Grieving for Fidget, the Yowlingest Kitty

When I was three or four, we lived on a farm.  Many cats lived in the barn.  I would chase them, and when I caught one, I would grab it around its middle and pick it up from behind, the kitty butt pointing right at my face.  Then I would walk around holding the kitty until it got away.  My mom likes to tell this story, and now that I have five cats, it's apt.  

Growing up, all of our cats were barn cats, and as such, they were treated well, but they weren't pets.  Our horses, cows, dogs, and ponies were all of use in some way, and since they served a purpose, they were treated well, but they weren't considered to have agency.  They weren't people.  They had personalities, but they were supposed to do as they were told, and if they didn't, they were punished.  I never liked the punishing part, but for years I never questioned it.  It's what you did.  That's how you treat animals.

When we rescued our first cat, Camille, some of my barn cat treatment behaviors came to the surface, and my husband asked me some questions and got me thinking about how I was treating her.  I began to think about what she wanted.  Camille would put up with some shenanigans, but mostly bide her time until she could make a break for it, or just hold it against me without telling me why.  She regarded my changing behavior with suspicion.

Camille, being princessy

We named our second cat Fidget, because she used to sit in the middle of the floor, get up, turn around, sit back down, then repeat the procedure.  I was on the phone with my husband when I came up with that name, and I asked him, "But what if that's not the right name for her?  What if she stops doing that?"  "Well, then she'll be a lazy layabout cat, and her name will be ironic."  Perfect.  (Years later, we realized that her behavior is typical of any animal that's been caged for long periods of time, so we were glad to have rescued her.)

Fidget was a lot more direct than Camille.   If you did something she didn't like, Fidget would start yowling almost immediately.  She never bit or scratched us, ever, just let out this plaintive "meow" that told you what you needed to know.  Living with Fidget was like having instant feedback on everything I was doing, like a biofeedback machine or shock treatment.  If she didn't like it, you heard about it.  She taught me to really watch where my head was, to stay aware and make sure the kitty was enjoying what was happening before I continued with my behavior.  I started considering her more carefully, more thoroughly, as an entity.  As someone to consider, not just a mouth to feed and an animal to serve my needs.  

Fidget, snuggled into James' jacket

Fidget also took care of us.  Somewhere along the line, she appointed herself Guardian of the Household.  Anyone who came into the house was inspected and regarded with suspicion until she decided all was well.  A friend knocked on our window once, and reported that Fidget ran up to the window and smacked her front paws against the glass until they backed off.  If one of the other cats was gone, she paced the house, restless, until they returned.  During any of our moves, she would pace around the inside of the car for an hour, yowling, until she got tired and sat still.  She made her preferences known, and if you didn't follow them, you heard about it.

Fidget was with us for nine years.  She died unexpectedly last April, and when I found her, I fell completely apart.  I kept telling her that if she would just get up, everything would be fine.  And I cried for hours.  James came home and we went to pieces together.  We buried her on a hill, in the sun, where she would have liked to be, basking.  

When I was five or six, my dad bought two goats, one dark brown and one a light beige color.  I milked those goats every morning and every night.  I don't think they had names, but I loved those goats.  My dad was really proud of me.  He wanted animals, and my mom didn't.  After a few years, my dad decided to have the goats bred, probably so that I'd have the experience of raising kids to grow into goats.  My brown goat had three kids, and the beige one had two (if I remember correctly).  We had just moved to a new house in the country, and my dad had to go on a business trip not long after the goats gave birth.

Me with my dark brown goats

I came home from school one day and one of the kids had died.  I don't remember a lot about what happened next, but I know that one by one, all of the goats and their kids died.  All of them.  (I found out much later that they needed a vaccination that they didn't get.)  My dad was out of town, and I remember we put the bodies in the garbage cans.  I'm sure I was sad, but I don't remember.  My mom didn't want animals.  She was irritated if one of the animals got out of their fence, let alone got sick.  She always said, "Your dad wants those animals, so you're going to have to deal with them."  It was our job to feed them and take care of them, and I knew when the goats died that I had to make sure I was as small as possible, that I couldn't have any feelings about it.  She didn't want them in the first place, so this inconvenience was just going to make her angry.  I had to take care of them, had to take care of the whole situation.  

I'm 30 years older than I was when my goats died.  But Fidget's death let me really feel that grief for the first time.  I know I loved those goats dearly.  But I didn't have time or space to mourn for them.  I was old enough to know instinctively what was and wasn't okay, and I wanted desperately to be loved.  So I didn't feel anything; I just put their bodies in the garbage and walked away.  Nobody talked about them anymore until years later.  They might never have existed in the first place.

Fidget was such a huge part of our household, living in six different places with us, keeping us honest with her yowling commentary, and keeping our other cats in line when that was necessary.  I realized after James and I stood by her headstone and cried for the 20th time or so, that I was truly mourning for the first time in my life.  No one needed me to take care of them.  I wasn't going to be punished for crying.  My husband's love would not disappear if I cried longer than he did.  I could delay getting back to my regularly scheduled work day until I felt better.  I could take all the time and space that I needed, and no one was going to criticize me or tell me I was too sensitive if I cried some more.  I could have everything I needed.  I could have as much as I wanted.

I know that Fidget had a great time living with us.  She loved sitting on James' lap, stretching out and eventually drooling on his leg as she purred away.  She loved getting brushed, and I often scritched her between the eyebrows and under her chin.  Sometimes she would "punk out", jumping around the kitchen like she was possessed, and then immediately start grooming herself, with that "I wasn't doing anything" expression on her face.  She loved chasing reflective surfaces, which I discovered when making a mix tape - the light reflected off the cds onto the ceiling as I moved them around, and she just about climbed up the wall to get at the lights.  

I didn't write this to tell a sad story.  I wrote this to talk about what I learned.  Fidget taught me so much when she was around, and couldn't stop teaching when she was gone.  I learned that grieving takes time and space.  You have to let yourself feel just as bad as you really feel, and express that in whatever way feels best for you.  In my childhood, I learned to just get on with it, to push it down and walk away, quickly coping with whatever's next on the agenda.  That won't work forever.  You have to let yourself be sad to truly feel better.

Fidget in her spot on the kitchen table, in the middle of everything

These days, we still miss Fidget.  But we can tell stories now without breaking down.  We remember her fondly, and with no regrets.  I miss her, but that's okay.  She will always be a presence for us, keeping me honest and the other cats in line.    

When I was in college, living in Bellingham, I drifted a lot: boyfriends, jobs, cars, friends. I spent most of my twenties searching for home without realizing it. One of my few constants was The Squirrels.

At first, my love for them was just a byproduct of my love for the Young Fresh Fellows. I had been listening to the Fellows since I copied a cassette tape from a friend in 10th grade, memorized it, and idolized them. (I even did a lip-synch to "Searchin' USA" for drama class my senior year.) Some of the Fellows had a little side project with this guy Rob Morgan, and Rob eventually got his own backing band and became The Squirrels.

Living in Bellingham in the 90s was a lifestyle choice. Seattle was the logical stepping stone after you enjoyed college and finished up your play life in the small town. Bellingham wasn't really small, but it wasn't a big city either. It was the minor leagues to Seattle's big time status, especially after the grunge scene exploded and everybody wanted to move to the musical magical rainyland. Choosing The Ham meant you weren't into "all that" - money, success, prestige. Staying here meant you would always be small-time, and choosing to stay here meant you thumbed your nose at what Seattle represented. You were too cool to act cool, too real to sell out. I didn't want to pay the price of living in a big city: noise, traffic, crowds. And I definitely didn't care about success or money; I was far above all that. Going to Fairhaven College, an alternative slightly-hippie school, only cemented my ideas about life: money = evil, success is of the devil, and all that matters is this moment and being honest about who you are. Moving to Seattle was antithetical to everything I believed. So I stayed in Bellingham, and worshiped my favorite band from afar.

I first saw the Squirrels play at a UW show where they opened for the YFF. The sound at the show was far too loud for me (the bass was up too high), but I loved the theatrical display happening onstage. They had a drummer, guitarist, bass player, keyboard player, lead singer, each in some kind of costume, and a girl in a tight dress playing (seriously) the Slinky, all behind a bubble machine going full blast on the edge of the stage. One of their songs was a riff on the church song, "One in the Spirit." "We are one in the spirit, we are one in the lord," they sang, over and over, ending in, "and we're all coming over to your house for dinner!" I laughed and laughed. They mishmashed songs together in my favorite cover song tradition, playing pop songs until they broke and bending them into new compositions entirely. I loved what they did, and even though I got a migraine that night from the pounding bass, I knew I had found kindred spirits in love of music and mockery.

For the next 10 years, I went to every Squirrels show I could. I collected their gig posters, I bought their records, I worshiped from afar. I learned every word to every song, and at each gig I couldn't help but sing along. (Their music was usually loud enough that you could hide your voice.) They weren't hugely popular, but the people who loved them adored them. I saw a lot of the same people at every show: leather metal jacket with red hair, he and his buddy would always end up doing that square dance move where you lock your arms and jig in a circle. Sometimes the YFF showed up at the shows, and I knew some faces but never felt cool enough to talk to them.

On weekends, I went to see the Squirrels, and I spent a lot of hours driving the miles from Bellingham to Seattle, in my Ford Escort, my Toyota Celica, my VW Rabbit, my Toyota Tercel, even my mom's minivan once when I got a flat tire just miles from their house. I took Tony, Eric, Peter, Scott, Darrell, Jef, Jay to the shows. I crashed in Seattle with Erica, Sarah, Joy, and sometimes instead of driving all the way home, I stopped in Stanwood and slept on the couch at my folks' place, waking up blearily a few hours later to drive the last 45 miles home, stinking of sweat and secondhand smoke the whole way. When my younger sister visited me for Halloween, the Squirrels played an all-ages show on campus, just up the hill from my place. I took her to her first show, where she got hit on by college students at age 14. They played in Bellingham other times, too, and I got one of my favorite souvenirs (a Cabbage Patch Doll signed by all the members of the band) from a show they played at the 3B. My first real grown-up apartment had a full wall dedicated to my Squirrels memorabilia, and whenever they opened for another band, I broke the Rule of Cool and stood right in front of the stage and absorbed the music, even with no one else standing anywhere near me. They opened for Mojo Nixon at Speedy O'Tubbs once, and I got my friends to play duck duck goose on the empty dance floor as the band played.

Over time, the band started to expect me at their shows. One of their fans started up an email mailing list for fans of the band, and most of the band was included, too. I kept track of them and their shows through my email accounts: through my WWU student account, then hotmail, then gmail. If I didn't have a job or a car, then I missed shows unless I could convince someone else they had to see this band. Most of my friends didn't have the devotion to the Squirrels that I did, and would roll their eyes when I'd rave. Occasionally I'd pay for gas, food, and the show just to get a ride. When I missed a show, I'd read the email accounts of the shows enviously, and reply with my regrets. But most of the time I'd find a way to be there, regardless of sleep missed, secondary cigarette smoke inhaled, miles driven, couches slept on. Until about eight years ago, when I got married.

Though I'm sure he'd be happy to take the blame, I can't say that my husband made me start missing Squirrels shows. Maybe part of it was moving five times in five years. Maybe it was a casualty of going back to school for my MFA degree and spending two weeks in Los Angeles every six months, missing the Annual XXXmas show for three years in a row (heresy in my previous life). But I can definitely say turning 30 caused a severe drop in my energy level, and spending hours driving to a show and losing the next day to recovery was not as appealing as it used to be. I started really loving my sleep time, and I started choosing activities much differently than before. Living in Portland, then Shelton, etc., meant it was a longer trip, and to be honest, we were extremely broke and barely buying food, let alone paying for gas and tickets to shows. Most of the time, we couldn't make it happen, and my practical side knew it, but that other touchy-feely side wanted to go on a murderous rampage. I mean, what kind of a world wouldn't let me go see the Squirrels play? Not. Fair.

In a Norman Rockwell world, this essay would have a cross-stitch sampler on the wall: Growing Up Means Accepting That You Can't Always See The Squirrels Play. Okay, so that's true. But I never thought it would also include the end of The Squirrels. Now after 25 years of entertaining fans and newbies alike, they're giving up the ghost, they're done. Tonight's XXXmas show will be their last. They've threatened this before, and the band has gone through so many lineup changes that their reunion shows can feature more band members in the audience than fans. They've had their ups and downs, but I always thought they'd keep playing. They were one thing that stayed the same for me, for the last 20 years. No matter where they were playing, I'd find the place, walk in the door, and wait, sometimes by myself for hours, just waiting. Then they'd set up, and for those two or three hours they'd play onstage, they were my sanctuary, my home.

My husband and I bought a house last June, and in one of those little ironies that you'd swear someone planned, we moved to our new house on the day of a Squirrels show. After days of planning and stress, and a full day of physically moving everything we own (with help from our friends), there was no possible way I could get to the show that night without passing out or causing injury to myself or others. I was disappointed, but realistic. We love our new home; it's everything we wanted and more, and every day I feel more comfortable here. Over time, I can feel my muscles relax and ease up, muscles I didn't know were tense in the first place. I found a new home; now I can mourn the loss of the old one.

G'bye Squirrels. I'll miss you. You can all come over to my house for dinner, any time.