Eulogy for a Cat

Once I had a husband, two kids and a big house in the country. I didn't want to live in the country but my husband did and he always got what he wanted.

It was isolated. We had an acre and so did all the neighbours. The whole "Welcome to the neighbourhood" thing did not happen. We were city slickers and we weren't welcome.

My husband could be very nice and he could be very cruel. When I had my first child I knew one sure thing. I loved being a Mom. We gave her a sister. I played with my kids all day every day.

The deal was, when the littlest started school I would be free to write. But when the littlest started school, my husband told me to get a job. He said, "Things change."

That was one of the rules he lived by. The other was "All's fair in love and war." My crazy love for my crazy husband began to wane. I was quite sure he'd stopped loving me a long time before I started to lose interest in him. My children hugged and kissed me but children grow up. I knew that. I wondered who would touch me when they stopped.

We decided to separate in January 2001. In March, 2001 my Mother was diagnosed with cancer. My parents lived in Manitoba and I lived in this ridiculous country town in nowheresville, Ontario.

I was my Mother's primary caregiver in an "anticipated death at home." While in Winnipeg, I sold my house by fax. The day after her funeral I returned to Ontario, I had a month to pack the house up and move. I didn't know where I was going to live. My youngest was going to live with her Father. Like I said, he always got what he wanted.

My eldest daughter and I moved into an apartment in the nearby town. I bought furniture from IKEA. I drove an ancient Oldsmobile. I was in shock.

In February of 2002 I decided my daughter and I needed a cat. I wanted an affectionate cat and I had heard that male Siamese are loving cats. One day I decided, "Today is the day. I'll go get a Siamese kitten. My daughter will come home from school and take a nap. I'll come home and open the cat box on her bed and she'll be very, very happy."

not Leo but just what he looked like as a babe

And that is exactly how it went. When he crawled out of the carrier, onto the bed, she exclaimed, "Oh it's Siamese!"

We named him Leo. The Van is for Van Morrison, because Leo yowled the entire two hour drive home and I played Van Morrison to keep me from losing my mind. We decided he liked to sing. Meow Meow is Thai for cat and since he was Siamese, it made sense.

He hid in the crook of my arm for 3 days. He wouldn't eat or go to the bathroom. Then he ate. He went to the bathroom. He became a member of my household. He would greet us when we came home. Siamese cats hug. Did you know that? He hugged us. The first time he saw me cry he came closer . . . closer . . . until his nose touched a tear and he jumped. I laughed.

My eldest went to live with her Father in August, 2002. He lived in a much better school zone.


Leo, the cat, and I lived together. He didn't mind if I slept all day. He liked to sleep all day, too. He wasn't scared of tears any more. If I had a nightmare, he came to see if I was okay. His purr was deep and strong. He was soft and beautiful. He gazed at me with adoring blue eyes.

In June 2003 Felix moved in with us. Leo bowed to the male authority. But he loved Felix, too.

 Full grown, Leo was almost 20 pounds. His purr was loud. He was loud. He was smart in a lot of ways, but he was addicted to plastic. We had to set up and maintain a plastic free household and we did.

2012. Leo was 11. Leo had asthma. He hated taking pills so recently we switched to an inhaler. He continued to eat plastic whenever possible. Crazy cat!

Two nights ago he had a major asthma attack. We took him to the vet. He didn't settle down until I went into the back, where his cage was, opened the cage door and held him in my arms. It reminded me of all those times I held my children in my arms, when they were sick, until they settled. He settled. He was released. I was given the address etcetera of an emergency all night clinic, just in case.

When we got home I stayed up all night, observing my cat. He was calm as long as I was there with him. I discovered one of his teeth on the floor. It seemed to me he'd choked on a tooth and that had brought on the attack. So maybe he'd be okay now?

I didn't leave him until Felix got up.

Today, Leo drank a little water.. He used his litter box. He didn't eat. I was getting ready to go to bed, around 2:00 a.m., when he had another attack. I woke Felix. We gave him two puffs of his inhaler. It didn't help. We called the emergency clinic, put Leo in his carrying case and began the drive to the emergency clinic.

He tried to escape from the box. He was panicking. I wouldn't let him out. I stuffed him back in. I yelled, "I am trying to save your life!" I zipped the case closed. He died.

People think I'm so much fun. People think I'm patient and good and polite, like all Canadians. But I come from a family of yellers. I yelled at my kids, sometimes. I yelled at my husband a lot. I have even yelled at Felix, from time to time, but he doesn't yell back so . . . I don't yell at him any more.

But right there, right then, when Leo was trying to escape that box, panicking and unable to breathe, about to die, I yelled at him. He didn't die with me stroking him and whispering to him, like my other pets have, because they were put down at the vet.

My Mother died with me stroking her and whispering to her.

But Leo died with me freaking out at him because he was freaking out and I was afraid. We were afraid.

Nothing can undo that. It's all done, now. I have a cold cat in a carrying case in my spare room. I can stroke him and whisper to him if I want to and I do and I have and I will again before morning comes. But he can't hear me now.

I find it hard to be kind all the time. I don't know if I can ever entirely stop yelling. The only thing I take comfort in is that Leo and I did yell at each other from time to time. (Remember, he was Siamese.) I believe he knew I loved him and I know he loved me.

People who don't have pets won't understand this and people who do have pets will.

I loved that crazy, plastic eating, beautiful, vain, smart and slightly cross eyed beast.

I just loved him. And I guess that's all I have to say.

Mad

Addendum: Diary of a Sad Cat Lady or Thoughts on the Loss of Leo

1) I have learned that cats have a false larynx. This is why they can purr continuously while they breathe in and out. Also, the brain shuts down in stages. So . . . as I stroked Leo's body and called his name after he stopped breathing, he really did send me a little purr. He said good-bye gently and I said good-bye gently. I don't have to talk myself into believing this. It's the truth. Sometimes the truth can be harsh, but sometimes it is a wonderful thing.

2)One week later: I've had lots of cats and a few dogs, but I never said, "That animal thinks it's human," until Leo. He did think he was human and it pissed him off to be such a little human. He loved to get up on top of the fridge and be taller than me. He'd stand at the edge and we'd rub heads and pet each other. He also understood a lot of things I said. I didn't realize this until fairly recently.

Here's the thing: He lived with Felix and me. So it's not just about losing my pal. There's also this absence to deal with; this cat-sized shape (and he was a big cat.) that's empty now. I'm still glancing at his chair when I get up in the morning or the middle of the night. I'm still looking for Leo. Fresh pain and new tears.

Even if one of my best friends died, I wouldn't be looking for that person every morning and every night. I have lost friends and I've cried my guts out over it. But I don't look for them, because I didn't live with them.

A member of my household has died. One day, I won't look for him any more. I don't know if I'm comforted by that or not. One day, I won't be compelled to get up and add to this eulogy, which has become a diary of sorts. Diary of a Sorrowful Cat Lady. Thoughts on the loss of Leo.

One day I won't be compelled to get up at 2:00 a.m. and add to this post. I do know that I'm comforted by that thought. I'll mourn him for a long time but I can't stand the intensity of this grief. Leo's death is a personal tragedy. Good night.

3) Two weeks & 2 days later: I watched Dexter tonight. I used to make a couch of sorts with my legs up on an ottoman with a blanket over them. "Leo! Hurry! Dexter's starting!" I always included him in everything, like he actually watched and enjoyed Dexter, or needed to know my news, good or bad. I anthropomorphised the hell out of him. I think that makes the loss deeper. It's my own fault. But a friend said, "What are you going to do? Get a pet and not love it too much so you won't suffer too badly when it dies?" That doesn't make much sense, either. So I guess I'll live with loss, having enjoyed the love. People suggest I get another cat right away, or wait awhile, or never get another one. It's not time, yet. I know that for a fact. But one woman told me she cried every night for two years until she finally broke down and got a new cat. I'll probably cry every night until I get my next kitten. I just have to wait until I can live with the fact that the new kitten won't be "Leo the 2nd." It sure won't be no stinkin' barn cat, either. Good night.

4) Dec.13. Today I forgot to look for Leo all day. When I realized, I sobbed my face off. I can't let him go without crying and I can't keep him with me without crying.
Maybe it's just a new way to know when it's time to go to bed.

5) Jan.9, 2013. After much wrestling with middle of the night lunacy and sudden decisions almost acted upon that have apprently resulted in my being branded by the local Humane Society as possibly unstable and not a likely candidate for adopting a pet (!) I will be fostering an 8 month old kitten. I met him tonight. He'll come to stay with Felix and I for 'socialization'. If a relationship develops, we'll adopt him. If not, for whatever reason, he'll go back to his primary foster home. He's mostly grey except for white spots under his arms and on his belly. His eyes are amber. He's very shy. I feel some guilt and some trepidation and some excitement.

Today was my visit with Leo's vet. I cried my face off while discussing what happened. Then I wrote a bunch of cheques to cover the cost of his veterinary care. Something needed to be done to rescue me from the pit of despond and this step, 'fostering' with an eye on adoption, is hopefully a step in the right direction.

I don't expect this little guy to replace my big beautiful blue eyed boy. But, as the vet said, perhaps it's time to start making new memories.

Oh please, wish me luck. (They've been calling him 'Armpit' if you can believe it, because he has white patches under his arms. I'm thinking 'Ashton' because he is grey and my guilty pleasure is a cougar crush on Kutchner. It's a start.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Well now, look who is #3 on the Daily Mail's list of the 30 most titillating books of all time.

ME!

OMG.

Me and some of my erotica writing pals, although a few are, in my opinion, mysteriously missing from the list.

Take a peek and see what you think.http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2230447/Libraries-shake-image-erotic-literature-festival-celebrating-30-titillating-titles-time.html

Oh Sarah, I lurve you.

Amazon Author Page

Check it out!

Here's the link.:



Keeping that big ol' platform up to date!

xoxo Mad
 

Thrones of Desire Getting Great Reviews

It's not surprising that Mitzi Szereto's new anthology, Thrones of Desire: Erotic Tales of Swords, Mist and Fire is getting great reviews.

But this one, on Good Reads, has me chuffed: JennyH gives it five stars. Go here to read the whole thing.

Here's the part that warms my heart:


Particular highlights for me were “Of High Renown” by Janine Ashbless, a beautifully written story which raises some interesting questions, “In the Kingdom of Roz” by Madeline Moore, the story of a fairytale princess which deviates dramatically from the traditional narrative and “The Widow’s Man” by Nyla Nox, an enthralling story of loyalty, betrayal and personal sacrifice.

Since this was my very first fantasy story, I was happy to have it included in the antho. But it's nice to be plucked from the crowd once in awhile. The crowd, in this case, is a crazy great list of authors so don't forget to get your copy soon!

xoxo Mad

A Brief History of Writing Through Time

Once upon a time . . . the story teller would arrive and villagers, starved for entertainment, would gather round to hear tales of mystery and adventure. By the end of the last tale, the story teller's upturned hat, which had been at his feet while he spoke, would be heavy with coin. The next day he'd move on to the next town, likely imagining new tales with which to amuse folks. He told folk tales.

 (Right now his hat is on his head but when he gets to the next village, it'll be at his feet.)

He was a he, all right. 'Cause if he was a she she'd probably be drowned or burned as a witch.

I suppose I don't yearn to have been part of that scene.

              All I wanted to do was tell a little tale about a few people fucking . . .

Books were invented and people learned to read. Or maybe it was the other way around. I think monks were involved. Many writers got in trouble for the things they wrote and were banished or imprisoned. They were men. If any of them were women they were probably drowned or burned as witches.

               
                                          I shoulda been a midwife like my Ma . . .


Still, no fun for the female gender of our species.

Printing presses were invented. More people learned to read. More writers wrote. Women got in on the action, sometimes using male pseudonyms like 'George Eliot' or 'J.K. Rowling.'

Women got to own property and vote and write without getting drowned or burned.

The typewriter was invented. Yay!

                                              Oooooo . . . Hermes! I'll take that one!

The electric typewriter was invented, sometime after electricity came along. Yay! Yay!

Some writers became famous and made lots of money and went on book tours, and some just stayed home and typed stories and books and sold them to publishers. The idea of the "writer in the garret" came into being but most writers didn't really have garrets. The idea of the "starving writer" became popular. It's possible some writers starved. Writers met with other writers in pubs and drank too much and argued a lot. That I know to be true.

The word processor was invented. It could store one or two lines in its memory. Instead of a typing 'ball' it had what was called a daisy wheel. Hiss. Boo! Daisy wheels sucked.

                                                
                                   AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Make it go AWAY!


And then - along came the internet. Computers. Keyboards. Marshall McLuhan's 'Global Village' became a reality.

               
                                                      See? Proof of the Global Village.



Now writers go on virtual tours as well as, or instead of, physical tours. E-publishers have come along and writers create stories and sell them without so much as one piece of paper being involved in the process. Writers all over the world can meet, not in bars but in chat rooms, and argue a lot. They send and get sent electronic mail. Some never meet their editors face-to-face, but they have editors, and publishers, sometimes on another continent.

Writers get to promote themselves.

Some savvy writers love self-promotion. Some probably promote themselves more than they write.

Others, perhaps not particularly technologically proficient, struggle to grasp the concepts of up and down loading, posting pictures, establishing links, networking via websites, blogs, facebook, my space, twitter, chrome, Google plus, Pinterest . . .

                               
                                                                           I bet it is, too


And then there's all that writing to be done!

Sometimes, a writer will be invited to be a guest on a very popular blogsite, like, say, KD Grace's "The Story Behind the Story,"which is published on Mondays.

Over the weekend, the writer puts together what she hopes will be an interesting article. She chooses an excerpt from her work. She gathers her links together; she organizes pictures. She e-mails the text to her gracious hostess. She finds typos, corrects them and e-mails the text again. She can't help but take one last look at the piece and finds more typos. What time is it in the UK when it's tea time (if we had tea time) in Canada? Shamefaced (but no one can see her face) she sends a third draft.

The writer posts a promo on her blog, facebook, twitter . . . but not on her website because it sucked so bad she trashed it, and not on my space because my space is so yesterday it's not even funny.

On Monday when she gets out of bed the post has already been up for a few hours! Oh boy!

                                                                             Oh Boy!


Hey, it looks good!

No comments yet? She pounds out an e-mail to her hostess because KD Grace will certainly know why there are no comments yet.

Can you say 'High Maintenance MaddyMo?'

Well, actually, KD Grace does have an answer:

And if it makes you feel any better about comments, though my site doesn't always get comments, it's #13 in the top 100 of eBuzzingliterature  sites right now and also in the top 100 in the culture category as well -- based on visits. I get a lot of people contacting me to be on because they know its so heavily trafficked, so don't worry if you don't get comments. You're still getting the message out there loud and clear, I promise:)

 but it's still early and anyway, you can't rely on comments to tell you how many people actually read the post.

The writer relaxes. She has actually promoted her newest story! Won't her editor be proud of her?
Well, she's damn proud of herself. All that technology utilized in the promotion of her piece of work.

God Bless The Internet.

The writer ventures into the great outdoors to forage for food. When she returns, she checks the blog post and sees this: DATABASE ERROR.

WTF!

God Damn the Internet!

She e-mails her charming hostess, who is about to go to bed.

                                                          
                                                 Please Madeline, just let me get some sleep . . .

Right. That damn time zone thing.

The next day, they discover that the host site was hacked. 'Go Daddy' did not go. See the article in The Guardian.

Oh! Did I forget to mention hacking, plagiarism, viruses and flaming?

That's a post for another day. After all, there are stories to be written. Many, many stories have yet to see the artificial light of day.

xoxo Madeline Moore

Picture credits:
folk story teller: thedocent.tjctv.com
drowning witch:  kmclafferty-salemwitchtrials.blogspot.com
burning witch: relijournal.com
Hermes typewriter: enotes.com
Daisy wheel: webrealestatetools.com
Marshall McLuhan, global village:  mcluhangalaxy.wordpress.com
Google is watching you: itthing.com
getting up:  marykunzgoldman.com
Painting: Young Woman Going to Bed by Jacob Van Loo  (Wikipedia)
Once Upon A Time:  Wikipedia or Google or somethin' like that