Oliver died this morning. It may have been late last night as he was OK when I went to bed but definitely as dead as the proverbial doornail when I got up this morning. Before there are further misunderstandings or rumors, Oliver was a cat, and a member of chosen family and not biologic family. Tommy and I adopted him and his sister Anastasia in 2008. He was about two years old at the time and we were at least their third home. He was, therefore about 18 years old which is a good long cat life. Anastasia died a couple of years ago. I’m not particularly sad. I’ve know it was coming. He’s been a frail and crochety senior cat with bad eyes and hearing for a while now. But, he was still getting around, yowling when he thought he wasn’t getting his due in kitty treats, and generally making a nuisance of himself on the dining room table every time I sat down to eat.
Some cats are loving, perfectly behaved companions. Oliver was not. From the moment he entered the Duxbury-Thompson household he let it be know he would be living there on his terms. He did not like humans. He would simply tolerate them as the source of food, water, and a clean litter box. Forget being snuggled up on in bed or on the couch and, if you were to approach him to try and pet him, he’d immediately zoom for cover. He did get along well and snuggle up to his adoptive brothers, Archie and Shadow, but he avoided his sister, Anastasia, at all costs even though they were litter mates and had always been together. The one time you could be guaranteed of seeing him was at meal times when he would plant himself in the middle of the kitchen and yowl until he was given what he thought he was owed in terms of treats. Tommy and I did not name Oliver and Anastasia but whomever did had a good eye. They lived up to their famous namesakes. Anastasia was always a very proper dainty princess. Oliver, when it came to food, was always asking for more in his own peculiar way.
I’m not really grieving for Oliver. He had a nice long cat life and seemed perfectly contented for the sixteen years he lived in my household. If anything, I am mourning the loss of one of the last living links I had with Tommy and the life we built together. Oliver was there for it all. Home remodeling, middle of the night fights, bedrooms full of wigs in various stages of styling, late night TV binges. He was a little stinker for most of it, but something happened later in his life. After Tommy’s death and my downsizing into the condo, he had an abrupt personality transition. He stopped isolating and, for the first time in our years together, he would not stalk out of the room I had just entered. He started getting up on the bed with me and snuggling up when I was sitting there writing or working on projects. He tolerated pets, belly rubs and would even let me pick him up on occasion. I have no idea what incited the change. It did mean the last four years with him were much nicer than the twelve that came before. I hope he and Tommy and Anastasia have all found each other somewhere in the beyond and are all cuddled up together having a nice nap
I am starting to plunge into material that will go into the new book I’m writing which is basically about how Covid has changed us. The current essay I’m in the middle of is on how the pandemic has impacted the performing arts world and what that means for me personally as well as for us culturally. It’s now flowing as easily as some other things I have written. I’ll get back to it later this afternoon and see what I can get going. However, my latest discovery regarding post-Covid change has nothing to do with performing or with arts of any other stripe. I have noted that when I get home from work or a rehearsal, I have to sit there in the car for a few minutes before I get out and head up the elevator to my condo. This is new behavior for me. i used to get where I was going, leap out of the car and move right into the next thing. I can still do that if I am time crunched or someone needs me urgently but when the pressure isn’t there, it takes me a few. I mentioned this to a couple of friends. They said they were doing the same thing. I asked a few more people. Everyone had the same response – they were doing some sort of variant on this but none of them had thought to wonder why. My highly unsophisticated polling system was batting nearly a thousand.
As this seems to be a change brought about by Covid given its timing (and I know correlation is not causation – all right already), I can’t help but wonder what with the pandemic would make us all need to take a little time we had never needed in the past. I have a feeling that it’s related to the overload on our nervous systems by all of the problems the pandemic required us to cope with over those few years. Now, when we reach a point in our day when we know we have to reset to deal with a new environment and new challenges, it’s taking just a bit longer for our brains to make all those transitions and the result is a need to give ourselves a few minutes in which to accomplish that process. I’m sure there are dozens of other things that have changed in our collective subconscious over the last few years and I’m going to start looking around to see if I can begin identifying a few of them.
The next ten days are devoted to getting everything off of my plate before I leave the country for two weeks. I’m nearly there. Just a few more items to check off. Nothing much theatrical, however. The Alabama Symphony Orchestra Chorus begins rehearsals for its new season tonight and I’ll be there hiding among the bass section. Next week there are a couple of rehearsals and a performance including a pick up choir for a Holocaust remembrance event. Again, hiding in the bass section…
The workers have finished with my terrace. I can bring back all of my patio furniture but that would mean manual labor and I’m just not into it on today, Labor Day. Perhaps sometime next week or, better yet, I’ll get one of my younger friends in need of some walking around money to do it for me.
Life, The Universe, and Everything 