A Room of One's Own

 

When Terry and I were first married in 1992, one of the upstairs rooms in our house was designated "the computer room," but it was in most respects really "Scott's room."

Oh, we both used it, but I was the one who "decorated" it, if you want to call it that. It had hockey and music posters on the wall. It featured stuffed Bill the Cat and Opus dolls from my favorite comic strip of the time, "Bloom County." It had a little nook in which I placed the Yamaha keyboard on which I would doodle from time to time.

As I was just 22 years old at the time, it was in some ways the college dorm room I never had.

It was the only room in the house over which I had (or wanted) any real say when it came to what we put there and how it looked.

Fast forward 33 years to our current house and this tradition of giving me one room to play with has continued. Terry uses our upstairs office all the time, but most of the stuff there is mine.

There are, for example, three bookshelves to hold my personal library, including this one devoted largely to my military history books:

And on top of that is a little shrine to our dearly departed cats Fred, George and Charlie:

The music theme continues in this little corner with the inclusion of two instruments (a keyboard and guitar) that I technically cannot play, though that never stops me from trying. Note that the room also contains my alto saxophone, which for the record I can play.

On the walls are various photos reflecting my interests, from a large autographed image of Sting to an autographed Lake Erie Monsters (our local hockey team, now called the Cleveland Monsters) layout. I also have a map of the Appalachian Trail and these two pictures of my mom and dad presumably taken on Parents Night when I played high school football:

Above those are my undergraduate and graduate school diplomas from John Carroll and West Virginia universities, respectively:

There's also a closet containing music and sound equipment and a large bin of sheet music I won't even bother showing you.

The point is that, while this room will never win any interior decorating awards, it's my room, and I love it. Terry does a wonderful job putting together the other rooms in our house, but I'm very grateful to have one to myself.

After all, I have helped us make a lot of mortgage payments over the years. It feels like I've earned a few square feet of my own.

I told Terry, "No more cats!" And then along came Cheddar...

I became a cat person only because I married a cat person.

Having grown up with dogs, I didn't know much about caring for felines until the spring of 1992 when Terry and I got ourselves a little kitten that we named Alex.

This was during my three months of bachelorhood after I moved out of my parents' house and into the house on East 300th Street that Terry and I bought before we got married. Alex and I lived there alone until June, when Terry moved in following our wedding.

I quickly learned that cats are self-sufficient, territorial, and depending on their personality, varying degrees of affectionate.

In the three-plus decades we've been married, Terry and I have had a range of cats, including a long stretch in which we owned five of them. Over time, I became the one who fed them all every day and cleaned their litter boxes.

Thus, while I was sad when our cats Fred, George and Charlie all died within about 15 months of each other, there was also a sense of relief that morning cat duty might someday be lifted from my shoulders.

At that point we had just two kitties, our girls Ginny and Molly. I was fine with this arrangement and was always the first one to say no when someone suggested we take in a stray or claim a kitten in need of a home.

Meanwhile, our daughter Melanie had moved out of the house, and she was building a little cat army of her own. That included an orange stray who started hanging around her place last winter, and who she would regularly feed and pet.

She eventually took him into her home and named him Cheddar. She loved Cheddar, and with good reason. He's a good cat.

The problem was that one of Mel's other kitties, who generally hates the world and everything in it, took to tormenting Cheddar. They couldn't even be in the same room together, which forced Mel to keep Cheddar locked up in a bathroom while she figured out what to do.

I didn't want any more cats, but I also didn't want Mel taking Cheddar to the Humane Society. One night she came to our house for dinner and mentioned him, and I went ahead and said what was on everyone's mind.

"Oh, just bring him over here," I said. "He can live with us."

And so she did. And so he does. It took a little while for Ginny and Molly to accept him, and even then, at best, they tolerate him.

But Cheddar has been a big hit with the three humans in our house. He's affectionate, inquisitive, entertainingly vocal, and fun to watch whenever he goes into kitten mode and starts playing with whatever he can find on the floor (a hair tie, a cat toy, a piece of string, a dust ball, etc.)

So now we have three cats again. It's not five, and I don't intend for it ever to be five again. Or even four, for that matter.

We're sticking with the ones we have. And once they're gone, no more.

And this time...I mean it.

Bringing another cat into the house is way more complicated than I remembered it

 

That's Cheddar soaking up some sun near our front door.

For many years we owned five cats. This was just how it was, and I spent the first few minutes of every morning feeding them, getting them fresh water, scooping out their litter boxes, and ensuring they were all present and accounted for.

Then our three boys (Fred, George and Charlie) each succumbed to various feline diseases in one 16-month period, and suddenly we found ourselves down to two kitties in the house: our girls Ginny and Molly.

As much as I miss Fred, George and Charlie, I have to admit I've enjoyed the relative ease of taking care of only two cats vs. five. All along I've said that as soon as these two ladies pass on – something I hope doesn't happen for quite a while – we would start living cat-free.

No more food bowls, no more litter boxes, no more clumps of fur blowing randomly around the house.

You know where this is going.

A few months ago, my daughter Melanie found a sweet, affectionate orange cat living outside her house. She started to feed and pet him, and the next thing you knew, Mr. Orange was living inside her home along with the two cats she already owned.

This would have been fine except that the two existing felines weren't especially nice to Orange. They made his life miserable, which is all the more sad considering what a nice little guy he is. He loves receiving pets, being around people, and just generally loving everyone.

Mel didn't know what to do. She wanted to find him a new home where he could live in relative peace and quiet, but there were no obvious candidates outside of her family.

Again, you know where this is going.

I had already resigned myself to the fact that Cheddar, as she had named him, would be coming to live with us, even before the formal request was made. Our oldest daughter Elissa offered to take him, but it was agreed that we could offer Cheddar the best home.

So one Saturday Mel brought him over. He lived in our master bathroom for a few days while he got acclimated to his new surroundings.

Actually, him living in the bathroom was done mainly to allow Ginny and Molly ample time to get used to his smell and accept the fact that he would be their new brother.

I read online how integrating a new cat into an existing cat family should be a gradual process. One thing we did, for example, was to feed the girl cats treats on one side of a bedroom door while Cheddar was getting his own treats on the other.

This not only put them in close proximity, the treats also (theoretically) created a positive association for them with their mutual smells.

Slowly we started giving Cheddar more freedom. When the girls first encountered him visually, their reactions were predictable: Light but insistent hissing and facial expressions that clearly conveyed the message, "We don't know what you are, but you are not welcome."

As I write this in mid-April, this is still the state of affairs, though I think Ginny and Molly are coming to the realization that Ched isn't going anywhere and they need to get used to the idea.

Who knows? Maybe in time they'll become pals.

All I know is that I envisioned this process happening much quicker and going much more smoothly. We've done the cat integration thing before, but apparently I've forgotten how reluctant they can be to welcome new companions of their own species.

We had a much easier time when we were bringing home new (human) babies every two years back in the 90s and early 2000s. At least back then the kids didn't hiss at their new brothers and sisters.

The family text chat group: Misplaced mail, memories of years past, and endless cat photos

We have a family text group that includes all seven of us plus two significant others (Mark and Lyndsey). It is active almost every day and is used for a variety of purposes.

One recent conversation, for example, centered on Chloe's ongoing attempts to convince the post office that a former resident of her house is, in fact, a former resident and no longer lives there. Several times she has taken items intended for this person and written "Return to Sender" and "Not at This Address" on them, but mail for the previous occupant keeps on coming.

This was followed up by texts from other family members with suggestions on how to handle the situation, and one threat from Jared to alert the authorities that Chloe is committing mail fraud if she starts simply throwing these misaddressed cards and letters away.

He was kidding (I think).

Almost every day it's something different in the chat group, but there are at least three common types of activity you'll find there:

(1) Cat content: We are a cat family and my kids like to share photos of their current cats as well as the cats with which they grew up. I enjoy all of this because it's sometimes the only way I can keep tabs on my grand-kitties. (As you can see above, the official photo of the text group is an old image of Fred, George and Charlie, three of our former cats who have each moved on to their greater good, as my friend Kate Tonti would say.)

(2) Random memories: These conversations will often begin with one kid texting something like, "Thinking about the times Lissy and I used to sit at the computer at the old house and play Harry Potter." Then they will all go back and forth about the details of the game that have stuck with them. We also sometimes get memories of stuff we wouldn't let them do when they were little that their friends were allowed to do. There's always some bitterness there.

(3) Big announcements: Suddenly one child or another will text, "Attention everyone, I have a new job," or some such off-the-cuff piece of important news. Everyone then celebrates through congratulatory messages, "heart" and "exclamation point" reactions, and the occasional funny GIF. Twenty years ago, conveying this news would have involved separate phone calls to parents and siblings. Now it's just a single 7-second text. I'm not sure which is better.

Gotta go, Melanie just sent a great picture of two of her cats standing on their hind legs looking out the front door. <heart emoji>

He was my friend

Last night we lost our cat Fred. He had been very sick and was scheduled to be put to sleep this afternoon, but he decided to go on his own.

This is not especially remarkable, I know. It happens thousands of times every day in homes, veterinarians' offices and animal shelters around the world. We're certainly not the first people to go through it.

But that doesn't make it any easier. There's nothing mundane or routine about losing someone who has been part of your life for a long time, whether they're human, feline, canine, rodent, bird, etc.

Fred and his brother George have been members of our family for 14 1/2 years. We got them from the animal shelter in 2007 when our kids were all 13 and younger. Terry and I went out that day saying we were going to get a single female cat, and instead we came home with these two snow white goofballs.

At some point, and I really can't say when it was, Fred decided I was his human. He got along with everyone in the house – every human anyway...I don't think he ever really liked another cat besides George – but for whatever reason, he loved me most.

For years, Fred would jump into bed at night and lay right up against me. He was gone every morning when I woke up, but most of the time when I was falling asleep, he was right there.

When I had Lyme Disease in 2012 and was laid up for the better part of a couple of weeks, he spent most of his time in bed with me.

He would purr (loudly) for anyone willing to pet him, but he always seemed to find an extra degree of volume for me.

In some ways, Fred lived his life in perpetual angst. A lot of that had to do with the other cats who came into our home after him (Charlie, Ginny and Molly, along with the now-gone Bert). But he had his brother, with whom he often snuggled in the winter months so that both would be warm. Together, Fred and George got through everything life threw at them.

There were a few times over the years when we thought we had lost Fred, including once less than a year into his time with us when we were going to put him down before Terry discovered a wad of dental floss wrapped so far around the back of his tongue that the vet had completely missed it.

Suffice it to say, he went through all nine of his lives and probably a few more.

He started to develop urinary tract issues over the past couple of years, and it got to the point that he had to sleep in the basement storage room at night because he couldn't be trusted not to pee in random places.

A few times he started peeing blood, and each time the vet would give us antibiotics. The blood would eventually clear up, but I'm not sure the medicine had anything to do with it.

We had it all but confirmed yesterday that Fred had some sort of cancer. Could be bladder, could be kidney, who knows? He had so much fluid in his abdomen that it was difficult to see other organs on the x-ray the vet took, which we're told is a pretty good indicator of cancer in a cat.

In the last couple of weeks, he had been lethargic and not eating, and the bloody urine had come back in full force. He was miserable, and there's no doubt it was his time. Putting him down would have been the right thing, had he not beaten us to the punch.

Because even when it's hard, that's what you do for your friend.

To those who don't have pets or who have never been especially close to an animal, it probably sounds silly to talk about a cat as your "friend." After all, apart from his very expressive meows, I did most of the talking in our relationship. There wasn't a lot of dialogue there.

And yet somehow I think there was. I loved him and he loved me, and that was pretty much all that needed to be said or understood.

You know the day will come when a pet will be gone, but you're never quite ready.

I wasn't even sure how to say goodbye. I think he already knew I was a big fan of his, but I told him so anyway, just to make sure.

A proper sendoff is the least I could give the poor guy.

After all, he was my friend.

Our cats are lucky I love them

 

We have five cats, and I suppose I am more involved in their care and maintenance than anyone else in the family. It just sort of happened that way over the years, to the point that it's difficult to imagine doing anything other than feeding them and scooping out their litter boxes every day when I first wake up.

Contrary to popular belief when it comes to cats, they are all affectionate to one degree or another. They seem grateful for the easy life they live (at least as far as cats can be grateful), though there are times when they clearly take this as nothing more than their proper due.

I've generally been OK with that, but the three boys are trying my patience as they age.

The other night/morning, for instance, Charlie woke us up at 4:30am making a strange sound. Terry got out of bed and discovered he had a mouse in his mouth. I'm pretty sure the mouse was dead – that, or he was doing a bang-up job of playing dead – so I grabbed it in a paper towel, took it outside in the pouring rain, and flung it into the grass.

Then there's Fred, whose urinary tract issues are relatively under control, but only through daily effort on our part and not-inconsiderable investment in vet bills and prescription medicine. I've not cleaned up a puddle of Fred pee for a week or two, and I'm of course happy about that, but the total amount of his urine I have sopped up over the years would fill a large backyard swimming pool.

I apologize for the nauseating image, but it's true.

There are regular piles of nasty cat puke to clean up, some of which fall to me and others of which various family members (and here I'm thinking mainly of Terry) take on themselves to address.

Add to this Charlie's constant need to assert his alpha status by tormenting the other cats, plus the shedding, plus the cost of specialty food for Fred and regular food for the other four, plus the need to keep certain doors closed so that cats don't go in there and deposit a random biological substance on the floor, and...well, it's a lot.

Pet ownership done right is never easy, no matter what sort of animal you own. But the cats know all they have to do is present themselves to me for petting, and then loudly purr once I touch them, and all is forgiven.

I am an eternal sucker.

I shouldn’t be as impressed by our Roomba vacuum and Braava mop as I am

We recently bought two robots.

Well, actually, what we bought are the Roomba autonomous vacuum and Braava robotic mop made by a company called iRobot. You either have one of these or you’ve at least seen how they work, so unlike me, you’re probably not especially fascinated by them.

But I’m smitten. I know it isn’t exactly cutting-edge technology, but all you have to do is tap a button on your phone and instantly this machine, whose sole purpose in life is to keep your floors clean, springs into action.

That’s a Jetsons-style miracle, as far as I’m concerned, and I’m not sure we as a society appreciate these sorts of things nearly as much as we should.

We of course have named both devices. The Roomba (which has taken on a male persona in our house) is called “Dustin Bieber,” while the Braava (a female, for whatever reason) is “Moptimus Prime.”

I’ll admit to being especially proud of having come up with Moptimus Prime.

I’m surprised by what a good job these things do on our floors. And shoutout to whatever team of engineers designed the algorithms that allow Dustin and Moptimus to map out our first floor and maneuver deftly around almost any obstacle.

Our cats react to the robotic cleaning crew in different ways. Ginny, for example, is extremely interested in both Dustin and Moptimus and tries to sniff them whenever they’re active. Fred, by contrast, is terrified of them. He cannot get far enough away once they start moving around.

My dream is that one of the cats eventually works up the courage to jump onto Dustin or Moptimus and ride it around the house. In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy our sparkling, space-age-clean floors.

Are there biological substances to be cleaned up somewhere in the house? That would be Dad’s job.

Somewhere along the way, probably dating back to the mid-90s when we lived in our old house, it became my job (and almost exclusively my job) to clean up any and all bodily fluids and excretions deposited in inappropriate places.

You would assume I’m talking about pet messes, and I am. But human accidents also qualify. One time, when one of our children was very young, he/she stood at the top of our stairs (still clearly asleep), said the words “I can’t take it anymore,” and proceeded to pee in a manner that the urine ran down the first several of the carpeted stairs.

Terry cleaned up the child, I cleaned up the carpet.

It’s not that I’m any better at this task than anyone else, mind you. I’m just more willing to literally get my hands dirty, I guess.

This has all become more relevant in recents weeks as we have undertaken various home renovations, from a new basement floor to redoing our master bathroom.

Anyone who has ever endured home improvement projects knows a certain amount of chaos is inevitable. Your life and your routines get turned on their ear for a time, which is fine when it comes to the humans in the house.

Our five cats, however, don’t take change well. Or at least the older few don’t.

The result has been that Fred, my longtime feline companion, has taken to peeing in places that are decidedly not his litter box. I’ve stepped in and/or cleaned up more cat pee in the last few weeks than probably the last several years combined.

We’ve tried almost everything you can do to get him to stop, but as of this writing, we’re leaning toward a solution that has worked in the past with Fred. It’s likely we’ll be locking him up in our basement storage room for a week or so with his special urinary tract food, water, and a litter box so that he can retrain himself around where and where not to pee.

I imagine this will go a long way toward solving the problem, but I’m sad at the idea of putting Fred in kitty prison for a week because, you know, he’s my buddy. We spend a lot of time together, and I know the days of his confinement will be nothing but misery for him.

But then the stench of cat pee fills my nostrils again and I become resolute. Fred, you are hereby sentenced to a week in The Hole. Your only hope is to remember that we buy that expensive Arm & Hammer kitty litter every few weeks for a reason, my friend.

UPDATE 5/16/21: Since this was written, Fred did spend the better part of two weeks in the storage room, and the messes stopped. He also went to the vet and was diagnosed with a thyroid condition that likely contributed to the peeing problem. He is now on a day-release program (he only spends nights in cat jail) and is doing well, and has just started a course of medicine that should help. Go Fred!

Sleep-wise, having pets can be worse than having babies

Our first two children, Elissa and Chloe, began sleeping through the night within a week of coming home from the hospital.

Jared, our #3, took a few months.

Melanie, the next in line, honestly took a good year and a half.

Jack, the youngest, was somewhat less than that but still gave us troubles.

I've often said that, had this all happened in reverse order and the first two were problem sleepers, there would not have been five Tennant kids. You would right now be reading a blog titled "Two Kids and That's It."

Those days are long in the past, of course, but I'm still often awakened at times when I would rather not be awakened.

Nowadays, the culprits are our five cats. And really, it's mostly Fred.

Fred is ready to wake up and eat any time after 4:30am. I'm an early riser, but he tends to start bothering me during that delicious half-hour before I get up when the bed feels warm and comfortable and you doze so peacefully.

This bothering takes the form of questioning meows, followed by Fred positioning his face literally within three inches of mine (as if to say, "hey, you awake?")

This is always followed by Fred placing a front paw on my cheek. It would almost be sweet if it wasn't so annoying.

I will usually roll away or swat his paw from my face to indicate my disagreement with Fred's position that it is, in fact, time to start the day. But at that point it's really no use. There's no way I'm going back to sleep, so after five minutes of just laying there to show Fred who's boss (though he clearly knows the truth), I roll out of bed and proceed to feed the cats, scoop their litter boxes, sweep up around said boxes, etc.

All things considered, I think I would prefer going back to the babies-in-the-house phase of our life.

I love our white cats, but...

I did not grow up having heard of a lint roller, a genius device without which I now could not live.

It has become an indispensable part of my life owing to a decision Terry and I made way back in September 2007.

We went to the local humane society with the intention of bringing home a female cat, preferably a calico. Instead, we returned with two white male cats, whom we named after the Weasley twins from Harry Potter, Fred and George.

Happily, these two guys are still with us as they approach the ripe old age of 14. They are the oldest of our five cats and pretty much fixtures in our house.

Fred, in particular, is my buddy. He has slept at my side most every night since joining the family, and is just overall a good guy (if a bit overweight and off-puttingly fragrant at times).

As I type this post, I'm sitting in the computer chair in our room after George just spent time laying in it. I am wearing black pants.

The moment I get up, I guarantee you my butt will be covered in highly visible white cat hair.

Every article of clothing I own eventually gets covered in white cat hair. You don't notice it on light-colored garments, of course, but it really stands out on the dark stuff.

So I'm constantly lint-rollering my clothes, at least the parts of myself I can easily get to. There are almost always at least a few of these white hairs on my back.

It is in some way a small price to pay for two guys who have given us many years of love and joy, and hopefully many more to come. But if I had a nickel for every time someone pointed out the white cat hair on my clothes, well, I could probably buy a ticket for a first-run movie.

And nowadays, that's saying something.

Our cats Fred and George are getting old. I hate going through this again.

Fred and George (actually, from left to right, George and Fred) not long after we got them in 2007

In addition to having five children, Terry and I also have five cats.

I have written about them before. There are enough of them that it's rare to be in a room of our house without at least one cat joining you, if not more.

Terry bought a tiny picnic table for squirrels (that's a 100% true sentence) to which she attaches ears of corn for our backyard squirrels to eat. When one of them comes up on the deck to partake of this corn, some or all of our cats will congregate at the back door to stare at it intently.

The only one who seems like he could take or leave the activity of squirrel watching is Fred. Fred and George are our white twin brother cats, and they will turn 14 this May.

The way I describe them these days is that they are both, in their own ways, starting to look bedraggled. That's a strong word in general, and it's a very apt one for Fred and George.

As I've mentioned, Fred chose me as his person some years ago. For most of the past decade and a half, he has slept beside me at night. He comes into the bathroom when I'm taking a shower, and he will start purring when I come near him, even before I actually pet him.

A quick Google search suggests that the average indoor cat lives 13 to 17 years. We are now within that window of time for Fred and George, and I'm seeing signs of decline in both.

Fred walks more gingerly down the basement steps than he used to. He has always had a bad habit of licking himself raw in certain places, but now he has prominent bald patches on both his head and his back.

The other morning I went down to the basement for my daily litter box maintenance and found Fred peeing on the floor right next to the litter box. I was not pleased.

There are other things, but suffice it to say that our two oldest cats are a lot closer to the end of the line than the beginning of it.

In some ways that's OK. It's just the way of things. But I hate this process. We take care of them the best we know how, but this will all inevitably end in a sad moment at the vet's office. I hope that moment is still several years away for Fred and George, but it does cross my mind more often these days.

Pet owners know what I'm talking about. When they're such a big part of your life, losing them hurts far more than you would think. It also makes me reluctant to get more pets in the future, but we'll cross that particular bridge when we come upon it.

For now, I'm going to go pet Fred and listen to his abnormally loud purr. It's the least I can do for an old friend.

Here's the scouting report on our cats

We have five cats. I grew up with dogs, but I immediately became a cat person when I got married because...well, that's just what happens. One person's pet preferences end up dominating.

Anyway, if I were a scout looking to draft some cats, here's how I think the five in our house would grade out (in descending age order):

NAME: Fred (aka, Fat Fred)

AGE: 13 1/2

ALLY: His brother George (see below)

STRENGTHS: Very loving to a small group of people he likes, chiefly me

WEAKNESSES: Obese, slow-moving, mostly skittish; lacks courage, intelligence, and self-confidence

OUTLOOK: Fred ruled the roost in our house for his first 2 1/2 years here, then Charlie came along. He has been slowly moving down the pecking order ever since. His heft and occasional urinary tract problems do not bode well for a healthy future, though he has lost some weight the last few years and eats special food for the pee problems. Classic beta male.

NAME: George

AGE: 13 1/2

ALLY: His brother Fred

STRENGTHS: Loyal and affectionate

WEAKNESSES: Possible brain defect; that thing under his right eye that never goes away.

OUTLOOK: As Fred goes, so does George. Which means he will live out his years in subordination to the other cats.

NAME: Charlie

AGE: 10

ALLY: None, nor does he need any

STRENGTHS: Dominant personality, purebred Lynx Point Siamese (we're told)

WEAKNESSES: Seldom affectionate, largely aloof; he'll beg for food, but he doesn't need you and he knows it

OUTLOOK: Charlie showed up in our backyard one September evening as a 7-week-old kitten. We have no idea where he came from, especially given the fact that he's such an attractive purebred. Charlie will rule this house every second until he takes his last breath.

NAME: Ginny

AGE: 5 1/2

ALLY: None, though she used to be best friends with the now-deceased Bert. We have encouraged an alliance with Molly, the other female cat, but neither is especially interested.

STRENGTHS: Beautiful tabby cat; very affectionate, though she reserves that affection almost exclusively for the men in the house.

WEAKNESSES: Unidentified anxiety disorder that causes her to pick up socks in her mouth and move them randomly around the house, all while making a strange noise. Repeatedly betrays Terry, the person who loves her most in the world.

OUTLOOK: She spends a lot of time in Jared's room and he spoils her, but once he moves out, well...things may turn grim.

NAME: Molly

AGE: About 3 1/2

ALLY: Occasionally teams with Charlie to wreak havoc, but she mostly annoys him.

STRENGTHS: Wicked front claw game; increasingly affectionate as she realizes the pleasures of having her butt scratched.

WEAKNESSES: Kind of fat and getting bigger (you can't tell in this picture), cannot stand being held, dealing with anger issues.

OUTLOOK: One day in the next decade or so, Molly and Ginny will be the only cats left. She needs to chill out and make friends with her sister if she wants to enjoy her later years.

Pet death pool: Which one of our animals will die next?

When you're a parent, the death of a pet is no small thing.

First and foremost, you're in charge of comforting your children and helping them understand that death is natural, that Fluffy had a good life, that yes we can eventually get another kitten, etc.

Then of course there's the problem of disposing of the carcass. This isn't a bad thing with goldfish or small rodents. It's quite another matter if you're talking a St. Barnard or a horse.

So while I enjoy the mini zoo we have in our house, it never escapes my notice that one by one, these animals will all eventually die. And when they do, the responsibility for handling their corpses will fall on me as the father. This is not always the case, of course, but I would say dads handle dead animal management to a greater degree than moms do.

So I constantly keep an unofficial Animal Dead Pool going in my head. At any given time, I try to have a pretty good idea of the overall health of every pet in the house so that I can be prepared when it's time for one of them to take the Eternal Dirt Nap and I'm tasked with finding them a suitable resting place.

Right now, I would classify our pets into three general categories. Here's the breakdown:

Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon

CHARLIE (CAT)

Charlie is a Lynx Point Siamese, and thus he has a pretty slight build. But it took him maybe three weeks of living in our house to establish himself as the alpha male. Thus, he rules the roost and is rarely bothered by the other cats. Charlie does what he wants when he wants, so there's no stress in his life. His only real peril is a penchant for escaping the house and spending the night outside, but he's tough enough to protect himself, so no worries there.

SERENDIPITY (HAMSTER)

You generally don't see hamsters placed into this category because they don't live that long, maybe three years on average. But this animal, which is actually a hairless "naked" hamster, is so secluded that I forget she exists. Chloe is her owner/mother, and she does a good job keeping her fed and cared for. Serendipity will be with us a good while longer, I dare say.

A Trip to the Vet Is Probably a Good Idea

FRED & GEORGE (CATS)

I lump these two together because they're brothers and they both suffer from the constant stress of trying to avoid Charlie and Bert, a good chunk of whose lives are spent tormenting Fred and George. Stress kills, man, and I'm sure it will shorten the lifespan of these two felines. Plus Fred is demonstrably overweight, so I'm sure there's some hardening of the arteries in there for him, as well.

LUCY (GUINEA PIG)

She always looks nervous to me, so I'm thinking stress is a risk factor for her, too. Plus, she's a long-haired guinea pig, and they tend not to live as long as their shorter-haired counterparts (usually about 5 years). I don't know how old Lucy is, but I just don't see it lasting, you know? She has that dull "It's OK If I Die, Really, I Don't Mind" look in her eyes.

PERCY (CHINCHILLA)

Chinchillas live a shockingly long time, at least to me. The figures vary, but domestic chinchillas can stick around anywhere from 10 to even 20 years. I was thinking/hoping our two would last half that long, but no such luck. Anyway, given that, you'd think I would put them both into the "Probably Not Dying Any Time Soon" category. But Percy's feedings are sometimes sporadic, and I'm afraid at some point we'll just forget about giving him food even though his cage is right there in the living room and he'll die. I hope not, but I wouldn't put it past us.

Get the Shovel Ready

BERT (CAT)

Bert is huge. He's a long-haired breed, which of course makes him look even bigger than he already is. But even if you shaved him, you would still be left with a lot of cat. Elissa and Terry rescued Bert from a busy street in the middle of winter a few years ago. He still has some effects from that experience, including what we can only assume was frostbite in his paws. That, plus his excess weight, plus the fact that he moves so slowly that sometimes it seems he's already dead = don't buy any green bananas, Bert.

ANDROMEDA (CHINCHILLA)

Again, chinchillas live a good while, but Andromeda doesn't seem like she's long for this world. She has, on multiple occasions, chewed through her cage and escaped, only to be found days later wandering around the house. One of these times she's going to get out and we'll never see her again. Or at least we'll never see her alive again. We'll certainly smell her once she starts to decompose somewhere in the hidden recesses of the basement. And then of course who will get the call to go down there, scoop her up and bury her in the backyard? That's right, everybody, it'll be Good Old Dad!

When your pets suffer from mental illness

We have a cat named George who is very special. And by "special" I don't mean unique and wonderful and precious so much as "should be in some sort of feline assisted living facility."

Everyone in the house agrees that George has a problem, but none of us agree on his diagnosis. One daughter thinks he has obsessive-compulsive disorder, while another believes he may be autistic. I can't say exactly where he falls on the spectrum, though I know something is not right with George.

For one thing, he's pretty slow on the uptake, at least in relation to our other three cats. This doesn't make him any less valuable or less lovable; in fact, it makes him far more entertaining to us.

I actually have a long history of pets with mental illness. Growing up, we had a dog named Bootsie (Or was it "Bootsy" like Bootsy Collins? I don't think there was ever an official ruling on the spelling of her name.) Bootsie/Bootsy had a big knot on top of her head, which my dad believed was some sort of brain growth that made her...different.

Later on, I owned a hamster whom I called Ariel who had extreme anger issues. She seemed pretty lovable in the store, but once I got her home, it was nothing but teeth and rage with that little rodent.

I made the mistake of placing Ariel's cage next to the fiberglass/nylon curtains my mom had sewn for my room. She (the hamster, not my mom) managed to reach through the bars and gather in some of the curtain material, which she proceeded to eat in great chunks. I'm guessing the resulting chemical poisoning did nothing to improve her mood swings.

Nowadays we own two chinchillas, both of whom I think are strange, but I'm coming to believe that's just how chinchillas are and that our two are pretty average, as chinchillas go.

Sometimes, your pets' mental issues can work to your advantage. Our cat Fred is a great example. Fred's problem is that he is obsessed. Specifically, he is obsessed with me. Fred loves me. He sleeps virtually on top of me every night, which keeps me warm. I love having Fred in bed with me. He's like a big, fat, loudly purring electric blanket. When he dies, I'll be sad.

And cold.

Sometimes crazy/obsessive is good.

Cats vs Dogs - Let's Call It A Draw

I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. I'm a cog person. Or a dat person, if you prefer.

What I'm trying to say is, I like them both. I grew up with dogs, now I own cats. Four cats, to be exact. I thought we had capped the number at three, but a month or two ago, along came Bert.

Bert is an angry-looking gray cat that is actually about the sweetest little guy you'll ever hope to meet. He was rescued from near-death in a combined effort by Elissa, Terry and Chloe.

Elissa was driving near our house on a cold and snowy night when she saw this bedraggled cat sitting essentially in the middle of Eddy Road, which is one of those dark, narrow and hilly streets on which animals of all sorts are regularly run down.

Being Elissa, she stopped her car and got out to try and save the cat from being squashed by a Buick and/or from losing some key paws to frostbite. Scared by another passing car, the cat ran under Elissa's car and stayed there. Elissa called her mother to come and help, and Terry managed to get the cat out from under the car and safely back to our house, where he enjoyed warmth and abundant food for probably the first time in weeks.

As soon as he came home, I knew he was there to stay. Elissa had to go back to school, so Chloe immediately took charge of his care. The first thing she did was to dub the cat "Bert."

This caused a bit of a kerfuffle in the family partly because "Bert" is, by almost any standard, a strange name for a cat, but mostly because it's not a name that appears in the Harry Potter books.

The policy we've adopted in recent years is to name pets, particularly cats, after Harry Potter characters. And specifically members of the Weasley family. Our pre-existing cats − Fred, George and Charlie − all followed this useful convention.

But because Chloe devoted so much time and energy to nursing Bert back to health in his early days with us, the grudging consensus was that she should have naming rights. And so "Bert" it is.

Anyway, as I was saying, I don't count myself a member of either the dog camp or the cat camp. I just like animals in general, which is good in a house with four cats, two chinchillas, a guinea pig, a gecko lizard and a fish. Or at least I think we have a fish. There are pets that will live here for months at a time without my knowledge of their existence.

There are lots of reasons to love dogs. Off the top of my head:

- They're insanely loyal and devoted to you.
- They do tricks.
- They generally aim to please.
- They take care of their bodily functions outside.

That last point is key for me. I am the designated cat litter box cleaner in our house. I do this job every day. Every. Single. Day. Without fail. It's one of the first things I do when I get out of bed. And while not a particularly arduous job, I can never get away from it.

This is why I was the only one who raised any real objections to the idea of keeping Bert. His presence wasn't going to affect anyone else in the family like it would affect me. Needless to say, my opinions were officially registered for the record and summarily dismissed.

Still, I really have come to love cats over the years. They do, as a species, tend to believe they're superior to you in every way. But they're also much more affectionate than they're generally given credit for. And they're great for entertainment when they interact in little cat herds. There's always an alpha male who establishes himself as head cat honcho.

The title of alpha male is currently up for grabs among our cats. Before Bert, Charlie was the clear-cut Big Guy. He ruled the roost, and he did so in a comical way, keeping Fred and George on their toes by constantly jumping on them, biting them when they weren't looking, swatting at them as they passed by, etc.

Bert has submitted his application for the position, though. And Charlie is not happy about it. The two of them have fought a couple of times, but it has been pretty low-key. Almost like they're feeling each other out. Superior size and an "I don't sweat guys like you" attitude will probably mean Bert eventually comes away the victor.

Speaking of dominance, what I don't get is why dog owners and cat people feel the need to establish their choice as the "right" one. This is an ongoing, eternal battle in which everyone involved comes away looking a little...obsessed. And maybe a tad psychotic.

Can we just agree that whatever pet you choose to own (dog, cat, fish, elk, spider monkey, etc.), it does nothing to enhance or diminish your status as a good person and respectable citizen? Is that OK? Good. I'm glad that's settled. I was afraid you crazy dog people would be your usual weird, obstinate selves and mess the whole thing up.

Dramatis personae

When I launched this blog in December (as a continuation of the old "They Call Me Daddy" blog), it was intended for family and Facebook friends. Just a way for me to write about something other than broadband Internet, which is what I spend my days fixating on at work.

But along the way we've garnered quite a few new readers, largely as a result of being part of the News-Herald's Community Media Lab and also through the retweets and online recommendations of a few very kind regulars here. The result is that I can't just assume everyone knows who I'm talking about when I reference "Terry" or "Chris Dorazio" or "Percy."

So I thought it would make sense to run down the main characters who constantly pop up here...a sort of online scorecard for those new to our little group. To wit:

TERRY: My wife of almost 20 years. Pretty, smart and the glue that keeps my life together. Also an excellent kisser. Likes chocolate, Hallmark movies, and the color yellow. More on her later this month, as we're approaching the 26th anniversary of our first date.

ELISSA: My almost-18-year-old daughter. Smart as a whip, seemingly jaded, not a lover of children (which makes life with four younger siblings challenging, I imagine). Elissa is on the brink of selecting a college. I'm on the brink of financial collapse. These two things are in no way unrelated.

CHLOE: My 15-year-old daughter. The most unique individual I know. Not quite clinically insane, but well down that path. Chloe is very much the overachiever. I'm just starting to teach her to drive. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if Chloe is one day named president of the world.

JARED: My 6-foot-tall, 13-year-old son. The Man Beast is a good soccer and saxophone player, though he tends not to do those two things simultaneously. Like his father, a fan of Cleveland sports and the Ottawa Senators. I have set the boy up for a lifetime of disappointment. What a terrible parent I am.

MELANIE: My sweet little 11-year-old daughter. Mel is a goalkeeper in soccer. It takes a special kind of person (*cough* CRAZY *cough*) to be a goalkeeper, so I give her credit. Melanie is also a great actress. Thankfully, she hasn't yet learned to transfer that skill from the stage to her home life, but I know it's coming.

JACK: My 6-year-old son. An evil genius. I used to say it was just coincidence that we decided not to have any more kids after he was born. Now I'm not so sure. In any case, he's good for at least one belly laugh a day. The most unintentionally funny person I know.

SEAN: Elissa's boyfriend. Her intellectual equal AND a sax player. This is a good combination.

CHRIS DORAZIO: Chloe's Vietnamese-Italian boyfriend. Always referred to by both his first and last names.

FRED, GEORGE & CHARLIE: The family cats. Fred and George are brothers. They are scared of Charlie, a stray we took in a year-and-a-half ago and the definite alpha male.

PERCY: Elissa's chinchilla. He has a cage that's nicer than my house. May outlive me.

S'MORES: Melanie's guinea pig. Chloe refers to her as "Muffins" for reasons only Chloe understands.

ROGER: Chloe's female dwarf hamster. Yes, female. Don't ask.

ALLIE: The gecko that started as Jared's pet but was recently hijacked by Elissa. Jared appears to be fine with this.

GINEVRA: Elissa's rat. By now I assume you are not at all surprised that we have a rat.


Life is a crazy whirl of people, pets and activities at our house, and these are the people/animals who make it happen. They should all be proud.

Eight animals, plenty of poo

The other day I was trying to figure out whether I've cleaned up more animal poop or human poop in our house over the years. Ultimately I decided it was probably animal poop, but only by a narrow margin.

We have eight pets among our seven family members. This is in part because of the tradition whereby each of the kids gets a pet when they turn seven. The idea is to teach responsibility and all of that, and to some extent it works.

Still, I feel like I end up doing more than my share of fecal-related sanitation management, mostly in the form of cat waste. But I have to say, the kids do a halfway decent job of taking care of their animals. It could be a lot worse.

(NOTE: This is like the third time in three weeks I've referred to the fact that I clean the cat litter boxes. Why am I obsessed with this? I guess because it's a part of my daily life, but I never really think about it until I sit down to write).

I grew up in a dog house, with the extra-special bonus that I never had to clean up the doggy bombs in the backyard (my mom spoiled me, what can I say?) So to me, dogs were fun and virtually maintenance-free. Terry is and always has been a cat person, and from the time we were married, we've always had cats. I don't mind cats. I actually like the ones we have. But if I could somehow get the same sort of poo-free deal I had circa 1981 with dogs, I'd go out and get one in a minute.

Here's a rundown of our zoo:

CATS (3): Fred, George, Charlie
Fred and George are brothers. Very pretty snow-white cats. We refer to Fred as "Fat Fred," since he's noticeably larger than his brother and that's about the only way to tell them apart. Fred was the alpha male until Charlie came along 15 months ago. Charlie was a stray and a kitten, two factors that immediately endeared him to the women in my house. Terry found him in the backyard. Now he dominates everything and Fred hates him. George, meanwhile, is mentally handicapped. Seriously. And he's sort of creepy, too. But he tries.

CHINCHILLA (1): Percy
Chincillas are cool. They're big fluffy balls of....well, fluff. Percy is very friendly. He lives in a big cage in the living room and will always park himself next to the bars if he senses that you're willing to reach in and pet him. Elissa, his owner, says he's an attack chinchilla. As far as I can tell, the only thing he attacks are his yogurt treats.

RAT (1): Ginevra Elizabeth
If you're a Harry Potter fan, you'll notice that all of our pet names so far are taken from the Weasley children. It seemed like a good idea at the time...Anyway, yes, we have a rat. And believe it or not, she's about the most lovable thing you'll ever see. Just a nice little creature, though no amount of "nice" can overcome the fact that she's a rat and has that rat tail. That's creepy even for those who love her. Ginevra belongs to Elissa, who apparently has a thing for strange pets.

GUINEA PIG (1): S'mores (aka, Muffins)
This one is Melanie's. Mel named her S'mores, but her roomate, Chloe, insists that the rodent is named "Muffins," which Chloe believes is a better name. I tell Chloe she can't randomly rename her sister's pet, but as you might imagine if you know Chloe, this in no way deters her. Actually, I think Mel and I may be the only ones who like the name "S'mores" better. Poor Mel.

ROBO DWARF (1): Roger
Speaking of Chloe, she's the proud owner of Roger, a female robo dwarf hamster. That sentence begs two questions: (1) Why is a girl hamster named Roger? (ANSWER: Because Chloe is Chloe); (2) What's a robo dwarf hamster? (ANSWER: I don't know. Here's some Wikipedia help.)  Roger is small. So small, in fact, that I don't even notice her in her tiny cage when I enter the girls' bedroom. Therefore I forget Roger exists. I'll bet it has been a good month or so since I've seen Roger.

LEOPARD GECKO (LIZARD) (1): Allie
The coolest thing about Allie is that she eats crickets. Live ones. Terry goes out and buys two dozen of them at a time. She or Jared -- technically Allie is Jared's -- will dump a bunch into Allie's cage, prompting Allie to go into Hunting Mode. Whenever a cricket moves, Allie creeps over to it, sizes it up, and strikes. She catches the cricket in her mouth and casually chews it, which makes the whole thing a fun spectator sport while undoubtedly being unpleasant for the crickets.

I just learned that Elissa has staged an intervention and has taken custody of Allie away from Jared. I don't believe Jared knows this yet. Elissa says Jared isn't taking care of Allie, but she is graciously giving her brother visitation rights. It's going to be interesting when Jared finds this all out. Given that his powers of observation rival those of his father, I predict this will happen sometime in 2015.