Hannah Turns 10

Hannah turns 10 years old today.

We met during a crisis - I was coming to terms with a life-long trauma; she was abandoned by an abusive owner. It was May 2, 2006 when she was dumped at my feet at Saint Meow’s shelter in Cambridge, Ma., at the estimated age of three. I stood there, stunned.

She looked up at me with her green eyes and let out one long cry. Before I could think, I told the shelter manager, “I’ll take her.” She was my first pet. Together, Hannah and I learned what it meant to love safely again.

Hannah, post-adoption, age 3.

Hannah almost died of life-threatening pancreatitis in 2008, when she was five, but today she turns ten, and she’s healthier than ever. When I asked what she wanted to do for her birthday, she said,”sunbathe.” So be it.

Happy 10th birthday to Hannah! We thank all of this blog’s readers for continuing to follow our story as it’s developed over the past three years. Stay tuned…

- TLS

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Under Lockdown: With Two Cats & PTSD

Hannah, guardian kitty.

Last Friday, April 19, at 6:45 a.m., I awoke in my tiny attic apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts, startled by the sound of an incoming text. I’d been having a dream in which I was running from two assailants who were bent on killing everyone in their midst with guns and bombs. I was frantically trying to find a place to hide, but nowhere was secure.

Such a nightmare is not unusual for me: I have PTSD. I didn’t know the reality that’d been transpiring while I was sleeping.

I sat up quickly and reached for my phone. The text was from the New England Conservatory of Music, located in Boston, where I’m liberal arts faculty: “Due to public safety concerns, NEC is closed…”

Seconds later, I received a text from a friend in Jamaica Plain: “Are you at home? Just checking in case you haven’t gotten the news to stay in. It’s all very unsettling.”

Was I awake, or was I dreaming? I turned on the television and saw the reports of bloodshed that had occurred in my town overnight, the death of one of the marathon bombers, the current search for his armed-and-dangerous brother. “Shelter-in-place”: I was not to go outside or answer the door.

What was happening was real. Surreal.

I began to panic: could the suspect on-the-run be hiding in the basement of the house where the garret was located? In the basement, there is a washer/dryer machine accessible to tenants in a neighboring house through a cellar door, which I’ve frequently seen left unlocked or open to the outside parking lot. As I watched the news, I was suddenly alarmed. My nightmare was still fresh in my mind: I needed a reality check, so I messaged a friend who knows I have PTSD.

My friend assured me that it was near impossible that the suspect was in my basement at that time, because the local news reported he’d been seen on foot in Watertown, a few miles from where I live, around 6 a.m., however it was a good idea to check the door. She wrote, “Be quick.”

In times of stress, Hannah and Sam serve as my danger gauge. If an intruder (or even a friend) were in the vicinity, I knew that Sam would be hiding under the bed. Hannah would have her nervous facial expression and twitching ears. But now neither exhibited signs of anxiety – they were curled up, relaxed on the bed.

I went downstairs with my legs shaking, holding my breath. The cellar door, to my relief, was shut and locked. Quickly, I returned to my unit and secured the triple locks on my door. Even though I live in an attic, I left the shades drawn.

In the days after the bombing, I’d witnessed so many Bostonians experiencing a mental state I’d had as my “normal baseline” for years: intrusive memories, intense fear, anger, sadness, shock. Over the course of my decade of recovery treatment for PTSD, I’d accumulated a stockpile of mental artillery to respond to the aftermath of traumatic events. I put them into practice.

On Wednesday, when a friend told me she couldn’t concentrate and was “in a fog,” so much so that she accidentally dropped a plate of food where she thought there was a counter, I recommended she avoid the media. How many times did we need to see the bombs go off, or hear the screams of terror as we watched spectators and runners collapse or flee? Once was enough: we understood the depth of destruction and pain.

In our attempts to mobilize, to emotionally arm, there’s a fine line between facing facts and re-traumatizing ourselves, the latter of which causes further harm.

But Friday, I couldn’t turn off the TV or Internet. As I watched events unfold, I felt numbness climb from my feet to my limbs to the top of my head. I trembled with the fear of traumatic experience.  The tenants who live below me weren’t home. Hannah and Sam, the “rescue” cats, were now sleeping.

I felt isolated.

For a time, I couldn’t receive or make calls – phone service was flooded – though I could get voicemails and texts. I posted status updates on Facebook. Thirty-nine and single, I tweeted, “It’s 1 of those times when I wish I didn’t live alone.”

I wanted to hug someone. I wanted to be hugged.

To my surprise, people I knew and people I’d never met reached out: Novelist Sarah McCoy responded, “I empathize. One of the scariest few days of my life was being in apt alone during hurricane.” Boston Globe blogger and professor friend Delia Cabe wrote, “Yes, at least you can talk to us here. I’ve had those moments when I was isolated like that.” Author Jenna Blum tweeted, “You’re not alone. The Twitterverse is with you.”

For the next several hours, social media was my home base. I baked a pumpkin loaf cake and posted a photo. Others listed what they’d contribute to our “lockdown potluck.” Sam came into the living room then, begging as usual for dinner. I opened a window: Hannah hopped up to look out at the world.

Saturday morning, the terror over, I left Hannah and Sam, and my apartment, and walked down the street, reveling in such basic freedom. I took the T to Harvard Square, where I ran into an acquaintance and her friend at Starbucks. We shared a table and our shellshock. As we chatted over coffee and tea, I learned that they too lived alone, aside from their one or two felines. While our pets always provide us a source of companionship, during the lockdown we felt a keen separateness from the world, a longing for people.

We were relieved now, in arm’s reach. We embraced each other, and the simple pleasure of living.

– TLS

 What were you, and your pets, doing during the lockdown? Share your experiences and other comments below.

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Cat Got My Tongue

Hannah, after feeling the earthquake.

Where’d the last month go?

After my post about taking Hannah and Sam to the vet, life seemed to get a little more than crazy, beginning with Maine’s 4.0 earthquake on October 16, which caused the garret to shake quite noticeably.

Hannah was on edge for hours, anticipating an aftershock, while Sam simply went back to playing.

Mother nature struck the east coast again two days before Halloween with Hurricane Sandy. Fortunately, the garret never lost power, nor did it sustain any damage, though it did sway quite a bit due to the high winds. I was saddened to see so many places I knew as a girl growing up on Long Island ravaged by the storm, with some areas obliterated. Many of my friends in New York and New Jersey are still without power. We’re hoping for a speedy recovery for all who’ve been so badly affected.

When what we’ve always had is taken from us, our lives are shaken. Our sense of how the world works, our daily routine, is turned upside down. It’s during disorienting and grief-laden times like these that it’s important to remember what we do have, what we can hold onto: our connections with others, both human and animal.

This past week, after getting the flu shot, I became quite ill, which meant I was stuck in the garret for many days. Hannah and Sam kept me company: Hannah hopped up beside me on the garret chaise, where she curled up for hours, purring and nudging her head and paws into my arms. Sam, on the other hand, provided comic relief, entertaining himself (and me) by dashing back and forth through a toy tube. For the video, click here.

As these November days bring us closer to Thanksgiving, I’d like to express my gratitude to the family and friends who are a part of my life, to Hannah and Sam for teaching me every day to appreciate the little things, and to all the readers who keep tuned in to the Hannah Grace blog. Keep your comments coming.

And for another Sam video, click here.

– TLS

Please share what you’re grateful for in the comment box below!

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Turn That Frown Upside Down

In my last post, I was just starting Hannah on a liver pill, known as SAMe, a derivative of her little b(r)other’s name. I’m here to give an update:

Hannah has, over the past weeks, shown her smarts, eating the pill pocket all around the pill and leaving the glistening pink medication on the floor. I’ve had to lock Sam in the bedroom to block his ability, and desire, to go at the SAMe like prey, to gobble it up for himself. After all, it does have his name written all over it.

One evening, I spent almost three hours trying to cajole Hannah into taking her SAMe. She simply stared at the lump I left on the floor in front of her, shrugged her shoulders, then left the room. Finally, I opened a can of tuna. On a hypoallergenic diet, Hannah is not supposed to eat tuna, but I got the “ok” from the vet to douse the pill pocket with tuna juice. Hannah ate it up quickly. However, a few days later, the novelty of tuna juice wore off. After another three-hour session of pill-giving tries, I lightly dabbed the pill pocket with organic tomato sauce. Success: Hannah ate the pill in one swallow (I wonder, is this the cat’s equivalent of pizza?). Let’s hope this lasts for the rest of the pill pack. Later next week, I’ll be bringing Hannah back to the clinic to have her liver enzyme level checked. I’m hoping for positive news. If not, I will probably have to learn how to use a pill gun.

Meanwhile, Hannah’s little brother Sam has begged for his own daily treat. Since he has grown tired of his new mouse toy, I purchased a smiley-face laser light. Here’s a video glimpse of him (and, for a small part, Hannah) playing laser tag for the first time (click here). Be sure to watch until the end, when that frown turns upside down.

To be continued…

– TLS

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Homebodies

Hannah (right) & Sam (left), with the garret portable radiator

Do you ever wonder what your pets do, exactly, when you’re not home? Do they sleep? Play? Destroy things? Read the books you’ve neatly stacked on the shelves? Recently, I was away from the garret at a nine-day writer’s residency at Lesley University. I returned most nights to find Hannah and Sam lingering in the hallway, between the door and the living room, looking stressed, meowing “hello!” and, more importantly, “where’s dinner?”

Hannah, who is more independent than her little brother, methodically took in the scents of my day, sniffing at my clothes and hands as if to decode where exactly I had been and with whom. She looked into my eyes and snorted quietly and pleasurably when I rubbed her forehead with my thumb.

Sam, however, ran into the bedroom and hid there, as if I were an imposter, until I opened a can of wet food in the kitchenette. Then he was by my side, meow-meowing incessantly and making gurgle noises in his throat while he circled my feet, bumping his body into my calves, until I finally put the dish down in front of him. When it was my turn to eat, Hannah warmed herself by the portable radiator and Sam tumbled over onto his back before me, showing his belly, purring from deep within.

Hannah stole Sam's laundry basket perch

Although I did come home nightly, Hannah and Sam both showed signs of stress during my absence. One day I arrived home to find the foot-tall cat condo had been half-demolished by Sam, who has a carpet fetish: individual pieces of carpet had been plucked off the sides and top and deposited in a pile on the floor. I hoped he hadn’t ingested any.

When I sat down to give both cats my undivided attention, neither wanted to be second, and Sam pawed and nipped at Hannah whenever she came close. Hannah, on the other hand, became aggressive in her need for affection. She practically toppled me over as she rubbed her whole head around my knees and pushed in. She even (gasp!) attempted to sit on my lap, something she has never done, then decided that curling up right in front of me with her head propped on my thigh was a safer bet. Around the food bowl, she displayed great hesitation. I frequently had to pick her up, holding her close as I carried her back to the bowl, encouraging her to eat. Secretly, I think she wanted the extra physical touch.

Sam

Hannah stole Sam’s perch atop the laundry basket. Then, Sam began to sit on my lap, something he has not done since he was four months old. He alternated between my lap, and sitting on top of my feet, as if to make me stay put, the vibration of his purring warming my toes.

– TLS

What is it like for you, and your pets, when you are at work all day or away on vacation? Share your experiences below!

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Happy New Year!

As we count down the hours to the new year, Hannah, her little brother Sam, and I are here to send you our best wishes for 2012.

WordPress.com recently prepared a 2011 annual report for the Hannah Grace blog, counting the number of readers this year as comparable to that needed to fill all the cars on a New York City subway train three times. This year, Hannah Grace reached around the world, attracting readers in the United States, Canada, Australia, England, New Zealand, Spain, France, South Africa, Germany, Netherlands, Brazil, Argentina, Asia, and the Cayman Islands.

The most popular posts were “Hannah and My Mother” and “The Road Taken.” December 7 was the most popular day for reading the Hannah Grace blog. If you missed anything, you can still check it out in the archives!

On December 27, my essay “Writing: To Carry On,” was published in Beyond the Margins. While it’s not directly about Hannah or Sam, it speaks to the circumstances surrounding my completion of the book, Hannah Grace, and so I post the link here, as we close out 2011.

See you in 2012~

- TLS

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The ‘Cat’astrophe

{Writer’s Note: Please join me at Lesley University’s Sherrill Library on December 7, when I will be reading from Hannah Grace as part of LU’s student reading series. This event is free and open to the public.}

Saturday morning, I awoke to find Hannah’s little brother Sam standing beside my bed, up tall on his hind legs. His front paws pressed against the edge of the mattress as if he might hoist himself up at any moment. His eyes were fixed on my face, quizzical, hesitant, and anticipatory.

His mouth opened slightly, showing his bottom teeth. “Meow?” he asked.

I propped my head on my hand, my elbow on my pillow, which allowed me to see Hannah seated on the floor in my doorway as if she were a security guard. When she saw me rise, she galloped into the living room. Then Sam started meowing as if he were just given permission to sound off as my alarm clock.

When I tossed my feet to the floor, Sam circled my calves and grazed my skin with his orange tabby tail before he threw himself down on his back and began to purr deeply as a truck motor. I bent down to give him a belly rub, which he received for just a moment before he, in escalating excitement, rolled over and over and dashed out of my bedroom for the living room, calling to me all the way with insistent meows. I followed. Hannah was waiting in the middle of the living room floor. She seemed to snub her nose at Sam – she was too old for such vocal displays – though she would, momentarily, approach to ask me for her own belly rub, stretching her paws out on the floor as far as they would go, for as long as her post-trauma nerves would tolerate the openness, which, similar to my own PTSD adjustment, depended on the day.

That’s when I saw, to my dismay, the remnants of Sam’s orange fishy string toy on the floor: the orange fish and the yellow “pole” were present, but the 10-inch string connecting the two was missing, except for a quarter-inch frayed piece at the tip. Oh no. I felt my pulse quicken. Becoming frantic, I searched the carpet for the string. I picked up Sam to check his mouth but he twisted his back and rolled his head under my neck and cuddled as if he thought I was attempting to give another belly rub.

Every night, before I went to bed, I always put all the mouse and ball cat toys away in a bag, which I placed on top of a high and deep bookshelf, away from a cat’s grasp. Hannah and Sam had never tried to climb the bookshelf or retrieve the bag. I considered it safe. The string toy I never left out – it was only visible when I was supervising, when my hand held on to the end of the stick.

“Did you eat it?” I asked urgently, half-hoping Sam would nod yes or no as I put him back down on the floor. He ran to stand at attention at the high shelf, his body like an English Pointer. He looked at me and then back at the shelf. The bag. Toys. He wanted to play.

As I dialed the vet, I believed I would be seen as an irresponsible pet owner. I was ashamed of myself for letting this happen. I had spoken to the vet just a few days earlier when he relayed the good news that Sam’s stool culture had come back clear: the parasites were finally gone. However, he suggested I give Sam a probiotic for a month in order to resolve his persistently stinky poop. I began to think that Sam was becoming almost human. In fact, he had begun to sit for long periods of time like a Buddha. But he still did not seem to understand the phrase “no, don’t eat that” when it came to consuming inedible objects.

Sam, sitting like a Buddha.

I thought he had outgrown such behavior. Last March, when he was a tiny kitten, he ingested a five-inch tassel from my blanket. At the time, I had no idea he had committed such an act, until the tassel came out, whole, in his poop. After that, I removed the blanket from the premises. Then he began biting off the tails of mouse toys and eating them like a four-course meal. I cut off the remaining tails, and ears, before bringing a sample to the vet to ask if I ought to be concerned about possible ingestion. At the time he told me not to worry. Only longer string-like objects were problematic, he said, using his hands to measure, as they could get lodged in the intestines and cause a life-threatening blockage. I don’t recall if he actually said “life-threatening” but that was how I took it in, and that was what I thought about Saturday morning when I could not find the string of the string toy, which was the diameter of a piece of spaghetti, slightly elastic in composition, and as orange as Sam.

“Is he behaving normally?” the receptionist asked, to relay to the vet.

“Yes,” I said, as I watched Sam, who was now taller and four pounds heavier than Hannah, romp around the living room floor like a toddler, tossing himself into somersaults, racing from room to room, gobbling up his breakfast, and overall becoming a blur of fur that dashed from site to site while Hannah sat quietly and observed the craziness.

Was Hannah like this when she was a year old? I wondered. When I adopted her, she was three.

As long as Sam was acting normally, the vet said, eating and using the litter box, as long as he was not vomiting, then he was okay. The string would most likely end up passing in his poop. The “digestion” process, it was estimated, would take 24-48 hours.

I was aware of the way my mind was spinning. I had read on the internet that string could get caught in the cat’s digestive tract and “become like a saw,” cutting through major organs. I worried Sam was going to die, this feline being to whom I had grown so attached, as had (there is pictorial evidence to prove it) Hannah. The impending catastrophe, I surmised, was all my fault. I was dizzied by thought, and thought, and thought.

Breathe, breathe, I told myself, it’s the PTSD. I reminded myself that I was in crisis mode: my mother had recently died. Death had just “hit home.” I expressed my worries to my friends who relayed incidents of their pets – cats as well as dogs – ingesting foreign objects, including a pair of plastic glasses, a long piece of gift ribbon, and a (small) broken glass vase, and not only surviving but thriving.

This morning, Sam, who, overnight, ate and slept and drank and peed and pooped without disaster, hopped up on my bed, waking me out of an agitated sleep: my body jumped in startle response. Sam leaped down to the floor and sat politely then, blinking up at me expectantly. He seemed okay. So did Hannah, who remained in the doorway, like a guardian angel. I got out of bed and followed them into the garret living room, where they both called me back to life.

- TLS

Have you had a similar situation with your pet? Share your story, and comments, below!

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Trick or (Cat)Treat

When I was a very little girl, I wanted to be a cat. One Halloween, when I was almost three years old, my mother made me a cat costume. She used black felt to make a body suit, a feline-shaped head “hood,” and a tail, which she safety-pinned to the back. She added white felt patches to the belly and paws, a red and white bow “collar,” and some black mascara-painted whiskers to my face. She told me to “act like a cat!” and as I meowed and stroked the air with my paw-hand, my mother took my picture. I insisted on being a cat for Halloween the year after, and the year after that, at least.

Me, almost age 3, in my cat costume on Halloween

Hannah and Sam are my first real cats. I’ve been tempted to dress them up in style for Halloween but of course cats are not like dogs – they don’t go trick-or-treating (at least not usually) and they would not tolerate any kind of costume. Also, Hannah looks at anything “pumpkin” with disdain, though Sam shows curiosity when I wear the Mr. Pumpkin “waving” pin my mother gave me one Halloween when I was a kid.

This Halloween, I wonder if the garret neighbor’s cat, who has been appearing on our fire escape “balcony” (I put “balcony” in quotes because it’s really nothing but a flimsy grate), will come to our window and meow maniacally, and hiss and spit like a horror show.

Hannah shows disdain for Mr. Pumpkin

Although I have told my neighbor that the cat has been terrorizing Hannah and Sam, nothing has been done to curtail the way this feline roams. For a time, I resorted to hanging tin foil on the metal rungs that attach her “balcony” with the garret’s, which, for a while, did help to discourage the cat from coming by. Perhaps I should put out a sign saying we don’t have any candy. Ahem, I mean catnip.

Scary neighbor's cat on garret's so-called fire escape/balcony.

But the truth is, we do have catnip on hand in the garret, and, because the vet has said we need to watch what Hannah and Sam eat (less grazing, no treats), that will be the only candy in the house this Halloween (isn’t catnip zero calorie?). Readers, have a safe and happy Halloween!

And stay tuned for news about the fate of Hannah Grace in the weeks ahead…

Trick or Treat!

– TLS

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‘Cat’amination

Hannah & Sam, en route to the vet

Where do I begin? Hannah’s little brother Sam had his one-year exam with the vet this past week. The day before, I was working on Hannah Grace, the book, when I heard Sam meowing in brief from the bathroom. When I walked in, I found he had deposited a piece of poop, with a 5-inch long object protruding from its middle, on my new plush blue foot rug.

“Ohhhhh!” I said aloud as I did the time I caught Sam with a mouse. “Ohhhhh!” Quickly, I put on gloves and scooped up the turd with a paper towel, staring at this thing that looked like a piece of spaghetti – I thought perhaps Sam had swallowed yet another inedible object – was it a twig or a leaf stem I had accidentally brought in from outside? I wondered as I disposed of it in the trash.

The following day, when I took Sam to the vet for his checkup, I brought along a stool sample, because he’s had the tendency to stink up the entire garret with just one visit to the litter box, ever since he was a kitten. No longer a kitten, it seemed odd to me that he was still producing something so smelly. As a kitten, Sam was diagnosed with several parasites, including roundworm, which can cause such odor. He was fully treated, his system rendered clear. However, into his adulthood, his poop continued to have that pungent kitten stink. The vet said most likely he was simply sensitive to Hannah’s prescription duck and green peas, the a la carte daily meal. We could try a probiotic. But first, we should test his sample.

The next morning I got the call: that thing protruding from Sam’s stool? An adult roundworm. It was imperative to treat Sam right away, as well as Hannah, as she had been exposed. The strongest medicine came in the form of a one-time pill. Because I had, when she was gravely ill, failed in my attempts to “pill” Hannah, I decided the best situation for all involved would be to bring both cats back to the clinic for the deed.

I placed Hannah in a soft zip-up carrier; after an initial struggle, she bowed her head politely under the carrier top.  Sam, however, ran and ran and ran around the garret as soon as I took out the new plastic crate the vet recommended for “difficult carrier cats.” Once I got him in, he thrashed his entire body against the sides of the carrier, and pushed his nose up against the metal grate, scraping himself as he howled. I carried them both twenty feet to the car, hearing their voices echoing down the street. “I know,” I said, the adrenaline pumping through my limbs. “It’s not fun for me either.” As if they could understand me.

While we waited in the clinic for the vet tech, Sam looked at Hannah in her carrier, as if for direction. He continued to let out intermittent howls, then quieted, as if to follow his big sister, who huddled quietly. Then the vet tech appeared and carried them away.

It is no secret that I am coping with PTSD. Since my mother’s death six weeks ago, my symptoms have flared a bit. Sam’s parasite diagnosis triggered the return of a contamination phobia I battled a couple of years ago. The idea that Sam could have had this chaotic parasite for months without detection made my stomach turn. In my mind, there was not enough bleach in the world to clean the garret. I wanted to burn everything. Not to worry, dear reader – I refrained, though I was tempted.

I did, however, ask a lot of hypochondriac-type questions: how easily is roundworm transmitted to humans? I asked both the vet and my primary care physician. What if I walked barefoot in the bathroom, somehow picked up some fecal matter, and it made its way into my mouth? Could invisible parasite eggs, as I’d read on the internet, have contaminated the entire garret? I don’t know if I was more embarrassed by my phobia or my questions. As long as I washed my hands after cleaning the litter box, I would be just fine, they all said. I was, however, warned that I would likely see “a lot” of those worms appearing in the coming days.

The vet tech returned with Hannah and Sam tucked back into their respective carriers. Sam, the tech said, was scared to death but let her pill him easily. Hannah, on the other hand, put up a fight: “She’s a fiesty one,” said the tech.

When we returned to the garret, Sam ran under my bed, where he took his dinner and stayed for the remainder of the evening. Hannah ate everything in sight, her usual reaction to a vet visit, then sat in the living room. I stood in the middle of the garret for a moment, and wondered where to begin. Chaos seemed to surround me. The smoke detector malfunctioned, a male voice yelling from the speaker, “Error! Error in master bedroom! Consult manual,” and the garret closet door fell off its hinge. I put these items on my list of things to fix (I was not going to call my landlord), after I disinfected the bathroom.

– TLS

Have you had any cat-drama lately? Share your experiences, thoughts, or comments below!

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Cat On A Hot [Garret] Roof

It’s been a while since my last update. Dealing with my mother’s death (“Hannah & My Mother“), along with getting used to my new post as liberal arts faculty at the New England Conservatory, has made my days very busy and stressful. I have felt as if I have been walking around in a fog. Hannah and Sam have been my grounding spirits.

Take the other day, for example. Entrenched in managing my mother’s affairs, I suddenly became aware of a ruckus occurring behind my back: Hannah and Sam were jointly hunting a rather large fly.

Hannah & Sam Hunt Mr. Fly

Together, they took turns attempting to catch it – bam! Finally Hannah’s quick paw struck Mr. Fly dead.  She shuffled the corpse close to my bedroom doorway, then began to eat her catch. As the good sibling she is, she shared half of the delicacy with her brother Sam, who enjoyed his portion immensely. Satisfied, they both licked their lips and went to sleep. I thought about reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem, “I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died,” but instead I simply decided it was time to call it a night. I got into bed, glad I would not have a fly buzzing in my ear.

Last weekend, while penning the final chapter of the book, as I was in the middle of deep concentration, I heard another ruckus occurring, this time at the garret’s back window. When I went to investigate, I saw, looking in through the garret’s precarious balcony window, a raccoon-colored cat, wide-eyed and insistent. She was hissing ferociously at Hannah, who crouched low. Sam sat atop the laundry basket, watching the scene unfold. Instinct took over my intellect and (I admit with chagrin) I hissed back. Nothing. I got the spray bottle. Gone. For a short while, anyway.

Hannah & Sam, Post-Cat On A Garret Roof

Because my mother used to tell me that, if she died, she’d like to come back as a cat, and because I have never once seen a cat on the balcony in the two years I’ve lived in the garret, at first the sight of those wide yellow feline eyes brought on sheer shock. But then, peering out the window, I saw the balcony next door was shrouded in a veil-like flimsy net, which had a wedge of clear tape hanging off the edge, flapping in the wind. Apparently my neighbor thought her cat would like to go outside, three flights up (and did not anticipate the cat would want to wander off the lone two-by-two balcony grate?). How did I find this out? I tried to ring my neighbor but there was no working doorbell. I left a note, but there was no answer. However, late at night, the main fire alarm in the house went off, and my neighbor emerged in a panic. Of course that’s more than my landlord did (see “Mr. Fix-It“). But that’s another story for another time…

– TLS

Writer’s Note: I’m pleased to announce that my short memoir piece “The Drive,” has just been published in South Loop Review, available at your local bookstore. Also, my short-short piece, “Cashier,” is currently appearing as part of Drunken Boat‘s Nonfiction Portraits issue (click here).

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