her newest screenplay, “The Month We Fell Apart,” a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story, as well as “DEAD TIRED,” a female-driven, ass-kicking thriller.