Jake

For anyone who ever reads anything I write on my blog, or on Facebook, you know all about Jake. Jake is my incorrigible cat, who has been documented in innumerable photos over the past 12 years--usually in strange places and/or positions. As one friend commented, "If I fits, I sits." That was Jake's motto from day one.

There are a bunch of stories that Jake has figured in over the years. Just recently, I related one where he alerted to something we hadn't noticed: a squirrel swimming for his life in an ice tub on our patio. (We saved the squirrel) Another was a photo-story of Jake's love/hate relationship with Carlotta-- a neighborhood cat/seductress who would tempt Jake at our living room window till he was jumping out of his skin. Yet, when he pressed his nose against the window, she hissed at him and walked away. Love was cruel.

He used to hide behind the screen of my laptop and try to catch my fingers as I typed. When a photographer came from the Washington Post, no less, to photograph me for an article on my appointment as poet laureate, Jake decided that he should be featured. As I posed in front of an impressive bookcase, Jake slipped into the room and leapt to the shelf behind me. The photographer cried, "Yes! Yes! Perfect!" and snapped the picture. Need I say who looked best in that shot?

In any case, it has always been clear who was running things in our house. Whether it was catering to his finicky tastes, disguising his medicine in crab or shrimp, or figuring out who had first claim to the real estate at the foot of the bed,  we generally knew Jake would have his way.

And now...now,  Jake isn't himself anymore. He does a lot of sleeping, very little eating, and a lot of throwing up. The vet says he has cancer, and the sonogram backs her up. He has had a shot of steroids that makes him a bit more comfortable, and he is eating, at least today. But we all know this is temporary. We brought him home for the weekend, but have decided that the kindest thing we can do for Jake is to let him go. Life is not so great for him now, and it only promises to get worse. I love him enough not to want that for him.

So, until his appointment on Tuesday, he has unlimited access to my lap, a place near my feet in the bed, as much shrimp he can eat--and I won't even yell at him as he criss-crosses his way down the steps in front of me in the morning. I'll miss him.

(And this is one of his poems..and a couple pictures. I'm still looking for the one in the crockpot, and so many more. He should have his own album.)

Working from Home

Today, when the office-bound

embark on their trek through

a wilderness of cars,

I grab a cup of tea and head for my first meeting.

Jake (my silent partner) and I

evaluate the tasks for the day

and devise a plan of action.

 

deal with the financials,

communicate with principals,

assess the status and needs

of ongoing projects

and alter timelines as needed.

Jake naps.

Today, when the office-bound

work through lunch,

scrambling to meet deadlines,

Jake and I move on to

supply and maintenance,

taking inventory, making lists,

selecting and transporting,

applying new techniques

and old-fashioned effort

to the job.

At least, I do. Jake gazes out the window,

considering product development:

the invention of a squirrel repellent,

or an electrified birdbath

to annihilate the competition.

This evening, while the office folk

celebrate productive days,

take stock of losses,

and plot tomorrow’s course

at various happy-hours,

Jake and I, in our well-ordered house,

consider our accomplishments  

and congratulate ourselves

on jobs well-done:

he with Friskies Party Mix,

me with my glass of wine.