Phyl loved animals.  For me, they’re food.  Phyllis would say, “I’m a pet person”.  We always had kittens to cats.  There are 100s of cat items in the house.  Soapdishes, rugs, toys, furniture, lamps, outfits, utensils. clocks, jewelry, even our house number and mailbox.  She had all the “All Creatures Great and Small” books, all the Frederick The Literate lithos, read all of and corresponded with Peter Gethers, brought Wheely Willy to her library, cried when she read the book “Marley and Me”, cried when she watched the movie “Marley and Me”.  

And we always had at least 2 or 3 of the real things, from Jelly Beany the Meanie, the dumbest fucking lump ever, to Seaweed, the Genius of Cats, who would jump up, grab the doorknob in her left paw, twist the doorknob with her right paw, and open the door.  From Stinky the Winkard, the farting cat, to the present three3: two sisters left in a box, being attacked by birds outside her library; big, fat Cuckookitty ( my designation, Phyl named her Black Beauty)who lives nearly every moment under the bed, with her sister little Nosy, the cutest kitty in the world, who Phyl called “Nosy Knows” because Nosy has to watch everything, and bad boy Webby, who Jody got on “Star Search”, and Phyl called “The Devil” because of his bullying, hissing, snarling, and scratching when he doesn’t get his way, but on whom Phyl spent $2,000  one night at 4 a.m. when he was in distress. 

Phyl loved those damn things, but I’m not a pet person.  If I’d said, “It’s them or me,” I’d be homeless.  I do take care of them, though it’s like sitting through a bazillion performances of Broadway’s “Cats”, just one show of which shortens one’s life by years(sorry, Jen).  All three have been spoiled for 17 years.  I’m their slave.  And the enemy.  They were perfect with Phyl.  Not now.  If they take exception, they poop.  If I lock em up, they poop.  If I re-use a dish or change food, yup.  Or they overturn litter.  Or little Nosy does that ninety-decibal honk all day.  Or they awaken me twelve times a night.  For years, I tried different and cheaper food, but n-o-o-o.  They eat Costco chicken and Fancy Feast.  Phyllis thought it was cute when I tried inexpensive 9 Lives or Meow Mix, and the cats would get contrary.  She’d applaud them, “You showed him.”  She would bend over the new food and make this gutteral sound and backwards pawing motion that cats do to cover their poops with litter.  Then, when I tried a cheaper food, all three cats learned her gesture, and she’d go bonkers laughing.  She called it ‘the old scratcheroo’ as in “Daddy got the old scratcheroo again. Good for you kitties.  Bad Daddy.”  She thought it was hilarious.  It wasn’t.  (Though I miss her deep laugh more than anything in this world.) It’s my warning sign.  As  I was writing this, (I didn’t know they can read, but I swear this is true) Webby came in the family room next to me, gave me the old scratcheroo and barfed three times, in three different places, on the immaculate new tile David had put in just two weeks ago. So I do what Phyl never did.  I still let them out at night for their pleasure and mine in the hopes that the coyotes will snack.