animal joy
Welcome to Mommy’s El Camino.
When I wake up some mornings, it takes a few minutes before I remember all the bad things. It’s not that fascism is creeping—it’s here and has been here. For a few moments, though, it’s forgotten.
But you know who wakes up and never has to think about fascism? Animals. And my animals in particular are living their best lives.
Bikini, aka Kini, Kini Lee, Kiki, Kiki Lee
Tsunami, aka TsuTsu, Tsu, Tsunami Mami, Tsunami Lee
Coco, aka Cocolina, Cocolina Super Fina, Coco Baby, Coco Cacao
Sometimes I think back to what it was like to have a newborn baby (for me that was nearly 15 years ago), and it’s hard to recall exactly what made it so exhausting. It’s a baby! You just have to feed the baby, change the baby, and make sure the baby sleeps. It doesn’t sound too complicated. But when you’re doing it, you realize that it’s a 24/7 endeavor. Because the baby doesn’t keep the same hours as you, the baby wants to eat constantly, the baby doesn’t necessarily sleep, fussing requires attention and there’s a lot of fussing, plus there’s a lot of literal shit, in various colors, to deal with. When you’re not attending to one of these things, you’re attending to another. And that’s how you suddenly end up sleep deprived and awake from 3am to 11pm, catching a miraculous nap from 11:30-11:45, only to wake up and keep working at maintaining the baby. Keeping that baby alive and well.
Human babies and animals are different, but animal care makes me think often of newborn care.
I work from home and that means I’m the most present caretaker of three animals for most hours of the day. These three—two cats and a dog—are all seniors. The cats, who we’ve had since they were five or six months old, are now 16 years old. The dog, who we got at the beginning of the pandemic, is of undetermined age, but has a lot of gray hairs. She might be 10 or 11. The vet makes a guess based on her teeth, some of which had to be removed, giving her an enviable tooth gap.
The care of Bikini and Tsunami (our cats) and Coco (our dog) means I’m often in motion, at their service, when I’m not working. Like babies, I’m grateful when they nap (the afternoon is bliss).
Bikini, who has early renal disease and has survived a thyroid tumor and radiation, gets a dose of gabapentin once a day injected in her mouth. Tsunami is diabetic and has been getting two insulin injections a day for the last several years. I would never have guessed when we adopted them that I’d have the resources to be able to do things like have ongoing insulin prescriptions or radiation treatment. It’s an immense privilege to be able to afford these things for cats who we think of as our first babies, since we got them a full year before we had a human baby.
Coco is easiest, for now—she just needs to go outside and come back in. Like fifty times a day. She can’t open the door, and there’s no doggy door, so I’m doing the opening and closing of doors. When she’s lucky (and I have time, energy, and it’s not too hot), she gets a walk up and down the block. When she’s super lucky, we go to the beach or to the park (though our favorite park with the hills, rabbits, grass, lizards, and moles now costs $10 to enter in a car).
Bikini would like to snack all day long; Tsunami would like to eat her own food, Bikini’s food, and Coco’s food. Because the cats are on different ends of the endocrine issue spectrum, they have food specific to their conditions. This means we’ve had to figure out ways to keep them both away from each others’ food, and we often fail. Coco, meanwhile, eats twice a day.
So picture this: both cats get fed at roughly the same time, twice per day, 12 hours apart. The black one gets an injection through her skin; the tuxedo gets an injection in her mouth (and is understandably recalcitrant every damn time). The tuxedo cat asks for food all day, leading me into the kitchen whenever I stand up from a chair or the couch. When I close a door, the same cat will meow at it. When I come out, she walks me toward the kitchen. Then I must stay in the kitchen while she eats, because the black cat will take advantage of the food being on the ground. Replay this twenty times per day.
Then picture: a Chihuahua/Miniature Pinscher mix (with a dash of Dachshund, and a trace of pit bull), who leads me to the sliding glass door or the kitchen door to let her out, who rushes in and barks at every person or animal that passes by the house, who hears the word “bra” and goes wild (as in, “Should I put my bra on” which translates to “Shall we take Coco on a walk.”). Don’t say “bra”! And don’t say “walk” or “park”! Mostly this dog just wants to stay in bed much of the day though, and often under the covers. Who can blame her! It’s scary and annoying to be alive!
I am saving you from picturing the literal shit I have to deal with here. Just know that it’s also my job to clean the THREE litter boxes (because we were advised that dealing with one recalcitrant cat’s behavior issues might improve if there an extra litter box available).
These QUEENS.
These queens, though.
I love thinking about how we exist, in their eyes, only to serve them. To give them a life free of drama, needs, and harm. They “only” want food and water and a place to sleep and a place to poop. And providing these things is our pleasure. I like thinking about how they’re living my dream life: they don’t work, they live moment to moment, they don’t have to pay for ANYTHING. It’s like they were born into a life of ease—at least once they came to live with us.
Bikini and Tsunami are litter mates, sister kittens that were found in a drainage pipe on the Warner Brothers studio lot. Coco was pregnant, wandering a park in Long Beach, and it took three days before her rescuers could lure her to them.
The cats recently had a vet appointment, which is usually when I’m forced to see them as the mere mortals they are. I don’t know how much longer we get to have them as sentient beings with distinct personalities and behaviors that I’ve loved this entire sixteen years. The dog is still new to us, even after five years—there are things we discover about her, still. Like when we realized she likes drinking water overnight while we’re sleeping, when she’s not under the covers with us. Like when we realized recently that the only way to make her come to us is with a little clap (she NEVER comes when you call her, or kiss at her, or otherwise make any motion to come).
Longtime readers of this newsletter might remember that at one point, Bikini was “lost” (she was literally up against the house, behind a grill, in the tiniest place she could fit into). When she was missing, I “lost” my mind. My sobs scared my own mother. A little less than 24 hours later she was “found” by Coco, who kept sniffing at something behind the covered grill. That experience gave me a taste of the future loss. The loss I don’t want to think about, ever, but have to, as they age, as I age. I’ve sometimes even thought that when one cat dies, I fear the loss the other cat will feel.
But at least these three beautiful creatures don’t have to think about fascism.
My animals bring me joy everyday. All animals bring me joy everyday. They are immune to social media even as social media is filled with photos and videos of them. They go about their lives being themselves, while around them, so much is in the process of being altered and destroyed.
It sounds less precious to me every day that we, humans, must take pleasure in as much as we can. It truly is one method of survival. So I will continue in the laborious care of my animals, noticing as much as I can about how amusing they are, how delighted I am to be in their presence. Meanwhile, the fascists among us are cruel, ugly, and want to swallow everything that is in opposition to them. They get their own “pleasure” and “joy” from making people feel helpless, scared, and hunted. They have their own conception of “animals” which deeply disrespects humans and animals.
I look at my animal companions and think, You know nothing about what’s happening in the world, you are oblivious and immune! And I’m thrilled for them.
If you, a human, aren’t thinking about what’s happening in the world everyday, I’m not sure I can relate to you. I can relate to my animals more, perhaps, though they aren’t thinking about the past or the future. My animals, without knowing it, bring me so much simple pleasure. In some cases, more pleasure than humans. It’s this—pleasure, joy—that I’m certain the fascists want us to have less of. Take it wherever and whenever you can.
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