Slip Slidin' Away

Rizzo, our 10-year old Jack Russell terrier, has politely requested I send her for some therapy, and barring that, at least medicate her.  She's having trouble, she says, with the events of the past few weeks in this world.

I'm making lunches here-- what on earth could you need, Rizzo?

Me: Whitney Houston's death is really bothering you that much?

Rizzo: What? Seriously? No. Sure, she could sing, but like, we all knew she would be meeting up with Amy Winehouse at that big party in the sky any day now. (pause) That's why I'd prefer some talk therapy to drugs, actually. I don't want to start down the slippery slope. 

Me: How did you learn the term "Slippery slope?"  You're a dog.

Rizzo: Wow. Yeah.  I'm referring to the pond outside.  All you have to do is take an anti-anxiety pill and get on the waterfall to catch the fish, and BAM! You're in the pond slapping the water like it's a new born baby hiney. It's a slippery slope, once you've had some pills. Very slippery. That's all. 

Me: Ooooh. Got it. So, you want me to call that Dog Whisperer guy?

Kiddo #1: (enters wearing pyjamas, a tutu, a glitter hairband, and winter boots)  (singing) Slip slidin' away. Slip slidin' awaaaaay...

Seriously? I wish I was making this stuff up. I swear she started singing that while Rizzo and I were discussing the merits of medication versus therapy.  

Whatever.

So we're talking about all this not because of the untimely death of a singing superstar, but actually because this conversation occurred prior to that one:

Me: For the LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY GET DRESSED! The bus is going to be here in 10 minutes and you're wearing your pyjamas! 

Kiddo #1: Some people go to school in their pyjamas. 

Me: (sighing) Yes. Sort of. Those are parents who are walking their kids to school who are wearing pyjamas. I think those parents don't have jobs, so they go back home to look for work in their pyjamas afterwards. Or something.

Kiddo #1: You don't have a job. I think you should wear your pyjamas to take me to school, since I just missed the bus. And then we can match.

Me: It's not... I'm ... They are... I... (sighing) It's not the same. And. That other bus that just went by the house wasn't your bus, but that one that is stopped there, IS. And you're not going to school in your pyjamas, and neither am I.

(enter Husband, who left for work some time ago)

Husband: I. UmBethI. Um.

Me: Be right there. (you know the tone your partner uses to alert you to something horrific without saying (or spelling) anything? Yeah. That's what this dialogue just was.)

I glance down the hall and see Kiddo #1's shadow dancing in her room, so I pluck Kiddo #2 and put him in his highchair with some goldfish crackers.  Everyone's happy.

I ran to the garage to find Husband pacing back and forth. 

Me: Um?

Husband: Beth. I hit a cat. I don't know where it even came from. It was just there.

Me: Frick. Did any of the kids see you?

Husband: No, a bunch got on a bus, and the other bus went around my truck to block it.

Me: Wow. It's a frickin' crime scene.

Husband: It's black and white.

Me: Well, yeah. I guess so. You hit it.

Husband: No, I mean the cat.

Me: Oh thank heaven! (I'm not a cow-- the neighbours have a dark grey and white cat that is indoor/outdoor) 

From here, I went back inside and had the first conversation with Rizzo and finally got the kids ready for school, pretending there wasn't an ominous cloud of death in our otherwise happy garage, while Husband "took care of things." Boo. 

Outcome for feral cat: no bueno. 

Outcome for Husband: probably fine. 

Outcome for ME: SHITE.  

Why you ask? Oh, because Husband had some meeting he had to get to, so he put the cat in a garbage bag (after checking for a collar and knocking on neighbour doors) and left it, BAG OPEN in our garage. Door shut. 

Soon the mushroom cloud of stinking death overtook the garage.  Sooner still, that pulsing stench was also mingling with the scent of vomit. My vomit. That happened when I left the house to put the kids in the car and took a deep breath.  I slammed the door shut and hustled the kids around to the front door and put them in the car from there. (my car isn't in the garage anyway because of the bed I'm still not allowed to paint, yet have the paint for).  After I got them in the car, I went back in, gagged to the garage, gagged my way to the bag, closed it with one hand (while the other held my coat to my mouth and nose to prevent more stench from getting inside me) and placed the bag in the garbage bin, hoping that would somehow fix the problem. (it didn't, in case you care)

But back to Rizzo, because I'm sure you're not really wanting a blow-by-blow account this morning's events.

So she's asked for some talk therapy. Why? Well, because our house, since we've moved in, has become the place where animals go to die.

Roughly 6 months after we moved in, while I was super pregnant with Kiddo #2, our beloved kitty, Ferris died. He was 13, had a grade 4 heart murmur and it was from natural (heartbreaking) causes. Actually, the vet told us he probably wouldn't live to 2 when we got him, and then Ferris would have to be an indoor cat because his heart was so bad-- this cat was the Dane Cook of cats-- hilarious, always doing something zany, crazy and funny, but also a proficient slayer of all things edible to cats. Not that Dane Cook eats mice and birds, but whatever.  I cried and cried when we lost him.

Then, 6 months after then, we lost our black lab, Finnegan. Finnegan was plagued with anxiety which made him rather special needs. But he was such a wonderful, good boy (when he wasn't having panic attacks and leaving shit soup all over the floor).  He and Rizzo were besties, and she hasn't really been the same since we lost him.  In fact, truth be told, none of us has been. He was a pretty big member of our dysfunctional family. 

And then we got Katty (Cat-ee) Kiddo #1's reward hamster. That was 3 weeks ago. And she was "playing sleep-dead" last week when Kiddo #1 went to feed her. It wasn't quite the same attachment, nor reaction to hearing she died from any of us. I felt bad for that, but also good (kinda) because I think it meant we've explained death proficiently for our 4-year old. 

But today's poor, homeless cat has shaken me. We've lost more animals in our new house (in the last two years) than we've lost in the 13 years Husband and I have been together. 14 years? Whatever.  

I would assume we've angered the Gods of Animals or Wildlife or something, but on that same note, I feel like we've had enough sacrifices that they should be pleased again. Unless -- maybe they're holding out for virgins or something? If that's the case, Rizzo should be much less anxious-- she and Finn were besties, but she and her cousin Rocky are more-than-friends. Winky winky. 

So now the question becomes one Zach Galafanakis would ask: How do you throw away a garbage can? What do you put it in? (piano keys twinkling in the background)