Day Two Hundred Ninety Eight

Growing Old is Not for Wimps Dog or Cat Owners

Andy and I are not entering gracefully into this new stage of our lives. As a matter of fact, we have set ourselves up, like never before, for complete disaster. We live with dogs that are designed to kill us - literally. Their drool is like patches of ice on the tile floor. And if one manages to step on your foot - well - let's just say there is a coroner in our respective futures who will be scratching his head wondering how we could even walk with such cracked phalanges.

Then there are the cats. Boo! comes up with all sorts of ingenious ways to kill me. Like squeezing her way into the bathroom every time I go in there. You're thinking, oh, every cat does that. But do all cats climb onto the shelf above the toilet and launch Kleenex boxes at the back of your head? Or hang from the shower curtain, pulling it down on your - - - head? I have to be the only person in the history of cat owners who leaves the bathroom with a concussion when all I wanted to do was ----.

What?
Those stupid boxes were in my way.
Sorry about your head...

Oh, and the constant weaving in and out of legs as we try to go from point A to point B. Fancy does the graceful in and out like we're a dancing duo.

Boo! just goes for broke - as in hip. I swear all my aches and pains are due to the contortions I do all day to just maneuver through life. I hate feeling so - old.

See, it's like this. Everybody in Andy's family pretty much bought the farm in their fifties or sixties. He considers himself living on borrowed time. I, on the other hand, have a family history of longevity. My maternal grandparents lived into their nineties - and my grandmother would probably still be alive; playing Bingo, if she hadn't eaten tainted kielbasa. My mother could have lived longer than eighty five years had she actually swallowed the heart meds prescribed to her, instead of just dusting the full bottle of pills on the shelf.

Therefore, I did not expect my current level of decrepitude until I was well into my eighties! When my father was my age, he was crawling around on his roof making repairs. I, on the other hand, cannot navigate a two step ladder - with handlebars! - without getting dizzy and needing oxygen.

I face this dilemma each time Dash or Boo! decide it's time to scare the crap out of the old lady by easily hopping to the top of the kitchen cabinets. I wouldn't care, and would leave them to their own devices, if it weren't for the heirloom ($12) vases sitting atop the shelf.

Plus, in a rare moment of Martha Stewart inspired home decorating, I thought it would be nice to have ambient lighting atop the cabinets. My solution? I tossed a few strings of white Christmas lights up there and - voila - my work was done. Those lights still work, but when plugged in, give off a terrible smell that makes us think the house is on fire. They are so dusty and greasy I'm sure they will ignite some day. But, hey, who tosses away perfectly good Christmas lights?

I am getting off point here. In my mind, when Dash or Boo! (no Ragdoll can jump that high and Fancy just doesn't feel the need to prove his abilities since, after all, he used to climb real trees...) find themselves in the danger zone, my alarm bells go off. I picture them getting entangled in greasy, dusty wires and pulling them down, along with a two-foot tall vase; crashing in a heap on the tile counter top and either being crushed by the weight of the vase or hung from the cords. (I was alone a lot as a child and consequently developed quite an imagination...) I get my two step ladder.

The one time Finn decides to be brave -
he had to be rescued.

The problem is, they can actually calculate how far I can reach. They move back just enough so I can't grab onto any part of their ferret-like body. Andy was watching this play out the other day with Boo! and saw me climb the ladder like I was taking on Mt. Everest. Since I still couldn't reach the little bugger, I was getting into position to heft myself onto the countertop. In one swift movement, he was at my side, like he was saving me from falling off a cliff. He stuttered, "You - you - you really shouldn't do that!"

In a split second, I went from thinking, "My hero! He doesn't want me to get hurt." to "Wait a minute! He's afraid I'm going to crack the damn tile!" I realized he wasn't so much worried about me and my wellbeing as he was the freaking countertop. I could see it in his eyes. What he was looking at was a slightly overweight (okay, fine, fat) little old lady with balance issues attempting to climb up onto the granite counter. What he saw was King Kong shattering all that plate glass into a gazillion pieces after tumbling off the Empire State Building.

Andy really likes our countertop and wanted a peaceful weekend - not one spent in the ER. He knew he could no more catch me than he could King Kong, so he called "cut" on the whole scene. I climbed down the two steps and turned to him and said, "Fine, you do it." At 6'2, he didn't even need the ladder. He reached up and effortlessly scooped up Boo! and handed her to me - covered in greasy dust. Doesn't anybody clean around here?