I mentioned in a previous post that I have an old house. By old, I don’t mean cool, mid-century-modern old, like with a little Pledge it’ll look like a Design Within Reach catalog in here. No, by “old,” I mean, didn’t-start-with-running-water old. Also, what is Pledge?
When I first toured the place, after noticing the more newly added walk-in closets upstairs and two-year-old central air, I checked out the basement. These are a dodgy proposition in any house, let alone one that’s been standing more than a century. Got lucky. It was in pretty good shape, the bones of it anyway, and it still is, considering its age.
In the basement were a number of storage areas added hastily by the family who owned the place for 80 years or so. The place had been rented out for about two years by the time I showed up. I can’t recall why the original owners had left it. I do recall the renters being unhappy to see me. I also recall them being even more unhappy to see me set free a black cat trapped in one of those storage areas.
It was an accident. I didn’t know. I was shocked, though, by the amount of cat shit stuffed in that room. It’s one thing to keep your pet in the basement – I guess – but another to never clean up after it, ever. She was desperate to get upstairs, probably out of curiosity more than escaping all that shit. It was a tiny space for creature meant to roam. Of course she wasn’t mine; I had to shove her back in there. I left, heartbroken by the everyday neglect of everyday people.
“I’ll take the house and the cat,” I said to my realtor. “The renters can leave her there after they vacate. I’ll check on her until I’m all moved in. Put her in the offer.”
“The renters would like to stay.”
“The renters are not staying.”
The cat’s really old these days. She was an adult when I moved in and it’s been 12 years now; in that time she’s gone through phases of hating me and hating me more. Cats, man. I respect her for it.
More recently I think she’s become senile enough to follow me around as though she wants my attention. This is new. I’ll bend down, pet her, she’ll bite, she’ll swat, she’ll follow again, I’ll try again. Her hair is getting gummy, matted in spots, falling out in chunks. I know what that means.
Love takes a lot different forms if you’re open to it. The hard part is appreciating it while it’s around. This old lady, this gassy old bag of bones skulking around the house like she was here when it was built, I’m just not sure I’ve noticed her enough.
And it’s getting late.
thingspeoplelookup.com 