Jim Morrison

One month ago, I got a new job - a lateral promotion that came with an office and a door. No more cubicle work-life for me. There are three walls, a lockable door, a wall of windows, and a view of the Capitol (along with a view of the Five Points MARTA station, "Upperground Atlanta" and a McDonalds that recently scored a 46 on scale of one to 100). This is the first time I’ve been in an actual office since 1985 when I shared an office with a chain smoker. Yes, this was back in the day when you could actually light up in your office. Needless to say, I never closed the door since the second hand smoke would have been worse than any first hand smoke I’ve ever had…in outside venues...on very rare occasions…usually involving adult beverages…every once in a while…don’t tell my mom.

So who cares about offices with doors? Apparently I do. The same week that I got an office with a door, our only remaining kitty cat, Rumi, died. And now all I can think about are doors.

I came in the back door that awful day only to find Rumi sprawled at the front door, paralyzed and in pain. I rushed him to Claremont Animal Hospital where some sweet stranger held the door for me as I rushed him inside. The Vet ultimately held open the back door so we wouldn’t have to carry Rumi’s remains through the waiting room.

In a cat-less home, doors don’t really matter. In a cat-full home, doors (and windows) do matter. The basement door always remained closed so that kitties wouldn’t get into the crawlspace and escape into the cruel world. The front door had to be quickly closed behind us for the same cruel world reason. The window blinds in the back bedroom had to be open so that the kitties could bird watch, but the window couldn’t be open because of, you guessed it, the unkind world.

The back door could only stay open as of recently because Small Carpenters at Large built Rumi a screened in porch with a sliding door. It quickly became Rumi’s favorite place to cat nap and sometimes Doc B. would even join him. The upstairs porch door always had to be closed so that no kitties could have the chance to jump to their deaths. But the windows could be cracked so that we could hear them meow and see their whiskered faces as we lounged. The laundry closet folding doors had to be at least half open since that’s where the kitty litter box was. Closets and cabinets were also good hiding spots for kitties – so before leaving each morning, we had to make sure we knew where the cats were – hopefully not closed up behind a door.

And of course every time the refrigerator door was opened, a cat would come running. Since we are mostly vegetarian, the cats were often disappointed.

So now that Rumi has died, and our house is pet-less for the first time in 25 years, you can see why doors are all I can think about. I must have been unknowingly putting out that vibe because besides the new office with a door, there were other door references that came my way. My yoga teacher’s blog post from the day after Rumi died, entitled wild beauty: making the abstract concrete, included numerous references to openings and closings with photos of doors. And then Kali and K-Sheila sent us this card:

Two more doors to mention – since Rumi died, I finally closed the door on the gym (still love you Core Body). I feel certain this will now allow me to fully open the doors to ashtanga yoga.

For Doc B. to close the door, she wrote this:

Rumi

5/30/2012

It has hardly been 4 hours since we brought you home in a box, this time not to stay. I’ll complete the vigil of your life with a trip to Paws Whiskers and Wags crematory tomorrow and a second trip to pick up your ashes when they call me. We used magic markers to decorate your white cardboard coffin tonight and read Rumi and drank wine and ate tuna fish and crackers and posted news of your death on Facebook and we cried and cried.

The first time you came home with me was a little more than 7 years ago – still a memory as fresh as if it was yesterday. After several cell phone conversations leading to a decision that I should come home alone, Carrie called me and reversed the decision and said you could live with us – adopt you and bring you home. Our other kitty boy Murphy had been gone about 6 months and we were still missing him, but just starting to imagine the possibility of making room for another feline in our home. Of course you would not be Murphy, but we would love you. For me that was clear from the time I laid eyes on you. You were in a cage in Pet Smart on Labor Day weekend. Your name was Marcus. You had a bad cold and seemed lonely. It was likely that you would spend the long weekend alone in a cage. You let me pet you. And you were beautiful and HUGE. HUGE was what Carrie said when I lifted you from your cardboard carrier. I had not realized how much bigger you were than our Maddie cat until Carrie’s reaction. Well – what could I do now? It is a holiday weekend and you were ours now anyway. Carrie demanded that you (and I) be quarantined downstairs for the next two weeks until your cold was better and there was no risk to Maddie. That first night you started out under the bed. But during the night you crawled out and laid on my chest and reached your paw to my face –I was a little afraid because of your huge claws, but I soon discovered that you just wanted to be petted, but only for a little while then back under the bed you went. We continued the routine and bonding for the next several days along with a daily search on my part to find some food that would appeal to you because you were not eating. For a little while chicken broth was the key, then ultimately “Cat Milk”, which must have been kitty crack because it was a habit eventually that you would wake me up early every morning meowing outside the bedroom door to demand it, that is until I weaned you off of it. Funny thing was that you never asked Carrie for it. If I was gone, no Cat Milk demands.

We had a routine for a while of putting claw covers on you. Plastic covers that came in a variety of colors that we super glued on. You didn’t seem to mind it too much and you did look cute with purple nails, multi-colored nails, whatever the whim of the month was. And you made clicking sounds as you tiptoed across the hardwood floors. That is until you pulled them off, which you set about doing as soon as the claw covers were in place. We always tried to distract you from this by giving you a couple of treats, but that was a very short and almost pointless distraction.

We called you our clown kitty sometimes. You asked for water from the sink and tub faucet. You were a wild cat sometimes, cornering Carrie in the kitchen. Then we found out you had thyroid problem and also that you needed more play time. A radioactive iodine treatment cured your thyroid problem (we missed you and you missed us while you were at the clinic) and play time was fun for us all especially once Dena bought “Da Bird” for you. You liked group hugs and being held like a baby. You were afraid of thunder and hid under the bed. You loved the new screen porch. You loved salmon and chicken and cheese. You followed us around the house and watched us, particularly if we were in the kitchen. You liked lying on the bed sheet and on the sofas between me and Carrie. You would always lie on my chest if I lay down on the sofa and covered up with the fish blanket. You liked lying on the table and picking at the hand-woven Tibetan kitchen rug – that drove Carrie nuts. You would let me kiss your whiskers. You would fluff your whiskers when you were happy. After the thyroid treatment you lost your purr for a while – so sad. It came back after a while, but not as loud. You would talk to us especially when we talked to you. You would come in from the porch that you loved so much if we asked you to come in. You were generally afraid of people and especially men and children. But you were not afraid of our dads. We called you RumDog, sweet pea, butter rum. We hated leaving you to go on vacation. Better for us to take separate vacations so that one could keep you company. We always put a shim in the screen door to make sure you didn’t get out, but you never tried to escape. You liked being an inside cat watching the world through the screen.

When we brought you back home tonight in your cardboard coffin, I put a shim in the screen door and then cried when I remembered that you are gone. I know we will be remembering that you are gone over and over again for a while. We will always remember you RumDog, maybe we won’t cry, but we will always remember your sweet, naughty, clown boy self and we will miss you. You took up so much space here – the house seems empty without you.