Why Do You Ask?

One of the questions I dread getting most contains these five words – “What are you doing tonight?”

Why should that bother me? It’s a perfectly innocuous question. But it’s a loaded one at the same time.

My first response is, “Why?” That’s because the asker is leaving you very few options. The asker either needs your help with something you might not be interested in, or to attend a function that may not be up your alley.

So you have two options. You can ask, “Why?” right off the bat, which gives you some leeway in dissembling should you not have any urge to sit through a three-hour dance recital of children you don’t know just to keep a friend company. But it also makes you sound like a suspicious grump.

That’s okay, I can live with being a suspicious grump. Because your other option is to say “Nothing, why?” and then have to be bluntly honest when you’re asked to volunteer/attend/do whatever. “I’m not interested,” has come out of my mouth more than once during this ambush, leaving me feeling bad for being blunt and shooting down my friend’s proposal, when I could have spared their feelings or politely gotten out of said obligation by claiming a prior engagement.

If you don’t think fast, of course, next thing you know, you’re standing on the sidelines of a half-marathon, in the rain, handing out little cups of water and soaked to the bone when you’d rather be home under a warm blanket drinking raspberry tea and reading a good book.

You could always lie right off the bat, of course. “I’m meeting up with a friend,” is a safe one, but what if the proposal is something that DOES interest you? Now you’ve locked yourself out of doing this thing, and really all you’re going to do is sit at home and watch reruns of “Bones.”

You could also be wildly creative to buy yourself some time. "I'm taking the chickens to the cinema to see 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'. They all want to know if they can go back to the egg." Or, "Aunt Mabel's socks need washing again in vinegar and pomegranate juice, so I've got my work cut out for me." Or, "Hey, the last time somebody asked me to jump out of a plane wearing a tutu, I had to say no."

Hopefully the asker will be so busy chuckling or looking puzzled that you can insert a merry, "What's up?" and get the information you need without committing yourself.

The better approach is this: “I’m doing a fundraising walk on such-and-such a date. Would you be interested in joining me?” That gives you, the respondent, the option to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t make it.” So next time you feel the urge to tackle a friend with, “What are you doing tonight?” resist – or don’t be surprised if the answer has something to do with chickens and tutus.

The Good Cat

My beloved 15-year-old cat is dying of cancer.

He was diagnosed a few months ago after steadily losing weight and interest in activities. It was shattering. I knew something must be wrong, of course, but I was hoping it was a bad tooth that could be pulled to restore his appetite. Hearing about the lump in his intestine reduced me to tears.

The diagnosis came with prednisone to shrink the tumor and give him back some life, and it worked, for a while. He ran around like a kitten for a few weeks, eating everything I put before him, and begging for attention.

He’s slowed down since then to a more sedate pace, still begging for attention when it suits him but only very rarely engaging in kittenish play. He’d rather watch me wave the string back and forth in front of him rather than snatch at it. He has no interest in feathers or catnip toys. The days of a wide-eyed yowl and a random tear down the hall, it appears, are now past.

Today as I petted him I could feel the lump in his side. And he looked up at me, as he sometimes does, as if he knows. He knows I’m grieving and he knows something is wrong with him. Is he waiting for me to make it better, to fix it, or does he understand that he has lived a good long life and it won’t be much longer now? Is he happy? Does he fear death or recognize it? So many questions without answers.

I dread the day I take him to the vet’s office for that last trip. I dread that he will feel as though I betrayed him, taking him from the home he loves, never to return, to die in a place he fears. I dread going home with an empty carrier and an empty house, full of tears and grief. I know this is the way it is – the cycle of life – but it makes it no less painful to part with the cat I’ve had as a companion for so many years.

He’s been a good cat in every way – friendly, gentle, feisty, independent, loving. I found him living under a van in a parking lot of an apartment complex that of course didn’t allow pets. I posted signs but no one claimed him and I’ve always thought they came out the losers in the deal. Of course I too had to move when the complex discovered I had him, but it was an easy choice to live somewhere else, somewhere that would welcome him.

He loves women and is suspicious of men, but will warm to them over time. He’s terrified of small children; even the sound of their voices outside sends him into an ear-pricked state of tension, and if they enter the house, he’s under the bed far away from grabbing hands and high-pitched voices.

Every day when I wake up he’s sitting on the end of the bed, and as soon as the alarm goes off or I stir, he makes his way up to my head with a chirp and a purr so loud I could put him on the phone. If I don’t move right away, he head butts me or reaches out with a paw and ever-so-gently touches my face with a paw and claw. It’s guaranteed to get attention.

He sleeps in the guest room on the bed at its head as though it belongs to him, or crawls up underneath it to sleep on a box of three-ring binders. He used to curl up in the bathroom sink because it was perfectly cat-sized and still wants water direct from the tap. Until recently he would tear out of his litter box as though shouting, “I’m lighter! I’m lighter!” before attacking his scratching post and leaving me holding my nose and calling him Smelly Cat.

Now he is thin and bony, his belly still regrowing hair from his ultrasound. Petting him I can feel every vertebra in his spine, and his hip bones poke my hand. He still purrs as loud as he ever did and still wants to sit on my lap, purring with a deep motorboat rumble, his eyes closing tightly and reopening in a sign of affection. He still wants his dinner and his breakfast, still wants a treat, and still wants catnip leaves straight from the plant.

Soon, though, there will come a day when the house is quiet.

I try not to think of that day.