Rancho Tarzanadu: "DIRT"

     Miss Linda lost one of her long-time cat familiars, Tigre, to cancer, and was attempting to snap out of her bleak mood. She would prefer to wear black berets, turtlenecks, and enormous black sunglasses indefinitely, but also realized this was not the best plan for long-term health or peace of mind.

     She begrudgingly researched local Meet-up groups to widen her social circle, but could not find any of the following: Magicians and Magicians’ Assistants Mixers, Puppetry for Adults (non-pornographic), Witches High Tea (literal and figurative), Magical Realism Book Club (co-ed), Roller-Skating for Adults (non-pornographic), Existential Philosophy Wine-and-Cheese gatherings or Intermediate Levitation groups. Starting her own Meet-Up group sounded exhausting (not to mention the start-up fee), so she decided to remain in black mourning attire for a while longer, languishing on her balcony at night while smoking the occasional cigarette.

     Everything at Rancho Tarzanadu decided to break down at the same time she lost her beloved Tigre (during the first two weeks of January amidst a Mercury retrograde): the refrigerator, the house thermostat, the pool pump, the oven…all amidst a strange and intense Los Angeles monsoon, which climate experts predicted would only intensify over time; hence the need for black attire, the occasional cigarette, and Leonard Cohen records set to repeat on Spotify.

     Miss Linda wandered aimlessly around the house, taking notes on what needed fixing next; there were rumors of tree-rat invasion (again!) from the film editor, who heard scratching inside the walls…Miss Linda sighed loudly, and jotted it down. The Mime mimed that the cos-playing Klingon neighbors’ palm trees were scraping the roof at night in the agitated winds, causing him to lose sleep, and possibly damaging the roof tiles…Miss Linda rolled her eyes and wrote it down. The German Dog Trainer complained that the drains weren’t draining properly in the backyard, leading to possible flooding and potential chicken-evacuation from their coop, and everyone was moaning about the new refrigerator not arriving until the end of the month, due to supply-chain issues stemming from the Pandemic.

     Fortunately Miss Linda was living on disability (originally due to legal blindness, then turning into a doll), but she definitely needed some more money under-the-table to fix this endless string of home repairs. As she didn’t want to lose any of her annoying tenants at this time due to raising their rent – every penny was already spent on previous repairs such as house-painting, tree-trimming, and taxes –  she actually thought of trying to find some kind of job, but thankfully Madame Stratus, the Cloud-Reader, talked her out of it: “Oh, honey…there’s got to be another way!” The two of them put their heads together over an oversized bottle of inexpensive Pinot Noir.

     “Look, honey…you’re a doll right now – keep your Disability money! There’s no telling how long you’re going to remain a doll, so don’t do anything crazy like getting a job, which could jeopardize your reliable stream of government cheese!” Madame Stratus advised, and Miss Linda nodded emphatically in agreement, after taking a large gulp of her wine. After all, who in their right mind would hire a doll with a hereditary eye disease?

     “What you need is a side-hustle, a cash-based business that’s easy to run from home, and I have the perfect idea, that we could work on together; it’s called “DIRT”: Dramatic Intense Relief Today, obtained by a grounding technique of placing bare feet on…dirt. It’s supposed to suck all the impurities out of your body like a magnet, and we have plenty of dirt to package up around here. All we’d need is a simple cardboard box, big enough to fit someone’s feet in, and we can fill it with dirt off the hillside for free. I’m willing to split things with you 50-50; it’s my idea, but it’s your dirt.”

     Miss Linda contemplated this while sipping her wine…the hillside was where Little Johnny and the FBI agents had disappeared a few years ago, but she had seen hide nor hair of the Vortex since it had sucked them in, so hopefully digging around on the hillside would be relatively safe; she thought that Madame Stratus, as a Cloud-Reader, would be aware of any doom-filled implications ahead of time.

     Additionally, the Republicans were making a huge fuss lately about cutting Social Security benefits so they could increase the National Defense budget, so it would be prudent for Miss Linda to have a cash-based home business to fall back on, just in case her Disability benefits got pulled out from underneath her due to QAnon infiltrating the government or nuclear war.

     “Selling…dirt?” Miss Linda mused.

     “No, honey…selling ‘DIRT: Dramatic Intense Relief Today!’”

     Dramatic Intense Relief Today sounded fantastic to Miss Linda; “Let’s do it! Let’s be dirt-sellers!”

     Madame Stratus raised her wine glass, “To selling dirt!”

Tigre...goodbye.

     My sweet, sweet boy…Big Boy, Tiger-Stripes, Akaar (your first name which did not suit you), Nestle-Toll-House-Chocolate-Chip-Cookie-Dough-Paws, Big Mitts, Scaredy-Cat, Three-Breakfast-Eater, Food-Stealer, Cat-Fight-Instigator, Female-Cats’-“Ladies-Man”, Big Bellios, Tom, My Darling, My Angel...goodbye.

     I adopted you as a teeny-tiny kitten almost thirteen years ago; you were found in an alley, and neutered “too soon” said the Veterinarian who took you in. You were screaming bloody murder in your cage, isolated from the other cats because of your vocal stamina. You were the last kitten they introduced me to; I took one look at you and said “That’s the one for me!” You were highly sensitive, and misunderstood…you had a rough start, Alley-Cat, Trash-Cat, my Beloved, Handsome Boy.

     You were always vocal…I could have entire conversations with you, and you would respond, give me your thoughts on a matter, or demand your food; you grew into a sixteen-pound gorgeous boy with luminous tiger-stripes and golden eyes…Tiger Eyes. Tigre.

     You have been with me through romantic heartbreak, my diagnosis of legal blindness, my mother’s death, her husband’s death, my sister’s husband’s death, the Pandemic, the Drumpf Presidency and its aftermath, job losses and successes, collage stress (!), the drifting-away of some old friendships, and my artistic pursuits put on the back burner because of so much loss, so quickly all I could do was muster up the courage to cope. You played the piano for me, when I was too despondent to lift my hands to the keys, let alone sing out loud.

     I will look for you in many places, in expected and unexpected places…in the bathroom sink, in the bathtub, on the kitchen table (“Bad cat!” – my response, purely performative for my house-mates’ sake), on my piano and keyboard, in the window, on “your chair”, on my bed, in my arms.

     Thank you for loving me unconditionally, and for being here as long as you could, through thick and thin, for not judging me or pointing out my many flaws, because I am, after all, just a human being learning as I go.

     To dismiss your passing as “just a cat” would be a gigantic understatement; you were/are an Angel sent here to teach me that love is the only thing that matters in this world. It is a painful lesson to learn (and re-learn), but all I can do is thank you for it, for making me more aware of what really matters in life.

     You are greatly missed, my sweet Tigre, Tiger-Boy, and you will always be loved.