John K. Samson sings about his cat ... and I cry.

As you might imagine, this has not been the best week of my life.

I've been drifting between "normalcy" and really vivid flashbacks every day. My sense of "normalcy" is understandably fucked at the moment. I've never had anything taken or destroyed like this. I've never had a living creature die in my arms. My sensory perception is all over the place. It's been hard to eat soft foods. I jumped at a dog bark today - it didn't surprise me - I saw it. It was day light, the dog was across the street and behind a fence - but I still jumped. I've been cat sitting while Lara's away, and I have trouble petting Ginny and Minerva's stomachs. I found one of Timon's hairs on my fleece sweater tonight, and almost put it in my pocket to save. But I made myself throw it away.

My dad said that Animal Control is mailing in a statement/questionnaire that I have to fill out and mail back. I'm actually planning on writing out a full account of what happened - for myself. I haven't talked about what I saw - to anyone. It's just too intense - the telling of which would inflict damage on the hearer; particularly if the hearer isn't a licensed professional. But I'm hoping that if I write about it in detail - if I just get it out - the continual shock will lessen, the piercing violence that catches me off guard will subside, and I won't have to be afraid of closing my eyes any more.

What I struggled with today was the idea that if my life could change in the course of 15 minutes on Monday, if I could have something ripped away from me that quickly, what's to say that it won't happen again tomorrow? Or the next day? Well, nothing is the answer. And I knew that before ... I've never had issues dealing with change. What I'm struggling with is the concept of change without consent. I'm actually dealing with the concept of murder. And while it's on a comparatively smaller scale, it's clearly having a profound impact on my life.

I heard this song on my way home from dinner and a movie with my Dad. He told me that no pet he's ever had has effected him the way Timon's death has. I think that's true for all of us. I broke into sobs while driving.

"I can't remember the sound that you found for me..."



Fiona left a lovely message on my facebook:

"Perhaps stars are not stars, but rather openings in heaven, where our loved ones shine down on us to let us know they are happy."


I made Timon the middle star in Orion's belt. That way I can always find him.

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When sorrows come....

I promised you a post on the road trip I just took with my dad. And I will write it. However, if you're expecting this to be it, I'm sorry to disappoint.

Warning - if you don't need anything sad in your life right now. Please stop reading.

A family cat that we've had for 14 years died in my arms this afternoon, as I was driving him (as fast as the law might let me get away with) to the emergency room.

I won't get into details, but he was attacked by a loose pack of three dogs whom I've never seen in the neighborhood before. I was all alone at the house when it happened. He liked to challenge other cats when they dared set foot on the property. He often lost these challenges. When I heard him cry, I thought it was another cat.

One of the most wonderful qualities about this cat was that he loved dogs. A lot. Some of you might recall my post about the death of our family labrador, Lady. We had to put her down shortly before Christmas due to complications with cancer. Timon, our cat, loved Lady beyond belief. He would groom her, cuddle her, follow her around the house. We often used to joke that Timon was part dog. There's another black lab who lives elsewhere in the neighborhood, who was walked every evening at the same time. After Lady passed away, Timon would follow the lab and his owner for about half a block, thinking it was her companion. I'm not sure Timon ever realized that Lady had died; merely that she was living and being walked by an entirely different family for some unknown reason. It is then doubly tragic to think that Timon, the feline lover of dogs, would probably have walked right up to these dogs in a friendly greeting, an exposed belly, and dip of his head, which was his standard greeting to just about everyone (except other cats).

When I found him I yelled at the dogs and chased them away. I ran into the house, grabbing my keys, wallet, and cell phone, before running and grabbing a towel from the bathroom. I threw my wallet and keys in the car, dropped my cell phone, which split apart, hurriedly threw the pieces into my car. I scooped him up as gently as I could, got in the car, and started driving.

As a I turned onto one of the exiting streets of our neighborhood, I saw the devil dogs casually trotting down the road, and a non-chalant teenager walking past. By this point I was wailing in my car - he could probably hear me. I kept saying "please!" over and over again ... I kept checking him, to make sure he was awake. The emergency animal hospital is less than two miles away - it felt like hours. I finally pulled into the parking lot; I didn't bother to park.

Sometime between me pulling into the parking lot, and me giving him, sobbing uncontrollably, to the vet tech to be taken back to surgery, he died, though I didn't know it yet. The vet tech took me into a back room. I sat there shaking, trying to fill out paperwork. The vet came in, I looked up, he shook his head and said, "I'm sorry." He asked if I'd like to see Timon, if he wrapped him up. I said that I would. It all seemed completely insane (it still does) - Timon had been lying next to me all day while I worked on my bed. I let him out when I was putting away the dishes. I went to pull my laundry out of the drier, I heard him cry, I went outside, and then I was sitting in an exam room, waiting for the vet to bring in my poor, beautiful, kind, loving cat, the body that was no long living wrapped in a towel. When they brought him in, all I could do was pet his head and say, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I've been wondering all night what would have happened if I had bothered to check the mail as I let him out, or if I had managed to make it outside faster than I did. And I know that it was a freak occurrence - I'd never seen these dogs before, let alone any *loose* dogs in the neighborhood. But I can't help feeling as though there was something I could have done to prevent this. Because if I had, he'd be curled up right next to me right now. And I wouldn't be crying, my heart wouldn't be breaking, and the necessity for this post would be non-existent.

Instead, my entire family is mourning, once again, for the loss of a family member. And all I can think to say is, "When sorrows come, they come not in single spies, but in battalions."  I know it's not my fault. I know that when dogs form packs they go crazy, and even the most kind dog can be vicious. I know that plaguing myself with "what if's" is fruitless. But I will never get that image of him out of my mind. And I will never stop wishing that he were still lying next to me.

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Travel Blog II .... and a quick update...

Hey everyone,

I'm back in Lenox for the next 12 hours or so, then make my way to Long Island tomorrow to begin a month-long residency in the Hamptons.

I left Calgary last night/this morning ... my flight was at 1:00 a.m., though we sat on the tarmac for an hour, waiting for bags to be loaded. I was crying into my window seat, trying to sleep, and not sob too loudly at the same time. Don't get me wrong, it was a FABULOUS 15 days. But leaving is getting harder and harder; especially when it involves leaving my loved one for months at a time, and therein, leaving my home. It's been continually surprising to me that I abhor leaving Calgary as much as I do. I mean, I REALLY hate it. And this is coming from a creature who thrives on traveling, and going to new places, and having new experiences. I'm accustomed to a certain buzz whenever I walk into an airport. When I leave Calgary, the buzz is non-existent. In fact, the buzz turns into one of the worst heart-hangovers imaginable; increasing in pain with each departure.

To add insult to injury, I was subject to Homeland Security's most recent creation: personalized pat-downs for every man, woman, and child to enter the airport. Not only do you get your very own Homeland Security guard, it's suited to your specific gender! The problem with this system (besides the embarrassment of being *majorly* felt-up in public, NOT by your consent), is that there tend to be more male security guards than female. So the male line, much like any public restroom ever built, tends to move very quickly.

And the women stand and wait. And get really bitchy.

I stood there, for 45 minutes, unmoving - watching the woman in charge radio desperately for more female security guards; and smiling smugly when the other women in my line started to call her out. Now, the woman was only doing her job. I realize this. The poor management isn't even her fault, since Homeland Security clearly didn't stop to think about the details related to instigating full-on security pat-downs by gender. It was an eventful morning.

Things like this bring out my inner-rebel. My first impulse was to volunteer to get searched by a male guard, but my better angel told me that that course of action probably wouldn't get me very far. When it was finally my turn, arms at full wingspan, casually watching as the female guard took her middle and index fingers to search the outline of my bra (and thereby, my breasts), I really really REALLY wanted to say, "You know, you're not NEARLY as good as my girlfriend."

Again, my anti-jail voice kept my angry inner-monster at bay. It did almost slip again, however, when she then informed me that she would be searching inside the inside of my jeans, at the band. I was very nearly ready to physically stop her hand.

Jail, prison, trial, more prison ... being banned from entering Canada ever again, let alone becoming a citizen ...

I have one sharp grasp on the bigger picture.

After my public physical abuse, I was made to board a bus that took me to the smallest terminal I've ever seen (especially for a major international airport like Toronto...). In fact, the thought that entered my brain as we approached was, "This must be where they keep all the reject planes." And indeed, that's kind of what the terminal was. A panoply of tiny, 18-seater aircrafts bound for the shorter destinations in the US, like Allentown, or Cleveland...or Albany. This flight was also delayed ... again, because of baggage, and also because the plane hadn't been turned on. That's right. The plane needed to be charged and ready to go before they were prepared to let passengers on. And because of that, there was no heat on the plane. In Toronto, it was -13 Celsius. So I will repeat again,

THERE WAS NO HEAT ON THE PLANE.

Not only that, but we had to walk outside to the terminal, Carey Grant style, walk up the built in steps that also served as the plane's door, and sit in seats that felt like plastic fold-able picnic chairs. The plane also had propellers, which I think is becoming more and more of a novelty in flying these days. I don't think I've seen one in awhile, and I'm fairly certain I've never flown in one. To give you an idea of how small it was, when we hit turbulence (and oh BOY, did we hit some turbulence) the plane didn't just do the normal up/down jump. No, it also skidded side-to-side, as though it were skating really badly on the clouds. Airplanes should not remind one of four year olds trying to play peewee hockey.

I really had no other recourse than to put my head down and try to sleep some more. I found this incredibly difficult, however, because it was so cold. My legs in particular were quite cold. Being the resourceful traveler that I am, I thought, "Why don't you just put your head down over your knees, and let yourself keep yourself warm!" Brilliant! I thought to myself (we get along very well, myself and I). And I did just that. And it worked! I was tightly wrapped in my fleece and car-coat, hugging my alpaca wool-wrapped hands across my stomach, my hood-draped head bent low against the seat ahead of me (in case you didn't know, I'm 5'10.5" - small spaces are not my forte). And I slept.

I woke up to my ears popping as we started to make our descent into Albany, NY. There I was, quite snuggly and warm ... and drool all over my coat. Apparently my whole head-against-the-seat-ahead-of-me idea to keep my legs warm came at a price. There was no one sitting next to me. Thank God.

So we arrived in Albany. My bags made it (which they did NOT do on my initial flight to Vancouver), my friend was there to pick me up. I had some coffee and the smallest egg/bacon/cheese wrap that Dunkin' Donuts has ever made, and was feeling quite proud of my major accomplishment of making back to New England alive and (somewhat) intact, when I realized that I had forgotten to arrange housing for myself ... for tonight. And while S&Co. has plenty of company housing, the January month-long training intensive started on Monday. So there's no room at the inn. Have no fear, dear reader. I have commandeered a room in a house off the S&Co. campus. Yep. I'm officially squatting in the house I lived in all Fall. Thank God no one in the Berkshires locks anything.

I rock.

[Someday, and I'm hoping someday soon, I'll be less spastic and slap-dash. Until then, a bear's gotta do what a bear's gotta do.]

So, here I am, sitting at the Lenox Coffee house, listening to music that makes me think of my love, an empty tea cup with the remnants of Earl Gray, looking out a cold, snowing Lenox. And for the first time, I'm not happy to be here. I'm hoping that my trip to Long Island tomorrow will yield some adventure and excitement, especially neither me nor my partners knows where the hell we're going, as none of us have ever been to the Hamptons ... but somehow, until I'm able to throw myself head-long into the work of Shakespeare and children of greatly varying ages, I think I'll go mope around in the snow, and be incredibly indulgent in the lonely coldness that seems to have infused itself into my bones. (Cheerful little thing, ain't I?)

I will not, however, end with that. Here are the highlights of my trip to Calgary, that was so lovingly, so awe-inspiringly made possibly by you. Yeah, you. You know who you are. Especially that funny little blonde who calls herself my best friend.

1) I got to see my first Canadian hockey game. It was a dirty game, but I will NEVER forget it. All thanks to the best sister-in-law-to-be ever.

2) I met Liz's parents for the first time. And I love them. Of course.

3) I met Janis, Liz's bestie, for the first time - which is bizarre, because we've had several lengthy facebook chats over the course of the past four months or so.

4) I played Buck Hunter for the first time...and didn't do too badly!

5) Canadian beer. Mmmmmmmmm.

6) NYE with one of my all-time favorite families ever. Including three cats, two mice, a dog, and an axolotl. And more beer.

7) Hockey highlights at 6:00 a.m. BOSS AWESOME.

8) Walks in the snow, holding her hand.

9) My first white Christmas. EVER.

10) Getting to spend half a month and two very important holidays with the woman I love.

Irreplaceable.

"I dream a highway back to you, love."

[Okay, okay, I'll stop.]
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