The Postscript

Only after you’ve had a day like yesterday do you really know you married the right person.

The day started out fine. We were flying back from Mexico to the U.S. My husband, Peter, books all our flights, and he had arranged it so we did not have to get up at “the crack of stupid,” as he would say. Instead, the cab arrived in the late morning, so I had time for a last walk around the city before we said goodbye to the wonderful staff at the apartment hotel where we stay every year.

It was only as we were getting off the first plane in the U.S., headed toward our connecting flight, that I suspected something might be wrong.

“Felix smells!” I told Peter.

Felix is our cat. He had made a small noise a few minutes before landing, but I had thought nothing of it. Now it smelled as if something was badly amiss. I know you might be having your breakfast as you read this, so suffice to say, of the three types of potential messes an animal could make in a small container, this was the worst of the options.

“What do we do?” Peter asked.

Peter had never had a cat before Felix, and so he considers me the resident cat expert, but my previous cat ownership was of no use in this situation.

“Maybe we can hit a bathroom before the next flight.”

Unfortunately, the security line was very long, and as I slowly wound through the line, I was anticipating having to take this cat out of the carrier and walk through the screening. The mess was even worse than I feared.

“How long do we have?” I asked Peter when we finally got through security with our very smelly cat.

“Not long!”

“Do you think we can find a family bathroom?”

We did. I will spare you the details -- but bathing a cat on a tight schedule is not something I would recommend if you have any choice in the matter. We exited the bathroom with only minutes to spare.

“Look innocent!” Peter said as we walked out. He started to laugh as we raced through the terminal. “If I ever had to dispose of a body, you’re the person I’d want to do it with,” he told me.

It was very late when we got home, and I knew the first thing I had to do was shampoo a cat. Felix wasn’t any happier about the situation than I was, but I think he knew we were on the same team.

And then, when you think it can’t get any worse, it does.

“Why is the carpet wet?” Peter yelled from the bedroom. I was in no position to investigate. I was shampooing a cat.

“Oh, no,” I heard. And then, “Oh, NO!”

A sprinkler pipe had broken in the bedroom wall. The floor flooded with water. The walls were soaked. The carpeting was ruined. There was nothing to do but go to bed with our still-damp cat who now smelled of baby shampoo.

“Should we put on life preservers?” I asked Peter.

It was now nearly morning. But before I fell asleep, what I remembered about this day was how much I had laughed.

I had laughed because, as bad as it had been, nothing that had happened was truly terrible. I had laughed because I knew we would make it through. And I had laughed because I had a partner who could -- and would -- always laugh with me in the worst of times.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

The note from Marci was in Spanish, so I translated it to make sure I understood.

“Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to see if you could help us share this photo of a dog to see if anyone could adopt her. Her owner just passed away, and she was thrown out onto the street.”

The dog’s name was Muneca, which means “doll” in Spanish. Marci attached a photo of a dog with very long ears lying on the ground. Marci added, “She’s a very good dog.”

“That poor dog!” my husband, Peter, said.

Marci was the foster mother of our cat, Felix. Marci takes in stray animals and tries to find homes for them. She cared for Felix for two months before we adopted him. But Marci was caring for 12 dogs already. She did not have room for Muneca.

Peter and I didn’t know what we could do. We didn’t know anyone who could take a dog. So we did what people do when they want to get the word out -- we posted a short story about this sad little dog on Facebook.

Immediately, lots of people put hearts next to her photo and wished her well. People shared the post. People asked me to keep them updated. Peter told a man who contacted him that Marci was an honorable and trustworthy person -- and that Marci said that Muneca was a very good dog.

“I hope Muneca finds a home,” Peter said.

“I hope so, too,” I told him.

But, honestly, I was not hopeful. There are a lot of stray dogs in Mexico, and Muneca was no longer a puppy. We later learned that her owner was not an older person, as we assumed, but a young woman who died unexpectedly. The whole thing seemed terribly tragic.

The day after the post went up, I was taking my walk when my phone made a sound. I never pay attention to my phone when I’m walking. But this time I did.

I stepped into a little shop and saw a message from Marci.

“I wanted to tell you that Muneca has already been adopted, in case you’d like to let anyone know. Thank you very much for your help.”

“Oh!” I said out loud. “That’s wonderful!” The man Peter had been messaging had adopted Muneca. Marci sent a photo of Muneca getting a bath and a video of the man walking her with his other dog. Both tails were wagging.

The young woman behind the counter of the shop looked at me curiously. “I am so happy,” I told her in Spanish. “I helped a dog to find a home. Her owner died, and she was on the street!”

“Oh!” the young woman replied in Spanish, “You mean Muneca?” She had seen the post on Facebook.

I was amazed. “Muneca is a famous dog!” I said. The girl laughed. She was happy this dog she had never met had found her new home. And so was I.

Social media is filled with a lot of hate and arguing and pointless posturing. I don’t blame people who choose to ignore it entirely. But I don’t think Facebook is a bad thing. Like most things, it all depends on how it is used. I reported that Muneca had found a home, and a whole lot of strangers were happy and relieved.

And I thought of what a funny world we live in -- where there is so much hate and distrust, and where strangers can come together and find a home for a very good dog.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

“She was nervous as a cat!” is how the saying goes. I have decided this expression makes no sense. Our cat, Felix, is the least nervous creature I have ever lived with.

My old Newfoundland dog, Moxie, with her saggy jowls and lumbering gait, was much more nervous than Felix. Moxie was nervous about strange noises and things she couldn’t see clearly (which was most everything) and loud voices. She was very well-behaved, but sometimes would pull a butter wrapper out of the garbage -- oh, so carefully -- and proceed to lick every trace of remaining butter off that wrapper. Then, knowing she had done a truly wicked thing, she would wait for the inevitable reckoning when I would return to the kitchen, see the wrapper splayed out flat on the rug and say to her, “Moxie, do you know anything about this?”

At that point, her legs would visibly quiver, she would press her face against the wall, and she would look as if she expected the beating of her life.

I never once hit that dog.

She was just nervous. And she had a conscience. She knew she was not supposed to remove trash from the trash can -- and despite many reprimands -- she had done it. Again.

My cat, Felix, does not have these problems.

He regularly helps himself to the trash. He hauls out whatever he likes to see if there is anything tasty. Usually, it is stale bread or an empty package. (He has perfectly fine cat food in his bowl the entire time.) If there is nothing interesting in the trash, he will look further afield. We had some leftover cookies of various types in a plastic bag on the counter, and Felix hauled the bag onto the floor and took one bite from each type of cookie. None of them were any good, apparently, but he did a very thorough test.

When, in the morning, my husband, Peter, or I discover his wickedness and yell at him, Felix looks at us, bored.

“People are ridiculous,” Felix seems to say, “They get worked up about the stupidest things.” Then he falls asleep.

I googled the expression “nervous as a cat,” and it comes from the idea that a cat moves very quickly and suddenly. It is used when a person is uneasy or overly alert. I don’t think Felix is uneasy in the least. But he is very alert. He can spring into action from complete stillness, zoom down the hall, bounce off the wall at the far end, return to hit the back of the sofa and land on a chair -- all in a moment. He has a lot of fun doing this.

On the other hand, I am nervous. I worry about telephone conversations that happen and those that don’t. I worry about the things I say and the things I forget to say. I stew over what I should have done after I’ve done something and what I should do before I’ve done anything at all. I am in a more-or-less permanent condition of nervousness, and I’ve been watching my cat with interest because I think being nervous as a cat would be a big improvement.

I would love to be utterly relaxed and then spring into action when the situation seemed to warrant it. I would love to bounce off the walls just because it was fun to do. I think that will be my new goal.

The next time Peter asks me if I am worried, I’ll assure him, “Not at all. I’m nervous as a cat!”

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION