FOR WHAT
IT’S WORTH
| “Three’s Company” |
Issue 77 |
|
| By: Ron Brounes |
July 2006 |
No one ever said it would be easy. Granted, when you’ve been on your own for
your entire adult life, there are bound to be plenty of adjustments when it
comes to sharing your home with another.
First of all, by a certain age and maturity (or lack thereof), you
become set in your ways, comfortable with your own schedule, prepared to do
things (or not do things) based on your own timetable. You even become somewhat selfish (for lack of
a better word). You sleep until
And suddenly, the major adjustments prompt the “five
stages of grief” to set in. Denial…I can’t believe all these changes
are happening to me. Anger…No one ever told (warned) me it
would turn out this way. Bargaining…I promise I’ll be better if
only life would return to the way it was before? Depression…I
can’t deal with these changes and simply don’t care about anything anymore. Acceptance…Maybe
this new life ain’t so bad after all.
…BUT
FOUR’S A CROWD
Of course, I’m referring to the adjustments and
challenges faced by our long-term pets, Max the cat and Flo
the dog. Both animals had reached their
twilight years and were prepared to live out “retirement” in the comfort of
familiar surroundings and friendly faces.
At 17, Max had the run of his two-story house, able to nap all day on
any piece of furniture upstairs or down, content to walk all over (literally)
those humans whose company he enjoyed and hide under the couch when unwelcome
guests visited. He was pampered with his
wet (incredibly smelly) cat food and dined at the same hours each day. Max was never shy about “speaking up” when
that bowl of delicious salmon/turkey/liver/sliced beef/white fish was more than
five minutes late. Sure, he suffered from thyroid issues and was petrified of
his own shadow, but Max was quite happy.
At 15, Flo likewise had
her favorite comfortable (teal green) chair and loved chasing squirrels in the
spacious backyard. She overcame a near
fatal stroke (or vestibular balance syndrome) about a year ago and had adjusted
to merely barking at the squirrels instead from her air-conditioned den. She dined on table scraps and could eat
spaghetti with Traditional Ragu for multiple days in a row (and often
did). She could come in and go out as
she pleased with access to a doggie door and loved to soak up some rays by the
pool. Sure, she was losing her eyesight
and her hearing and rarely was brushed or bathed, but Flo
was quite happy. When suddenly worlds
collided and these two mortal enemies were forced to share a home.
Needless to say, the transition did not go very
smoothly for our geriatric four-legged friends.
Upon first sight of his long-lost canine step-sister, Max was a less
than gracious host. He darted up the
stairs like the spry 16 year old kitten he once was and hid in the very back of
the closet (mine, of course) for days. When
he finally emerged, Max moved between denial, anger, and depression (see above)
and took out his frustrations on his mother and step-dad (that’s us). He seemed to forget about his litter box and
instead chose to make the entire second floor his personal restroom. He experienced a very nervous stomach for
weeks (and, believe me, canned cat salmon does not sit well on a nervous
stomach). He began to scratch and bite
and meow at all hours of the night. As
time passed, he no longer felt the need to hide and would pass the day simply
staring at Flo from the top of the stairs. Still he never got up the nerve to wander
downstairs where he might encounter that perceived “vicious” houseguest.
Flo, on the other hand, handled
the transition a bit easier. A less
neurotic creature (more laid back like her dad), she struggled to find the
newly installed doggie door and required a walk a few times a day. (She has since found her way through her
personal door to the patio.) Her true frustration
ensued when she realized we sleep on another floor and her age (and athletic
ability) do not permit her to climb the stairs. Like her step-brother, Flo
spent much of the hours between
AND
MY TRANSITION?
I can’t imagine how and why I stayed single for so
long, especially since Barb and I have known each other for over 17 years. What was I waiting for? Marriage is the best thing that ever happened
to me (isn’t that right, honey?) and I expect this honeymoon to last
forever. Oh sure, I miss that teal green
chair that molded to my body (but only because Flo
loved it so much) and would be thrilled to find a place in our living room for
my Earl Campbell/Ricky Williams framed poster.
Actually, I’ve never been a big fan of cats (especially those with a
nervous digestive tract), but have grown to love Max as if I had raised him
myself. Plus, it’s really cool to flip
him in the air and watch him always land on his feet (just kidding, dear).
All in all, life has not changed that significantly. I still have my ballgames and Barb attends
her book club and yoga classes. I have
inherited a great new family (even if they are Yankee and Dolphin fans) and many
interesting and fun new friends. Plus,
I’ve broadened my horizons and stepped out of my comfort zone a bit. Why, just last weekend, I found myself at the
mall buying a wonderfully scented potpourri and some Clinique
#3 (was that the right brand, sweetie?).
SO
WHAT’S NEXT?
The latest stage in our transition began a few weeks
back when we purchased a new crib, changing table, and glider (teal green, of
course). We have since spent some time
at Babies “R” Us checking out the latest in jumpers, bouncers, pack-n-plays,
strollers, joggers, and receiving blankets and even registered for an upcoming
breast feeding class (do husbands really attend those sessions?). Yes, baby Eunice Brounes is scheduled to
arrive in early October and if the latest ultrasound is any indication she will
be quite the athlete (like her dad...she was already exhibiting an excellent “down-dog”
yoga pose). Sports Illustrated has been replaced by Parenting magazine in the mailbox and Da Vinci Code has been replaced by What to Expect When You’re Expecting on our coffee table. And, as for Max and Flo,
they have no idea what’s about to hit them.
Something tells me…neither do we.
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FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH is a