Football the cat

My cat Football is afraid of the heat in our new apartment. Yes, since I am apparently incapable of regulating my own body temperature, I have turned on my heat. It’s environmentally irresponsible to turn on my heat this early, I know this. But in my own defense, I don’t get hot, so I don’t use air conditioning. The girls get hot, but I make them lump it. Still, I have to listen to them. So I do go out of my way to protect the planet, but I can’t function normally wearing two sweatshirts in my house all day long, September or not.

So, Football. This is a story about Football. The heat kicks on and he hightails it into the kitchen to curl up on the linoleum. I’m not sure why this feels safe, but it’s also his spot for fireworks. For thunderstorms, he actually cries, so we wrap him in a blanket and sit with him, or carry him around. Or we tuck him into the covers of a bed. I know, he’s a cat. But he’s a really pathetically sweet cat who, despite having a big strong name like Football, just isn’t very brave.

He was the tiniest kitten I’ve ever had, so little that he scared me. The lady at the farm was going to give him to some college kid coming in the afternoon if I didn’t take him, and I couldn’t have that. College kids can’t even keep plants alive. He was too young to be with us, even Sparky the Big Gray Asshole knew this, and so he would grab the tiny orange kitten by the scruff of the neck and carry him up the stairs to us when he cried. We all followed suit and my mom started saying “That cat is proof that you need another baby.”

I was coaching the girls in flag football the fall that we got him and this is probably where the name came from. We threw around names like Favre, Lambeau, Packer, even Jon Gruden. I saw a theme developing and ran with it. “Let’s name him Football!” I thought that it was genius. The girls, even at six and eight, thought I was nuts. Everyone thought I was nuts. Still, the name stuck. My cousin Greggi commented once on how funny it was that we still call him that. Of course we call him that, that’s his name.

I should state for the record that, despite the name, we never kick him or throw him around. We do rub him on the TV for luck during football games (imagine that), but that’s the extent of his duties per the name. My mom got into the habit of putting dryer sheets in her rocker during football season, to rub over the cat during close games, to help with the static.

Truth be told, I love Football more than any cat I’ve ever had. He is the gentlest soul on the face of the planet. He doesn’t allow yelling, at all. It doesn’t matter if the yelling is “I am soooo freakin mad!!!!” or if it’s just calling the girls for dinner, its not permitted in our house. Football immediately runs to the yeller, climbs up near their face and bumps his face into theirs, trilling. As if to say “Be nice… (bump, bump…) We only cuddle and give kisses… (bump, trill in ear, scratchy nose kisses) Just be nice...”

I especially love that he does this because he is afraid of everything. He wouldn’t go into our old basement for nine months, just wrapped himself around my neck like a monkey and cried (without using his claws, mind you. He still has them, but he wouldn’t use them, ever.)

He still thinks that our dog Somewhere wants to eat him. We’ve had the dog for nearly a year now, and they may play on occasion, but Football definitely still thinks that she wants to eat him. He won’t even scratch the dog, and she asks for it, believe you me. He just swats at the air near her face when he’s had enough of her shenanigans.

So I sit here on my computer writing, with Football the cat curled up in my lap, hiding his face from the scary heater. When I lean down and say “Hi buddy…” he comes out of his hiding spot for exactly three seconds, just long enough to squeak at me gently, kiss my nose twice, and tuck back into being afraid.

Maybe bravery is overrated. It’s obviously not meant to be everyone’s purpose. Truthfully, I’ll take the gentlest soul on the planet any day.

The Zen of Choey

It’s ten pm and I’m eating guacamole for dinner, because my mom made it for me with avocados from my Aunt Carolyn’s avocado tree, and because I can. It’s an easy dinner, and I don’t want to create more dishes. I drop half a chip on the floor for Somewhere, who is begging on my right, and a few small pieces for Sparky the cat, who is sitting on my left. Sparky was on the computer desk, all twenty plus pounds of him, but I shoved him down. He was invading my space.

Somewhere inevitably finishes her chip first, and circles the back of my chair to take Sparky’s chips. “He’s going to kill you in your sleep for that,” I tell her as she crunches the small pieces, though we both know it isn’t true. Not that I don’t think Sparky has it in him, because he does. His nickname is The Big Gray Asshole. But Somewhere sleeps in a kennel, and he can’t get in there. Sparky is in the corner now with his gold eyes glowing, reminding me of the cat from Pet Cemetery. I’m talking to my animals like people. I should get out more.

“It’s a beautiful night for fishing. I’m just saying,” I text to my cousin Joey, but we all mostly call him Choey these days. He doesn’t answer me for a while, so long that I figure he’s gone to sleep.

“Yup. I’m goin fishin,” Joey texts me. I tape a note to the computer for my already sleeping children that says “Fishing with Uncle Choey. xo Mom,” and I high tail it out of my house.

I don’t actually fish, I just go along, help carry stuff, hold the light. They bring me a chair. I just like being out by the water and my cousin Joey makes me laugh way more than most people do. We just sort of get each other. Joey says that I’m the female version of him.

We sit and watch the moonlight play in flickers on the water. I think that they look like laser lights, but Joey says that out past his bobber, the lights look like showers of sparks hitting the lake. Its cool out, I have the hood of my sweatshirt up, but it’s nice. There aren’t going to be that many nights left to sit out comfortably and enjoy the night sky.

We talk about what we would let people do to us for a million dollars. I don’t know why we start playing this game, we simply jump around from story to story until we find things that makes us laugh until we cry. Being with Joey always makes me feel like I’m twelve years old. The sensibility from that time in our lives has carried over, and when we’re together, it’s as if we just never outgrew it.

Joey says someone could shit in his mouth for a million dollars. I cover my mouth, which is open out of both laughter and disgust, and I lean away from him in my chair. To make his point, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to the night sky. As we laugh until we cry, Joey says “I can brush my teeth in Jamaica, on my new damn boat.”

Choey has created a language. I’m not exactly sure what it is, some combination of Russian and Indian accents, with the occasional dip into Yooper. I’m envious of his ability to speak it and wish I could imitate him saying “Shut hole in face now.” When I try, Choey tells me “Zis can’t be taught. Zis just comes, it comes one day. Wait, not try so hard, Chelly…”


I don’t have a first memory of my cousin Joey. His father and my father were brothers, and we spent so many weekends at their house while I was growing up that my memories of Joey and his eight siblings fall into the category of always having been there.

Joey is the youngest of nine, and the closest in age to me out of all of my cousins in that family. At just over four years older than me, Joey was close enough in age to play with but old enough to be cool. He would baby-sit us when our parents went out to dinner. I remember watching Saturday Night Live for the first time with him, swearing for the first time with him. I remember that we did a lot of laughing.

Joey’s mother, my Aunt Patsy, passed away in the fall of 1994. I had the hardest time going into the church for her funeral, and when I finally did, I felt hot, ill, and dizzy. I leaned my head down and closed my eyes, and the image of blue herons flying around the loft of the old church appeared in my mind. I love blue herons, with their shy nature and knowing eyes. They calmed me down, made me able to sit in that church.

After the services, everyone gathered at my Aunt and Uncles apartment on Burleigh in Milwaukee. Joey and I took the bikes and headed for the park, where the Milwaukee River runs through at merely the size of a stream. We rode our bikes the short distance from the traffic and strip malls and world, and tucked into some trees along the river bank. I didn’t know what to say, so we didn’t say anything for a long time. We just picked at the grass and listened to the river. Then I told him about the blue herons I saw in the church, that they made me feel better, like she was somewhere safe.

“I’ve never seen a blue heron,” Joey said, casting his eyes down at his fingers playing with the grass. He looked like a little boy, I thought, but he’s a man. A man who just lost his mother.

Out of nowhere, a blue heron flew in through the trees, and landed in front of us in the river. We didn’t move, or talk. We just sat by the stream in the middle of Milwaukee and looked at the blue heron that suddenly floated in. It stayed for a few minutes, watching us, and then flew off again from wherever it came from.

“That was a blue heron,” Joey said to me.

“That was a blue heron.”

Joey and I have been close our whole lives, and then when I moved to Beaver Dam to be with my family on a daily basis, Joey and I drifted. I’m not sure what happened, he seemed to back away and I let him, figuring that not everything has to do with me, and that things have a way of coming back around. We were friendly and still had fun together, but we didn’t go out of our way to hang out like we always had. It stayed that way until this summer, when I struggled with a lot of different big life stuff. The storms of my summer left me ultimately happier and better off, but in certain respects, heartbroken. Joey saw this, watched it all build up and unravel. Suddenly whatever space Joey and I had standing between us was gone, and he was back. Just like he always had been, making me laugh and forget about life.

I didn’t get what I thought I wanted, instead I got what I was meant to have: My cousin Joey and I, bobbling in our little twelve year old universe together.

Last Sunday night, Joey and I are fishing at Edgewater Park, on the far pier. I love this park, and I’m a firm believer that it holds some special powers over the cosmos. I’m fairly certain that it didn’t let the summer come this year. I was watching the Packer game at home when Joey asked me to meet him for fishing. I was already recording the game, so I went. I walk down the small pier and sit on the bench seat next to Joey.

“Here,” he says to me, shoving something at me. I fumble around in the dark trying to find whatever it is. It’s a small foam piece, on a wire.

“It’s the Packer game!” I echo out onto the lake as I put it in my ear. Joey and I sit side by side and listen, doing our own commentary. We take the earpieces out for commercials. With 2:35 left in the game, the Packers are down by two. Joey says that this is the shit that Favre took care of and the kid better step up and make it happen. I grunt in agreement.

Joey leans forward for his soda and pulls the earpiece out of my ear. I gasp aloud, as if someone just threw a baby in the lake. Joey thinks my reaction is the funniest thing he’s seen all day, so he dangles the wire in front of me as I shriek “Joey, it’s the end of the game! Jesus, do you know me at all?”

The kid pulls it off, and the Packers take the lead, but the Bears come back fighting. When we hear Lambeau is on its feet, we stand too. The pier is wobbly and I stand there next to Joey, so close we’re nearly touching, listening to the Packer game from one of my favorite places on earth. I am certain that there is no place else I’d rather be.

Fair Weather Friends

I have been trying to figure out how it is that people can think that Brett Favre is a traitor.

He gave us sixteen years. Sixteen years of getting his ass slammed to the ground every Sunday. Two Super Bowls. He played sick, hurt, broken. He played in Americas un-friendliest stadium for Monday Night Football in front of the world, the night after his father died. He never missed a start.

But now, Favre isn’t a Packer. He went to the competition, so he’s the enemy. Never mind the fact that never once in all those years did he show us that he was anything but a straight shooter and a stand up guy. Or that he is his own man with his own set of fingerprints, who should be free to be the architect of his own life and his own legacy.

We expect him to remain faithful to his Packer fans, who throw stones when he plays the game he loves over the state line. He doesn’t throw them back. We loved him for his edge of your seat sensibility when he was here, but we hate him for it now. But did we ever love him, if we can turn so fast? Maybe we are the fair weather friends, who only cheer for him when he stands on our soil.

Collapsing Puppy Disorder

I’ve taken Somewhere to the dog park three times on this long weekend. It’s a sort of breakthrough for us, as we’ve been treading carefully with Somewhere when it comes to exercise.

As it turns out, I am the proud owner of a collapsing puppy, although the experts gave this disorder the snappy name of Exercise Induced Collapse (EIC). Basically, it’s a genetic defect that does not send a signal to her hindquarters after intense physical exercise. The only other symptom that occurs with a collapse is overheating, which the dog will pant off. It’s rarely fatal, but there is nothing that can be done for EIC. We must simply be diligent in watching her, and stop her at the first sign of wobbly legs. Severe attacks can leave some damage to the function of the legs, and I feel like we used up a few get-out-of-jail-free-cards already while we were trying to figure out what was wrong with her and how much exercise is too much.

It really sucks that this had to happen to her. The disorder is mostly linked to labs and lab mixes, and as it seems to be the case with the small percentage of dogs with this disorder, she is energetic, excitable, muscular, and truly an athlete. Before this began, I took her to the park nearly everyday, sometimes letting her run with her dog friend, but often just using the Chuck-it to launch the ball for her. She is extremely fast and never seemed to tire, and was up for a run regardless of cold or wind or rain. In hindsight, the only warning sign was her habit lying in puddles in the melting snow this spring, trying to cool herself off.

The first collapse Somewhere showed was this June. We were staying in Kenosha with my best friend Holly. I was working t-shirts at a softball tournament, my oldest daughter was playing ball, and my youngest was bouncing back and forth between the tournament and Auntie Holly’s house. Auntie Holly graciously took all of this on, as well as the care of Somewhere while I was out working all day. Somewhere constantly badgers her dog, Bella, another small lab mix who looks strikingly similar to my dog at first glance. Somewhere follows Holly’s toddler around the house, constantly kissing her, begging for her snacks, and near-missing her while trying to herd the baby into a stationary position.

It was the first really warm week we had of actual summer. I has finished my long weekend and was hanging out in Auntie Holly’s backyard. I mentioned getting packed up to leave and Auntie Holly turned to my daughter, her namesake. “That’s funny, Hol. You’re mom thinks she’s going to leave. She worked all damn weekend and fell asleep on the couch watching 90210 with me and she thinks that you’re going home tonight. That’s funny.” She turns to me. “You’re not going home.”

My youngest only smiled, and retreated into the house. I laughed. Yes, we would stay. If she wanted her house filled with the three of us and our puppy for another night, we would stay.

Through all of this, we were throwing the ball across Holly’s small fenced back yard for Somewhere. She is relentless. She will chase that ball until she collapses, literally apparently. She brought the ball over to us, and then stumbled, as if she was drunk. We both laughed a little, nervous and surprised. Somewhere still looked happy, a bit confused maybe, but fine. Then she did it again. Her back legs splayed out behind her straight, but as though they couldn’t support her. She didn’t seem alarmed, and walked toward us like a wet noodle. I asked Holly if she thought that maybe she got into something, ate something toxic, but Holly has her house and yard and her life toddler proofed. Somewhere was more likely to get into something at my house, and we hadn’t been there for days.

She was panting hard, so Holly ran into the house and got some water for her. She drank it all, and perked back up instantly, as if nothing had happened. Her legs appeared normal, and she was back to following the baby and Bella and bugging us with the ball. We chocked it up to dehydration and took her in, gave her more water. She truly acted normally so quickly that I would’ve questioned if it had really happened if I didn’t have Holly there to see it as well.

A week later, I took her to the dog park at dusk. It was warm and humid, but the sun was down and the air is as cool as it was going to get. Somewhere had had plenty of water, and I’d brought some along because she’s a snob who refuses to drink out of the communal dog bowl at the dog park. And may I say, thank god.

I chucked the ball for her, and she ran with her friends. Just like that, as if a switch has been flipped, her back legs were noodles. She noticed, but only that something was off. She was dragging herself over to me until I made her lay down. She was panting, so I gave her water. I put water on her body. And just like last time, she perked back up as if nothing happened. But I am not crazy, she couldn’t walk. She was dragging herself.

What the hell is wrong with my dog?

She was up and chasing her pit bull puppy friend, Tuesday, as soon as she was able. I stopped her. I took her home. She came in the door, ate dinner, drank more water, and picked up one of her favorite hobbies, tormenting Football the cat. She’s fine? How is she fine? I called the emergency vet number.

I was told that it was most likely heat exhaustion, that there was a rash of cases due to the sudden heat. I was told that some dogs handle the heat better than others. Get her to lay low when it’s hot, limit exercise unless it’s early or late, and push fluids.

It was going to be a long summer. I ran that dog at the park everyday for a reason. She’s energetic and loves to run, and we all like her a lot more if she gets her exercise. If she didn’t get enough exercise, she’s going to drive us crazy and I was going to have to figure out how to sell her on e-Bay from my phone. I was not very happy about this little twist, but not really concerned yet. We’d figure it out.

I make her lay low. It stays hot. But she doesn’t bring me the leash every five minutes. She badgers me about walks a lot less than I thought she would. We were moving that week, just across town, but I had to leave town again for three days for work before I moved. I was busy, and scattered. If I remember correctly, I was already having like no fun on a bunch of levels. But Somewhere had been so good, so I decided to take her with me across the street to return something and tell the neighbors when we were moving. We wouldn’t stay long. She could play with their little terrier, Skylar. It was late, nearly dark.

She chased Sklyar around their tiny yard for just over five minutes, and she went down. What surprised me, and her, was our neighbors reactions. They were scared. And now so was I, and so was Somewhere. She dragged herself over to me and collapsed on my feet. She looked up, worried, and I realized that we were scaring her.

“It’s okay, buddy.” I told her. “It’s all good. You’re okay. We’re getting you some water. It’s okay, girl.” I tried to sound sure, to feel sure. She didn’t believe me. She perked up with the water, and immediately ran for the porch where Skylar was being kept, then collapsed on her way down the stairs. I laid her down again, and when she perked up the second time I took her home. Within five minutes in the cool house, she was chasing Football the cat, eating and drinking normally, and being her usual goofy self. Still, I couldn’t shake the look on my neighbors faces, or how they shooed their nine year old in the house to protect her from what was happening to my dog. I frantically called the vet. They told me I could take her back out in heat and drive forty minutes to their animal hospital, where for the bargain price of 400 to 500 dollars, they would run some tests. I said no thanks, as once again she was fine. I called my cousin Joey.

Joey was the right person to call. I was really worked up. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t really have the sensibility for collapsing puppies. I’m generally all flowers and sunshine, and I don’t even like hospitals, or medical tubing, or deep scratches. This was a lot to handle, and the neighbor’s reaction made it clear that this was not okay. Joey told me to call his vet in morning, and that he would even go with me if it made me feel better. He told me to go play with my puppy and not worry. I felt better, because I knew I wouldn’t have to be alone, because I was really sure that there was something really wrong with her and they might have to put her to sleep. Joey just offered to go with me, which was perfect, since I’m not very good at asking for help.

I had to leave Somewhere at the vet. They could only get her in on a drop off basis, so I had to fill out a bunch of paperwork, talk to them and then leave her there. Our house was mostly packed and in a state of disarray. My mom had moved into some Senior apartments the month before, and my youngest daughter was at camp on the East Coast. Georgia took to hanging out with her cousins, which is what always happens in summer. When I came home without Somewhere, my gentle-souled cat, Football, clung to me like a monkey and mewed, and I figured he thought that I was selling off our family one piece at a time, and that he was next. So I sat down in the empty sitting room with him and cried too.

As it turns out, Somewhere is perfectly normal, which just shows that the vet didn’t spend enough time with her. She puts tennis balls in my refrigerator on purpose and puts herself in the kennel after she barks. She is far from normal. But other than a very slight elevation in her kidneys enzymes, which varies among dogs anyway, she was totally healthy. The vet mentioned the possibility of Exercise Induced Collapse, but she was going to have to do some research on where and how we could do this genetic test. I did some research on my own, and am positive that this is what she has. Onset of symptoms is typically 12-14 months, and she had just turned a year. We’ve avoided exercise, but not activity (like riding in the car) when it’s hot and humid, and she hasn’t had another episode in the heat. What’s also interesting is that when it’s warmer and sticky, she lays low. She doesn’t bring me her leash or bump me with her nose to go to the park. When it gets cooler, she’s back to nagging.

I don’t bring the Chuck-it much anymore. I feel like it disappoints her. She can only chase hard, her paws sounding off the grass like hooves, for a few minutes. She wants an hour. I’m redirecting her energy into playing with the other dogs. Truth be told, she could use a light duty job somewhere a few days a week, maybe stocking some shelves. She is under stimulated, and has taken up the hobby again of relocating our prized belongings without harming them. Still, we have to search for cell phones, keys, and clothing, anything we use often.

We’ve only had one more episode, teaching us the lesson that we cannot just let her run even when it is cool. She played for a little over ten minutes one night, running hard with some friends dogs after the ball, and collapsed. One of the dogs she was playing with wandered off in search of a greater adventure than a collapsing puppy with a scared owner, but the four month old puppy sat right down on the grass with us, leaning against both Somewhere and myself, as if to say that he was fine with whatever we wanted to do. I was surprised that such a young puppy could so totally understand the quality and concept of friendship.

And I suppose that I am growing into someone who can handle owning a collapsing puppy, because I’m doing it, and I’m getting better. She ran with a dog at the park the other night, and I watched her closely. I knew it might be too much running, but this time I didn’t panic. My eyesight is keener and I noticed the very first leg wobble. I laid her down and she patiently waited it out. She got up normally, and then slowed herself down. I guess that she’s also starting to understand that our lives just aren’t the same.