Lasts

When my Aunt Izzy was very old, she and my Uncle Mel had to replace their refrigerator. They were people of deep religious faith, and in Aunt Izzy's case, that faith was coupled with a wide stripe of pragmatism.

Image, copyright Teece Aronin

"Mel, just think," she announced, clapping tiny, arthritic hands together, "this should be the last refrigerator we'll ever buy." I never heard whether my uncle embraced her realization as enthusiastically since she might as well have told him that the grim reaper was holding the refrigerator warranty and an extended warranty was not available. 

No doubt her enthusiasm had a lot to do with a conviction that something more rewarding than major appliance-shopping awaited her after death. Years later she put her faith where her mouth was by proving herself fearless of death. As she lay dying, she looked around her room at all the family bustling in and out, sobbing and waiting on her and sighed, "Oh, I'm having the most wonderful death!"

In 2014, four years before he died, Philip Roth, the last of a human chain of brilliant American writers which included John Updike, Saul Bellow, Kurt Vonnegut, Bernard Malamud and a doll's handful of others, made this pronouncement: "I can guarantee you that this is my last appearance ever on television . . . absolutely my last appearance on any stage anywhere."

He got around that by granting interviews via email and in his home. But still, that appearance may well have been the last - of a kind. Being one of your country's most treasured novelists, can make it hard to sever all ties to the limelight. 

I say all that to say this: Lasts are interesting things. Whether it's your last refrigerator or your last television appearance, the last anything is a small death. 

All the Petty Horses

A couple of weeks ago, on a walk with my daughter, Sydney, I asked, “What are you doing when you’re most happy?” Without pause, she said, “Horseback riding.”

Copyright, Teece Aronin

Syd has taken riding lessons off and on for about four years. Miraculously, she has yet to fall off or be bucked by a horse. I think this might have something to do with the fact that the horses instructors usually pair people up with have more in common with leaky old pleasure boats than with Triple Crown winners - and I mean leaky literally. Still, my daughter sits a horse like a pro even if the horse looks like an amateur.

One thing I've learned about horses is that they have personalities - interesting personalities - as often as not, more like Mr. Ed's than Silver's or Trigger's. Mr. Ed, by the way, was the slow-talking, trouble-making Palomino from the 1960's sitcom bearing his name. In one episode, he provokes his human, Wilbur until Wilbur blows his stack, after which Ed gently scolds in motherly tones: “Wilbur, you yelled at your little horsey.”

One day, a picture I was taking of Syd with a horse, turned into a step-by-step tutorial for horses on how to photo bomb. It began with the horse standing placidly alongside my daughter and progressed with it systematically pushing her out of sight with its head. I remember Syd trying to mount that horse one day. It waited till she was about to put her foot in the stirrup before stepping forward two steps. When Syd adjusted her position and attempted the mount again, the horse took two steps back. This went on until the horse grew weary of the game and allowed Syd to mount. The horse, however, had made its point.

My grandfather broke horses for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He said that when saddling horses, he’d resort to kneeing them sharply in the belly, forcing them to expel the air they’d pumped up with to keep the saddle from getting sinched too tight. I can't say I blame horses for that, but when my son was little, he nearly fell under the galloping hooves of a horse who had managed to get away with that trick.

Now that we've established the sneakiness of some horses, let's consider those who take attitude to a whole new level. For instance, this is a made-up story, but not by much because you can't tell me something just like this hasn't happened: 

Say there's this horse named Bucky. No one at the farm likes Bucky because he didn't come by his name without cause. Bucky is just plain nasty, and if he can throw you, he is filled with pride. If he can throw you and then step on you, he's thrilled.

A new farmhand comes on board. He is cocky and boastful. He claims he can ride Bucky without being thrown. The farmhand mounts Bucky, and Bucky takes off like a shot, disappearing over a nearby hill, rider barely attached. When Bucky reappears, zooming up the rise of the next hill, it is with an empty saddle.

I love horses, I really do, and used to ride from time to time. The squeak and the scent of saddle leather, the rolling movements of the horse beneath you, the sound of clopping hooves - all those things are like nothing else, and I can see why Syd loves horses too.

I just pray she'll know a Bucky when she sees one.

What's New, Silas?

Our cat, Silas is a brat - a big, orange-furred, basketball-esque brat. Silas operates under the conviction that everyone who sees him, loves him and that his charm will get him out of every scrape. 

Silas used to be right.

Kitty in a Nightcap. Image by Teece Aronin.

There are a lot of things Silas used to be - a baffled, innocent wisp of buff fluff, nestled in my cupped palms, for instance. As he grew older, he grew bolder and oranger, throwing his weight around with an "I've-been-on-the-planet-for-under-a-year-and-already-you're wrapped-around-my-little-polydactyl-thumb" kind of attitude. 

Silas didn't only grow older, bolder, and oranger; he grew bigger. His head outweighs most cats. He enjoys waiting until I've climbed into the shower to start pounding at the bathroom door. Because he's huge, I can't tell if he's clawing the door, battering the door with his head, or swinging a mallet at the door, because with Silas, all of those things would sound the same.

At the end of the day, he climbs into bed with me then jumps down a minute later. Then he’s back up, and then he jumps down. This happens half a dozen times while in between, I stroke his face and coo to him to lie down.

Once, by some miracle, I'm sleeping, and Silas is satisfied that I'm deep into the REM stage, he pussyfoots across the top of my pillow, stepping on my hair and pulling it hard until he reaches the nightstand. The nightstand is where my lip balm, ibuprofen, earrings, and water glass beckon to him like sirens on a tabletop shore.

"No, Silas," I mutter. "No, honey. Come here. Come here, Silas. Silas, leave those alone. Would you cut that OUT?  Silas, don't make me come over there. Silas, please! Silas, I mean it!" Ten minutes later, he's at it again, this time pausing to chew on the tag I'm afraid to cut off my pillow for fear of arrest. 

In the morning, I wake, exhausted. Silas is next to me, sleeping sprawled on his back. I dress for work. On my way out the door, I start the song "What's New, Pussycat" by Tom Jones with the CD player set to REPEAT TRACK. I wave toodles at him and slip out the door.  

I plan to work late that night.

We'll talk it over at bedtime.