I been bound to leave you. I surely don't know how...

Attention. For those of you that like to believe I am a successful and confident woman completely in charge of her life and emotions, content in the fact that she is about to begin her thirties in earnest on the adventure of a lifetime, well, you can just move on along. No post to read here. Go look at McSweeney’s or something.

I must ask though, have me met? Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?

Now for the rest of you, I am about to live up that greatest cliché regarding Single Women Of A Certain Age: I’m about to talk about my cat.

Yesterday, I took my Marley to the pokey to be boarded until his new Auntie comes back from Prague to get him and give him a new home. I must say, I held up pretty well. I was able to keep my composure while I relayed all relevant details and contact numbers, arranged for his "beauty treatments" and explained why somebody else would be picking him up. And then I gave his carrier a peek before I left and just lost it. Right there in the middle of the vet’s office. To her credit, the veterinary assistant was very supportive and appropriately back-patting. People like that understand what pets mean to people. Me, I never understood it until about a year and a half ago – the day I brought Marley home.

Marley was found by my friend Selmie somewhere along the side of the road in North Carolina. He was hobbling along with a broken leg and begging for change or something. On Christmas Eve. According to the vet, he was about three weeks old.

(Is your heart broken yet?)

Meanwhile, in DC, I was holed up in Capitol Hill, licking the wounds of a failed long term relationship and packing the contents of a now-too-big rowhouse, having finally conceded that I could no longer justify the gigantic rent payment and needed to put some distance between myself and the memories of the aforementioned relationship. So I was moving to Baltimore and had every intention of holing up in a brand new apartment up there, so I could ruminate and stew in a hermetic existence.

Then, I got the voicemail: “Hey, I found this kitten and I would totally take him but it looks like he has a broken leg and might need surgery and I can’t afford it, but you totally can because all you do is work and sit in your house. And by the way, could you call a girl back once in awhile? Jesus. So, your new place will let you have a cat right? You HAVE to take him. Nobody can save him but you. He’s the prettiest kitten ever and he’s tiny and if you don’t call me back, I’m just bringing him home for you.”

And the rest is history. I thought, you know, why not? I’m a cliché anyway - an Old Maid staying up late drinking cheap wine and watching reality tv - why not complete the picture with a cat? Hell, I’ll get three.

And thus it was that a crying Marley traveled all the way back from North Carolina to Northern Virginia, stopping just briefly before being carted up to his new home in greater Baltimore, The Sterile Apartment Of Loneliness And Regret.

I approached my first few weeks with Marley with a martyr-like stoicism. He was broken and I was the only one with the resources to fix him, so I would shoulder this task with a brave smile.

(Are you sick to your stomach yet? I was in PAIN.)

So, I took him to the vet, who told me that they couldn’t operate on his little broken leg anyway because he was too young. We’d just wait and see. In the meantime, I was to keep a close eye on him and make sure he didn’t get into trouble or fall down or hurt himself. And make sure he was eating enough. Oh, and give him lots of love.

Wait a second, I thought. You mean there’s more to this than writing checks?

Well, I did take him home and, over the course of a weekend, watched him with a scientific curiosity. One day he’d eat a morsel more food than the last day and I would make a mental note of this progress. Then he started crying to be picked up and put in my lap wherever I was sitting (he couldn’t jump) and wanting to fall asleep on my chest at night. Then I made him several pillow ramps so he could wander about and get where he wanted to without sacrificing his freedom by having to ask (projection, much?). And I continued to watch him, becoming more and more amazed at his resilience. I found myself celebrating his small victories, holding him tight when he fell or freaked out. And, well, we can see where this is going. By the end of the weekend, I was sold. He poked a hole in the icy coating around my heart and made himself at home.

You know, he never did need that leg surgery. Turns out legs heal just like hearts do.

Marley has taught me the value of loving something more than myself (a skill that, arguably, might have come in handy several months before I got him. Oh that irony, she’s a bitch.). I’m still not gonna procreate or anything silly like that, but I will acknowledge that pets make you a better person. He is the one thing I will miss the most in Palau.

So, if you’ll indulge me, here’s to Marley:


Slante. You’ll be just fine with that nice Jewish lady. She’s got a lot of love in her.