Headed for the Hoosier State

Tomorrow I'm flying "home" to see the family. My last trip there was in early August for my 30-year high school reunion. I stayed for 8 days and got the chance to lazily hang out with my parents and sister et al.

This time it'll be an annoyingly short trip. I fly in Thursday evening and back out Sunday afternoon. I had to get a "sub" for my Thursday afternoon class at the High School Pretending to Be a College. At the Big Giant University, I had the freedom to call off class a couple times a semester, and rather than "deprive" the students, it came as a nice break for them to try to get caught up with things. A mental health break for all of us. Ah well...them days is gone.

Scott will be left alone, again, with Hankie, who has taken on a new ghoulish habit. While I was in Indiana in August, Hankie began going to our closed bedroom door around 5 a.m. and howling. A loud, hideous, gutteral howl that seemed to translate into "Someone has my balls squeezed tightly into a pair of needle-nosed pliers AND are simultaneously dipping all 4 of my paws in hydrochloric acid." Scott was awakened from a deep sleep and ran to see what was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. It was just a skinny, 8-pound, 19-year-old cat apparently looking for "him mommy." Scott petted him and reassured him that all was well and Hankie went back to sleep in one of his designated spots in the living room.

That was August. I came home and the howling has happened off and on since then. It is impossible to ignore. Which brings us to October and our deep exasperation with our self-appointed "furry alarm clock" as Scott calls him. Now, every single early, early morning Hankie comes to call. 4:00 a.m. 12:48 a.m. Never any later than 5:30 a.m.

You might be thinking that if we'd just leave our bedroom door open, he'd find us home when he does his demonic Avon Lady routine and he could step right in and try out his sample lipsticks on us and that would be that. But neither Scott nor I can deal with an animal crawling over us unexpectedly during the night. Unless it happens to be one of us.

Scott strongly encourages me to ignore Hankie's dead-of-night pleading. We can break him of this habit, he says. But there are 2 obstacles to this plan:

1. My maternal instinct, even though it may be tiny enough to fit into the armpit of a praying mantis, tells me that my "baby" is in despair.

2. My bladder, small enough to fit into the other armpit, cries out with its own netherworldly howling when it is awakened.




So the scenario goes something like this:

Scott and Candy, soundly sleeping.

"MRREEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWLLLLLLL!"


"MMMMMMMRRRRRRREEEEEEEOOOOOOOOWWLLLLLLLL!"

Thought Clouds Above Both Our Heads: "Nobody move. Don't let him know we're in here."


"MMMMMMMEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLL!"

Scott: "Ignore him."

Candy: "I'm dying! I have to pee!"

Scott: "Wait 5 minutes. Wait until he goes away. Don't reward him."

Candy: (waiting, gritting teeth, shifting positions, thinking of desert sand and cacti and dry, dry things)

Candy: "He's gone. I'm going now."

"MMRRRRRREEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLLL!"

Candy: "Hell. Dammit. I'm still going."

I try hard to follow the protocol. I refuse eye contact with Hankie. I do not pat his head when he follows me to the bathroom. I do not feed him. I snub him. I show him who's boss. I walk past him in a cold Nazi goose-step on the way back to bed. I glance sideways. I see his pleading eyes, his skinny little body, the forlorn tilt of his head.

I give in. I turn on the kitchen light. I feed him. I scratch his ears. I whisper to him "This never happened."

Thus, the die is cast for the next night.

And if you're wondering if Hankie is crying out from hunger because we've left him no food, think again. He is never without at least one bowl of dry food, 2 saucers of canned food, and a "nightcap" of milk. He simply wants to make us his bitches.

I've read everything I could find online about elderly cats who meow loudly at night. The consensus is that very old cats get either a) senile or b) gradually deaf and blind. Both conditions make for an insecure, house-wandering kitty who needs to find his owner.

Hankie has been losing his hearing for a few years. He hears very little now. He wobbles a bit when he walks. He is far, far into his golden years. He needs some middle-of-the-night reassurance from his family. And somewhere on his neural turf is a neon sign that says "Wake them up. You have something to tell them."