I have been a Debbie Downer this week, or, more aptly, a Debbie Even-Farther-Downer-Than-Usual, obstructing the Haus’ generally buoyant vibe (sustained by the insistent, mindless happy-go-luckyism of NotClooney, against which the boys and I do not have the energy to fight but to which we groove only reluctantly) with stormy-clouded moods and the tendency to dissolve into puddles of tears at a moment’s notice.
I weep for Tangerine, my ginger-haired friend of over sixteen years, who shuffled off this mortal coil at the ripe old age of seventeen. Tangerine (or “Tange,” as I always called her, because it rhymed with “Ange,” and every creature in my life must reflect me in one way or another) was the first pet I ever belonged to, who began my adulthood-long love affair with all things feline, and who was, as my dead Grandma Angie (whom I did not, interestingly, call “Grandma Tangie”) used to say, “a real pistol.”
Tangerine acquired me in Austin, Texas in the fall of 1992. My friend Bev was an SPCA volunteer who had struck up a friendship with Tange during Tange’s stay there and eventually was successful in adopting her out. Twice. Tange was returned to the SPCA. Twice. For—I paraphrase—“being a bitch.” Bev of course decided that that made her the perfect pet for me.
I resisted at first. I predicted—quite rightly, as it turned out—that I would have to move back in with my parents after graduating, as a Master’s degree in journalism, during the economic recession brought on by the policies of the first President George Bush, contributed to only marginally more fruitful employment than a Master’s degree in journalism does now, during this recession brought on by the policies of the most recent President George Bush. My parents, however, hated animals. We never had any pets growing up (beyond the goldfish we won every year at our church carnival, who invariably died on the ride home from the carnival, floating lifelessly in the water-filled plastic sandwich bags in which we always hopefully-against-all-hope transported them to their exciting new lives with the Pandolfo sisters) because, according to Mr. and Mr. Monopoly, pets smelled bad, shed snarly hair and flaky dander all over the house, scratched and peed with abandon, and brought comfort and joy to everyone whose lives they touched, so clearly they were completely undesirable. I would not be welcome back to Casa de Monopoly if I arrived with cat in tow, no matter how bitchily, orangely adorable she was (and she was). I pictured Tange and me living on the mean streets of Wanaque, with only each other’s considerable bulk for warmth during the brutal north Jersey winters, lugging our sad carcasses and everything we collectively owned to the endless zoning hearings and school board meetings we’d be covering as stringers for whatever half-assed weekly community newspaper would deign to hire us. It was not a pretty picture.
Unfortunately, Tangerine’s alternative was even less pretty. The SPCA shelter at which Bev volunteered was not a no-kill shelter. That lay a bit heavy on my conscience, so I agreed to foster Tangerine—to give her a place to live and to socialize her so that the next time she was adopted, it would stick. Of course, our genius plan did not take into account the fact that I am perhaps the least likely person on the planet to de-bitchify anyone, and so after two weeks with me, Tangerine was ruined for the remainder of the human race. She was haughty, spoiled, mean, loud, and angry, absolutely everything I required in a companion. We prepared ourselves to live in a refrigerator box in Jersey come June of ’93, but, since it was still September of ’92 and we were still in Texas, we made the most of our time with a roof over our heads.
