Ava and Taco Cat (9 page)

Dad and I were in the car running errands, and I asked him if we should have put up Found Cat signs.

“Ava, we didn't
find
Taco. We
adopted
Taco.”

I told him that Zara had asked if I knew who Taco belonged to before us.

Dad patted my knee. “I doubt Taco thinks he ever belonged to anyone. I bet he thinks
we
belong to him. We're the ones who feed him, right?” I nodded. “Maybe he thinks
he
owns us!”

We talked about how pets aren't property, and I told him Ben's jokes about cats versus dogs. Dad told me that in ancient Egypt, cats were revered as gods, mostly because they killed the mice and rats that were spreading disease and eating up all the grain.

Ava, Owned by Taco God

P.S. Maybelle is coming for a sleepover. Y-A-Y! First time in a long time!!

Maybelle brought a laser light with her. It made a red beam, and Taco chased it everywhere, even up walls. (We were careful not to flash it in his eyes.)

Pip was in the kitchen illustrating the V rhyme she made me write:

V is for viperfish.

The viperfish has sharp teeth and shines its own light,

It swims deep down by day but less deep at night.

Pip is worried that we won't finish in time, but after dinner, I told her to come outside with Maybelle and me, and she did. The three of us bundled up and went to look at the stars. Maybelle started talking about life in outer space and that French space cat. I said that in science we learned about “inherited, acquired, and learned” traits. For instance, if Taco hadn't had certain private parts snipped off, he could have had kittens, and some of his kittens
might
have been taco-colored (inherited), but none of them would have been born with a bitten-up ear (acquired) or playing Jenga (learned).

This morning, Taco found a diamond of sunlight and lay down on his side. Maybelle joked that it was a “rhombus” of sunlight and said he looked like “a breaded pork chop.” That made me laugh, but I have to admit that if Zara had said the exact same thing, I might have wanted to punch her face. (Not that I would have.)

I said that when Taco sits with his paws tucked in, he looks like a golden loaf of bread.

The twins came over (wearing orange sweatshirts), and we played Slow Down/Speed Up. Pip and Maybelle were eating cereal, and when Carmen said,
“¡Más lento!”
they lifted their spoons in slow motion, and when she said,
“¡Más rápido!”
they shoveled cereal into their mouths, spoonful after spoonful. It was funny—but I was glad Mom and Dad weren't watching.

Sometimes I wish I really could slow down time because I like being a kid. Especially when everyone is getting along.

Does
growing
up mean
growing
pains?

Actually, I think Pip likes being thirteen more than she liked being my age, eleven. She used to be moodier and more
temperamental
(a hard bonus word because of the “a” between “temper” and “mental”). Now she's happier—which is better for her and for us. But she still has her moments! And she's been stressing about finishing the fish book on time.

Taco was sitting in the living room with his left paw stretched out in front of him. Maybelle said, “He looks like the king of the beasts.”

I said, “Or the prince of the beasts.”

Lucia asked, “Has he purred yet?”

Pip said, “Yes! For me and Ava and Maybelle!”

We told Carmen and Lucia to go up to him very slowly and brush him very gently. And sure enough, instead of bolting, Taco let them brush him. After a long, long while, he even turned on his
rumble
bumble
rumble
bumble
motor and started purring and vibrating. Lucia pressed her ears against his side and he didn't run away!

“Más rápido,”
Lucia whispered, and then,
“Más lento.”
But Taco didn't speed up or slow down. He kept purring at his very own speed.

Ava, Whose Cat is Purrrrrfect

I'm really worried about Taco!! After Maybelle and the twins went home, Dad and Pip went to a matinee, and I noticed that Taco started acting strange. His bathroom door was open, and he was going in and out and in and out. He was also crouching as if he had to pee but couldn't. His little behind was all quivery, and he looked at me with his big round eyes and gave a melancholy meow as if to tell me something was wrong. It seemed like he was even trying to pee
outside
his litter box, which he never does.

I went into the bathroom and saw a couple of tiny pink drops on the white bath mat. I didn't want to get Taco in trouble, but I thought I'd better tell Mom.

But she wasn't home! I remembered that she'd gone out for a walk with our neighbor, Mrs. Farris. I called Mom on her cell phone, but then I heard her phone buzzing in her purse—she'd left it on the kitchen counter!

Taco looked up at me—but not with a love-blink, more like an anxious expression. I was trying to figure out what to do—stay with him or get help—and decided to put on my coat and boots and run to the park and find Mom.

At first I couldn't find her anywhere. Then I saw her way ahead, so I ran and ran and caught up to her.

Mom seemed surprised to see me. I told her about Taco, and I don't know what I expected her to say, but I did not expect her to say, “Ava, we need to get Taco to the clinic
immediately
.”

“But it's Sunday!”

“Let's hurry home. I'll call Dr. Gross, and you get the cat carrier. We have no time to lose!”

We said good-bye to Mrs. Farris and ran back. Mom called Dr. Gross, and I got Taco into his carrier and held him on my lap as Mom drove. Mom and I both kept telling Taco things like, “Don't be scared,” and “Dr. Gross is going to take care of you.”

Now we're at the clinic, which would normally be closed. If regular people have a Sunday emergency, they have to drive to the animal hospital twenty-five minutes away. But Dr. Gross told Mom he'd meet us here.

It's strange to be sitting in the empty waiting room. It's hardly ever empty. Mom said I could watch the “procedure,” but I was afraid to. I knew it would be better for me to write in you.

Writing always helps.

I'm actually writing with the “magic pen” Dad gave me, the silver one from the Dublin Writers Museum in Ireland, the one I almost lost. I barely use it anymore because I don't want to lose it again. But I grabbed it for luck, just in case.

Taco may need all the luck he can get!

Why is it taking so,
so
long? I don't like this!

Ava, Agonizing

Poor Taco Cat has to stay at the vet's
without
us! He's back in a cage! On the drive home, Mom said that because there was blood in his pee, they have to be sure he doesn't have a “urethral obstruction” which can be “extremely serious in a male cat.”

Mom always sounds different when she talks about animals.

She said Dr. Gross remembered Taco because of his “distinctive coloration” and the “lacerations” on his ear. He gave him an “antibiotic injection,” “anti-inflammatory medication,” and anesthesia. And Taco conked out, which meant that at least he couldn't feel anything. Mom said Dr. Gross did a “bladder radiograph” and “urine analysis” and blood tests too, because he had a UTI.

“UTI?”

“Urinary tract infection,” Mom said.

“Is that bad?” I asked.

Mom looked somber. “In some cats, it can be fatal, but I think Taco is going to pull through just fine.”

“I'm scared,” I said.

“I know,” Mom said.

“Is Taco going to be okay?” I whispered.

“I hope so,” Mom said, even though I'd wanted her to say, “Yes, of course!” She added, “Dr. Gross is an excellent vet.”

I nodded but felt like sobbing. “Is this all going to cost a lot?” I asked. I don't even know why I asked except that Mom and Dad sometimes worry about money, so I sometimes do too.

“Dr. Gross will give us a discount,” Mom said. We were quiet for a moment, then she said, “You know what else he told me?”

“What?”

“He thinks having a pet has been good for me because it's given me a greater understanding of how our clients feel when they have an emergency or an end-of-life decision.”

“We don't have an end-of-life decision!”

“No, I don't think we do.” Mom took another peek at me even though she was driving. “But I guess I never fully understood how
attached
people get to their pets. I never had a pet growing up.”

“I know,” I said, then added, “I'm sorry,” because I felt sad for Mom-when-she-was-a-girl.

“I really
did
want a Dalmatian puppy,” Mom admitted. “My best friend's dog had a litter, and she wanted to give me one.” Mom smiled a soft, sad smile. “You know, when I first started working at the clinic, I was surprised by how much everyone talks to the animals.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, just now, Dr. Gross said, ‘Don't worry, Taco. You'll be your old self again soon.'”

“
You
talk to Taco.”

“I know. But I never thought I would.”

It was nice talking to Mom in the dark car. “When will we know for sure that we don't have an end-of-life decision?” I kind of wanted a guarantee.

“Ava, you did everything right. Taco let you know that something was wrong, and you let me know, and I let Dr. Gross know. Everything's going to be okay.”

“Promise?”

“I can't promise.”

“Mom, you know how cats have nine lives?” My voice cracked. “What if Taco has already used his all up?”

We were turning into our driveway, and I hated that he wasn't with us. I pictured him on the arm of the sofa, pricking up his ears, hearing our car, and heading over to greet us at the door. “Think about it!” I said. “He got attacked by a coyote,
and
he had a peeing problem—that's
two
lives in
three
weeks! What if, when he was a kitten, he fell off a roof, or picked a fight with a raccoon, or—?”

Mom drove into our garage and parked. Then she opened her arms and gave me a hug. For most moms, that's probably no big deal, but my mom is not very huggy. It's not part of her inner nature. Her mom, Nana Ethel, doesn't hug at all. She gives stiff little pat-pats that are the
opposite
of bear hugs.

I hugged Mom back and wondered if, as Dr. Gross said, Taco really was softening her up. I also wondered this: If Goldy Lox had died
now
instead of two years ago, would things have been different? Would Mom have let us give him a proper burial in the backyard instead of flushing him down the toilet?

Well, “what's done, is done,” I thought, which was me quoting Dad quoting Shakespeare.

Mom and I walked in, and Dad and Pip were right there
dying
wanting to know everything. (I can't believe I wrote “dying”!!)

Mom told them that Taco had been “straining to urinate” and that I had done “everything right.” She said we'd get test results soon and, if all went well, we'd get Taco back tomorrow. We'd have to give him medication and “modify his diet” and get him to drink more water. Mom said it's good Taco likes to drink from faucets since our house is heated and the air gets so dry in winter.

I asked Dad if he knew where the expression “nine lives” comes from.

He said no, but that Shakespeare used it in
Romeo
and
Juliet
. Then Dad found the exact lines and showed them to me (which was
very
Dad). They were in a fight scene when Romeo's friend Mercutio calls his enemy, “Good King of Cats” and says he wants one of his “nine lives.”

Anyway, I hope Taco stays fast asleep at Dr. Gross's. If he wakes up in a cage, he'll be so scared. (My bigger hope is that he wakes up!)

Poor Taquito! (That's Pip's nickname for him—she says that in Spanish, adding “ito” means “little.”)

Ava Without Taco

Pip said we should do another page to distract ourselves. I didn't want to, but Pip seemed upset and I didn't feel like fighting with her. So I wrote a W rhyme and handed it over:

W is for witch flounder.

Some witches have cats, ride brooms, and cast spells.

These witches are fish that swim among shells.

Pip is now drawing a border with Halloween cats and witches on brooms. She's also revising the borders from the early pages. Dad says writers have to do revisions (“Write and rewrite till you get it right!”), and I guess artists do too.

I could do revisions on my earlier fish poems, but number one, I don't feel like it, and number two, Pip already illustrated them the way they are.

I'm glad Mom told me not to worry, but I can't help but worry. I wish Taco were here! The house feels so empty without him!

Ava, Anxious

An X rhyme just came to me so I turned on the penlight Bea gave me and am writing it down:

X marks the spot where the fish swam away.

What was it? Sunfish? Starfish? Moonfish? Moray?

X-O-X
A-V-A

I gave Pip my middle-of-the-night masterpiece, but she said X has to stand for a fish, not a spot. I said that she could draw wavy water and make a border of suns and stars and moons. She said she did not want a page without fish in the middle of a fish book. I said, “Why not? It'd be funny.” She said, “I just don't!”

Well, instead of making a new X poem, I felt like making a giant X on Pip's artwork.

I felt like shouting, “I'm sick of fish and I'm sick of collaborating, and you'll be lucky if I even write the last three rhymes!”

But I didn't feel like starting World War III, so I dashed off an “X is for x-ray tetra” poem and handed it to her. I'm
not
going to copy it in here because it's not very good and the whole thing makes me mad.

Ava, Annoyed and Argumentative but Attempting to be Adult

P.S. Are Pip and I both in X-tra bad moods because we're worried about Taco?