A little more than seven years ago, my life was in upheaval, to say the least.
Anyone who has experienced the breakup of their marriage can tell you horror stories of those first few months of sudden singlehood. It is a time of fear, loneliness and seemingly endless self-doubt.
Early during those dark days, I was working on a story that took me along Erie Avenue, past St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children and the Pennsylvania SPCA. On a whim, I pulled into the animal shelter’s parking lot, figuring I’d have a look around, and maybe pick up another story for the next issue.
Meandering past the cages, a kitten caught my eye. She was a tiny, multicolored fuzzball – smaller and skinnier than the other kittens in the cage with her – the runt of the litter.
I filled out the paperwork, which is nowhere near as easy as it sounds. The questionnaire to adopt a pet is more extensive, intrusive, and deeply personal than the forms I filled out to join the military. But a half hour later I was driving home with a kitten tucked in my shirt pocket, her little head sticking out and screaming bloody murder.
Since that day, Sophie and I have been though a lot together. She single handedly got me through the worst period in my life just by doing those things kittens do that never fail to make you smile.
Like the day I found out she wasn’t afraid of water.
I was taking a shower, merrily scrubbing away, when I turned around and there behind me in the tub, soaking wet and pitiful looking, sat Sophie. The constant pelting of the water didn’t seem to bother her, and she just sat there staring at me while I finished my shower. Stranger yet, she continued to shower with me at least once a week after that.
I know that dogs are supposed to be man’s best friend, and I do love dogs, but I suddenly found myself best friends with a cat.
My best friend died last Saturday afternoon.
Sophie wasn’t looking well that morning, but I wasn’t particularly worried until she started moaning. Not a meow, a moan. In a panic I took her to the University of Pennsylvania’s Veterinary Emergency Room, where a vet looked her over, took some blood, and asked me to wait outside. He came out a few minutes later with the bad news. She was in the advanced stages of feline cancer, and couldn’t be saved.
So, I had to let her go. The euthanasia procedure was quick and painless, and I spoke softly to her, stroking her head as she slipped away.
This week I called the hospital, officially the Matthew J. Ryan Veterinary Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, to find out if there was anything more I could have done, or should have done differently. I spoke to Dr. Reid Groman, who shared some practical advice for pet owners in time of crisis.
“It’s often a last second decision to come to the emergency room,” Groman said, “when people’s pets get sick after hours or on weekends, they’ll often try to wait until Monday to see their regular vet.”
I asked Groman about the warning signs – those symptoms that say go to the emergency room rather than wait until Monday.
“Vomiting, sudden loss of appetite, seizures or trembling, difficulty breathing or moving around - anything that looks bad probably is bad,” he said. “As you found out, sadly, sometimes there are no symptoms until the pet is in real trouble, but people should never ignore those things. If you’re on the fence as to whether to bring her in or wait until Monday, bring her in.”
Groman acknowledges that emergency room care, even euthanasia, can get expensive quickly. There are companies out there that provide health insurance for animals, believe it or not, and the five or ten bucks a month may seem excessive, but will pay for itself with the first emergency room visit.
Pets do much more for their owners than their owners do for them. It’s a rare and fortunate thing in this life for any of us to receive the kind of unconditional love, fierce loyalty, and undying affection you get from your pets. They don’t care if you’re rich, thin, or well dressed, and don’t ask for much besides canned food and an occasional scratch behind the ear.
If you happen to be near the Pennsylvania SPCA, stop in, find a friend, and fill out the paperwork. If your new friend happens to be a screaming little multicolored fuzzball, I hope you’ll consider naming her Sophie.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Comic Is As Comic Does
The honest truth is, I never liked the Mummers Parade.
The most vivid memory of the parade from my youth is how angry it made my grandfather. You see, back in the 1960’s, the Comic Divisions were still wearing blackface and strutting an exaggerated jigaboo shuffle up Broad Street, to the delight of thousands of cheering white Philadelphians. It was a scene straight out of Amos and Andy, with every ugly stereotype imaginable masquerading as lampoon.
Blacks who complained were waved off as overly sensitive whiners – always crying about some perceived mistreatment at the hands of the white man and incapable of good humor. They finally amended the policy late in the decade, but the entire Mummers Parade still stuck in Grandpop’s craw, and by extension, mine too.
I mention this politically incorrect slice of Philadelphia life only because in last week’s parade, the Mummers were at it again.
Comic brigade B. Love Strutters titled their performance “Aliens of an Illegal Kind”, and featured Geno’s Steaks proprietor Joey Vento.
Vento, you’ll recall, created quite a stir when he tacked up a sign in the South Philly cheesesteak emporium’s window stating, “This is America. When ordering, speak English.” Immigrants, foreign nationals, tourists and even some native Philadelphians were incensed, and the city’s Human Relations Commission mounted a weak, half-hearted inquiry that led nowhere. Vento, meanwhile, was hailed as a conquering hero by every flag-waving, immigrant-hating, my-country-right-or-wrong redneck for a thousand miles.
So, as the B. Love Strutters float labeled “Gewizno’s Steaks” cruised slowly up Broad, Vento popped out waving a poster reading, “What?” and tossed cheesesteaks to the adoring crowd.
Then, and this is my favorite part - an announcer yells, "Uh-oh, here comes the Border Patrol!" B. Love Strutters representing Border Patrol agents with cowboy hats and wooden rifles pretended to hold back a crowd of "immigrants" from storming the set up fences. As the immigrants broke free, they traded their country's flag for an American flag, and a Mummer dressed as President-elect Barack Obama handed out Green Cards.
Funny stuff, huh? As my daughter used to say, “So funny I forgot to laugh.”
Naturally, the blogosphere was instantly aflame with charges of racism and xenophobia, followed by counter-charges of “Well, they benefit from living in America, they should speak English!” and “It was the Comics! Can’t these people take a joke?” reminiscent of the brush off retort from the 60’s when it was used against those ever-complaining Black people.
In all candor, though, throughout this entire immigration brouhaha, the African-American community has been seemingly silent – but there are several factors that play into that.
As white folks love to point out, everyone in this country, save the nearly extinct Native Americans, are the descendants of immigrants. This is undeniably true. However, only the African came here not of his own free will, seeking a better life, but as chattel - destined to a miserable existence of servitude, torment, and hard labor. We are the original huddled masses yearning to breathe free, yet our greeting to these shores was not Lady Liberty and Ellis Island, but heavy chains and a heavier whip.
So forgive us if we aren’t hopping up and down about some dirt poor Mexicans swimming across the Rio Grande for the grand privilege of spending the next several years picking fruit for pennies a day. Our grandparents did more than their measure of sharecropping, and it’s not what you’d call the lush life.
The same howling, saber-rattling Americans who would build giant fences and close the border to anyone who isn’t from Europe would never think of getting rid of their beloved Consuela, who takes care of their bratty kids; or Raul, who faithfully trims their hedges every week.
They don’t look in the back of the house at their favorite high-end restaurant, where nearly the entire kitchen staff is comprised of hard working immigrants, many of whom speak very little English.
They don’t take notice when they drive past the farms and orchards of New Jersey and rural Pennsylvania - where the backbreaking planting, picking and packaging is performed by immigrants who rise well before dawn and work until they run out of daylight.
So no, don’t expect Black folks to come running when a controversy boils down to “us” versus “them.” If there’s one thing we’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that we are not included in “us.”
I wonder if next year the Mummers would sponsor a performance titled, “The Big Payback”, where Black strutters march up Broad Street whipping white folks at random and selling their children into slavery.
Not so funny now, is it?
The most vivid memory of the parade from my youth is how angry it made my grandfather. You see, back in the 1960’s, the Comic Divisions were still wearing blackface and strutting an exaggerated jigaboo shuffle up Broad Street, to the delight of thousands of cheering white Philadelphians. It was a scene straight out of Amos and Andy, with every ugly stereotype imaginable masquerading as lampoon.
Blacks who complained were waved off as overly sensitive whiners – always crying about some perceived mistreatment at the hands of the white man and incapable of good humor. They finally amended the policy late in the decade, but the entire Mummers Parade still stuck in Grandpop’s craw, and by extension, mine too.
I mention this politically incorrect slice of Philadelphia life only because in last week’s parade, the Mummers were at it again.
Comic brigade B. Love Strutters titled their performance “Aliens of an Illegal Kind”, and featured Geno’s Steaks proprietor Joey Vento.
Vento, you’ll recall, created quite a stir when he tacked up a sign in the South Philly cheesesteak emporium’s window stating, “This is America. When ordering, speak English.” Immigrants, foreign nationals, tourists and even some native Philadelphians were incensed, and the city’s Human Relations Commission mounted a weak, half-hearted inquiry that led nowhere. Vento, meanwhile, was hailed as a conquering hero by every flag-waving, immigrant-hating, my-country-right-or-wrong redneck for a thousand miles.
So, as the B. Love Strutters float labeled “Gewizno’s Steaks” cruised slowly up Broad, Vento popped out waving a poster reading, “What?” and tossed cheesesteaks to the adoring crowd.
Then, and this is my favorite part - an announcer yells, "Uh-oh, here comes the Border Patrol!" B. Love Strutters representing Border Patrol agents with cowboy hats and wooden rifles pretended to hold back a crowd of "immigrants" from storming the set up fences. As the immigrants broke free, they traded their country's flag for an American flag, and a Mummer dressed as President-elect Barack Obama handed out Green Cards.
Funny stuff, huh? As my daughter used to say, “So funny I forgot to laugh.”
Naturally, the blogosphere was instantly aflame with charges of racism and xenophobia, followed by counter-charges of “Well, they benefit from living in America, they should speak English!” and “It was the Comics! Can’t these people take a joke?” reminiscent of the brush off retort from the 60’s when it was used against those ever-complaining Black people.
In all candor, though, throughout this entire immigration brouhaha, the African-American community has been seemingly silent – but there are several factors that play into that.
As white folks love to point out, everyone in this country, save the nearly extinct Native Americans, are the descendants of immigrants. This is undeniably true. However, only the African came here not of his own free will, seeking a better life, but as chattel - destined to a miserable existence of servitude, torment, and hard labor. We are the original huddled masses yearning to breathe free, yet our greeting to these shores was not Lady Liberty and Ellis Island, but heavy chains and a heavier whip.
So forgive us if we aren’t hopping up and down about some dirt poor Mexicans swimming across the Rio Grande for the grand privilege of spending the next several years picking fruit for pennies a day. Our grandparents did more than their measure of sharecropping, and it’s not what you’d call the lush life.
The same howling, saber-rattling Americans who would build giant fences and close the border to anyone who isn’t from Europe would never think of getting rid of their beloved Consuela, who takes care of their bratty kids; or Raul, who faithfully trims their hedges every week.
They don’t look in the back of the house at their favorite high-end restaurant, where nearly the entire kitchen staff is comprised of hard working immigrants, many of whom speak very little English.
They don’t take notice when they drive past the farms and orchards of New Jersey and rural Pennsylvania - where the backbreaking planting, picking and packaging is performed by immigrants who rise well before dawn and work until they run out of daylight.
So no, don’t expect Black folks to come running when a controversy boils down to “us” versus “them.” If there’s one thing we’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that we are not included in “us.”
I wonder if next year the Mummers would sponsor a performance titled, “The Big Payback”, where Black strutters march up Broad Street whipping white folks at random and selling their children into slavery.
Not so funny now, is it?
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