My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs

by Cierra Rantoul

  It’s funny now how his determination to control me, even from the grave, ultimately lead me to my freedom. I was getting my Bachelor’s degree so that I could get work as a teacher, one of the few areas that were in desperate need of people and not laying off like all the other businesses in California. When I started work for a company in a temporary slot that eventually became permanent, my boss—a very wise woman who saw more in me than I saw myself then—encouraged me to pursue my Master’s degree in Business Administration as soon as I graduated with my Bachelor’s. Reluctant to jump from the frying pan into the fire again with school work, I resisted. But when Will thought that by having an MBA I would not “need” to be with another man whenever he died, the decision was made for me. With an MBA I would be able to support myself and live the rest of my life alone, mourning his death and my loss since I obviously would never actually want to be with another man again.

  Yeah, right. Uh-huh. Sure.

  Our marriage wasn’t always bad or abusive; it was really more like a wild roller coaster ride. It was those infrequent good times that kept me from leaving for many years, always hoping that they would become more frequent and last longer. I kept thinking those thoughts that I now know were just a sign of how dysfunctional I really was. “If only I was prettier; smarter; skinnier… he wouldn’t act that way.” “If only I cleaned or cooked better he wouldn’t act that way.” But the truth of it was that even if I had filled his image of the “perfect” woman and wife, he still would have found something wrong with me. That was how he controlled and manipulated me. I was never going to be “good enough” but was always going to be trapped in that vicious circle of trying to be.

  When we were at the top of the roller coaster, we would often travel together on fishing trips in the Sierra Nevada Mountains; visiting family in Utah, Oklahoma, Florida, and once to Scotland. He was self-employed so any time I had a business trip somewhere, he was able to go along and we would turn it into a mini-vacation. We had a camper, and later a small boat to take out on the lakes when we camped. We also had a Harley and would go on long road trips with friends.

  When things were bad, however, in addition of staying because I was afraid of what he would do to me if I tried to leave, I often stayed because I was worried about how he would treat the dogs or cats when I left. I would plan elaborate escapes that would involve faking a car-jacking on the freeway when I was out with the dogs, leaving a little blood from one of them on the car seat to hopefully keep him from looking too far for us or in the right direction.

  Fortunately, I never got that desperate. During the years we were married, while he often threw things at me, yelled at or threatened me, belittled me, isolated and controlled me, there really was just one time when he actually hit me, but once was enough for me to live in fear of it happening again. He had gotten angry with me when I wanted to donate some old work clothes that I no longer wore and would never wear again to charity group. I had taken them out to the front of the house where he was raking leaves so that I could put them in my car. When he asked what I was planning on doing with them, I told him and turned to go back into the house to get more. As soon as I turned my back, he hit me across both legs with the handle of the rake, leaving welts that lasted for days. He offered no explanation or apology, the clothes went back into my closet, and he didn’t really talk to me for weeks after the incident. Silence was his favorite way to “punish” me for anything, whether it was something I had done or not done, said or not said, or completely unrelated to me. Under normal circumstances I might have said his silence was golden, but it was always cold and terrifying. I often never knew what triggered his silence and asking him what was wrong only made it worse and last longer. In anger he would tell me to leave him alone and let him work through it himself. When the next time he stopped talking to me and I gave him his space, he would get angry because I had left him alone. I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.

  Once when we were watching the movie “Con Air” he told me to remember a certain scene in the movie where the convicts were discussing how they wound up in prison. In that scene, one of the characters tells how he killed the family of his cheating girlfriend—not the girlfriend, but everyone she cared about. It was that scene Will told me to remember. When I asked if that was a threat, he simply said that I just needed to remember it. Later when we watched “Sleeping with the Enemy” I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t look at him at all during the movie. It was too close to home.

  Growing up I always wanted a house full of children. I gave up that dream when he told me that if we ever had children and I wanted to leave him, he would kill me before he would give up or share custody. What an effective form of birth control that was!

  When I finally left him, I slept with a loaded gun under my pillow for almost a year, even after I left the state and moved hundreds of miles away. I had nightmares for months that he would come for me.

  I often wrote poetry during those years we were married, hiding it away where he wouldn’t find it, but needing some outlet for my feelings and fears. Recently I found one of my old notebooks and poems that reminded me of how far that “bottom” was before I hit it.

  * * *

  Thoughts of death came my way

  Once again yesterday.

  How much easier your life would be

  If only it weren’t for me.

  I prayed to be released from God’s plan.

  But no answer; there is so much I don’t understand.

  I fight those thoughts with hopes and dreams,

  Decorating schemes, favorite things.

  But once in a while it creeps back into my day.

  How much easier your life would be,

  If only it weren’t for me. (~1997)

  * * *

  My pen becomes a window to my soul.

  Throwing back the shutters that confine me.

  The words that escape express what my voice cannot. Hope.

  Fear.

  Love.

  Anger.

  They beat against the shutters, hoping to escape forever.

  My pen becomes a window to my soul. (~1995)

  * * *

  Inside, I am a strong, self-assured woman.

  Outside, I am a passive, insecure girl.

  I wish I could turn myself inside out. (~1995)

  * * *

  I pray for death, it does not come.

  Perhaps I still have deeds undone.

  I wish I knew just what they were;

  For then life’s purpose would be known for sure.

  I feel so lost and alone at times,

  All I can do is make up rhymes. (~1995)

  * * *

  Chynna died on Mother’s Day the year that I finally got the courage to leave him, two weeks after she had a small stroke. I was out of town on a business trip in Texas. Will had also been working out of town in Palm Springs. My father-in-law and grandfather-in-law had been living with us for two years by then, and when Dad called Will and told him how quickly Chynna had gone downhill after we both left, he immediately turned around and went home. I didn’t have that option, and so when he called to tell me that she had died in his arms as he walked in the door of the vet’s office I was inconsolable. I was half way across the country and couldn’t leave my class for another week. She had waited for one of us to come home, and it broke my heart that it wasn’t me who had been there for her.

  When I left Will a month later, I also had to leave Crystal behind and it almost destroyed me. Seeing her little face looking at me through the fence as I drove away, knowing that she was grieving for Chynna as much as I was, and then not understanding where her “other mom” was going without her. But my apartment would only allow me to bring the cats, no dogs at all. It was years before I was able to forgive myself for leaving her. She died four and a half years after I left when she was twelve. Apparently she had put on so much weight that one of her bronchial tubes tore, and she suffered for about two weeks stru
ggling to breathe before they took her to the vet and had her put down. I didn’t find out until a year later and it broke my heart all over again that I hadn’t been there for her when she needed me.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Current Clan

  All of the pets I had ever had in the past had been happy and well adjusted, never fearful like Trooper had become. Even the cats were friendly and outgoing—contrary to most people’s perceptions of cats being aloof and independent. That made Trooper’s sudden personality change even more baffling.

  Cali (a calico, and also short for California) and her brother, Mandy (short for Mandarin Orange) had come with me when I divorced and moved back to Florida. I had picked them both from a litter of kittens the week after they were born, and so had known both of them since before their eyes even opened. She had always been a bit of a reclusive cat—taking her time to meet and greet when new people came into the house, but both she and Mandy had adored Tink from the moment they met her—something that surprised Tink. I can still remember the “deer in the headlights” look Tink had on her face when both cats—cats she had never seen or met before—rubbed up against her and started giving her kisses. I like to believe that it was because Tink reminded them of Crystal and they saw in her a kindred spirit. In spite of her being elusive when there were a lot of people in the house, Cali was a sweet, affectionate, and gentle cat. She stayed mostly in my bedroom and on the upstairs deck in her favorite place to sun, but would always come to greet me when I got home from work. She loved to sleep with me or snuggle on my lap when we watched TV. Often when I was stretched out in the recliner, I would have Tink on one side of me, Mandy on the other side with his head on Tink’s stomach, Cali on the back headrest. Later we would add Ebony on the extended foot rest. It was quite the balancing act to keep us from tipping when Ebony would jump onto the foot rest, or when I needed to get up. When Oreo joined us, he traded places with Cali, and she and Mandy both would curl up on my lap with Tink. They were all like a blanket of love. Unfortunately, her elusive personality hid an illness from me until it was too late. When I started dating Marc, she had started to hide more often. Perhaps she was as intuitive as Jazzmin had been about a person’s character. I would see her eating occasionally, or out on the deck, and would feel her walking across the bed at night, but seldom saw her downstairs anymore. One day I saw her sunning on the deck and went to pick her up and give her a hug. She had always been a small cat, but when I picked her up that morning she was practically skin and bones. I took her immediately to the vet’s office. She had lost almost all of her body weight and muscle tone. There was nothing obviously apparent, but he said that her breath smelled like her kidneys were failing. He could do a lot of tests that would be very painful on her gaunt body to determine what was wrong, but for a five year old cat to be that emaciated, there most likely was not going to be a cure for her. I gave her kisses, said my goodbyes, and let him end her pain and suffering. Looking back, I think that she knew she was dying and chose that day to stay out where I would be sure to see her so that I could ease the pain for her.

  Mandy, was—and is—healthy and happy. He is an orange striped, stumpy tail Manx, just like his mother, and just like a half sister a few litters before him. Mandy is the most laid back cat I’ve ever had. If I were to give him a human “personality” I would have to say he would be a California surfer dude. When I am bent over a cabinet or gardening project too long, he will jump onto my back and then lie down like he is on a surfboard. His front paws will wrap around my waist like he is giving me an upside down hug… or getting ready to paddle in on a wave. He is the most talkative of the three cats and whenever I return from a trip away, he will talk non-stop until he is almost hoarse. I’m not sure if I’m catching hell for being gone, or if he is filling me in on all the trouble the other cats got into! He loves to be cradled like a baby, rolling his head back to look at the world upside down. I can just imagine him with a Jeff Spicoli grin saying “All I need are some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and I’m fine.” (O.k.—I’m dating myself with a quote from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High!”)

  Ebony, my long-hair black cat, was tossed from a car when she was five weeks old and came to me by way of the office secretary where I worked. She is the most social and demanding of my cats. Trying to close her in another room when I have parties proves to be a waste of time because she rabbit-kicks the door so hard she can pop the latch and join in the fun. She will mingle among the guests, demanding adoration and praise from everyone and when she doesn’t get enough satisfactory attention, she will not hesitate to head-butt the offending person or nip their fingers until they continue petting her. Fear is not a word in her vocabulary. One afternoon I was talking to neighbors who were with their bulldog, Pelé. He was about six months old and already almost 20 lbs heavier than Ebony. Apparently, Pelé was standing too close to me because Ebony charged out of the garage to protect me and chased a screaming Pelé down the driveway. It was months before Pelé would walk near my townhouse without cautiously looking for that crazy black torpedo! We still laugh about it!

  Oreo was found in a parking lot when he was just a few days old. He still had a little bit of umbilical cord on him. The girl who found him didn’t have any idea what to do with him, and so he came to me. His name came from the coloring on his head. Black on his eyes and ears with a white stripe 5 down from his forehead to his nose and a white mouth—a typical Tuxedo cat. I would take him to work stuffed into a sock to keep him warm, then put him on a heating pad in a desk drawer so I could feed him every few hours. I slept at night with him held against me—spooning—and he still occasionally loves to sleep with me that way. I’m sure his mother was feral since he still has a bit of a wild streak in him. That boy can cuss worse than anything I’ve ever heard when he has to do something he doesn’t want to—like getting his claws trimmed. He loves to “help” make the bed by tunneling under the blanket and then making vicious wild cat growls and hisses when I try to move the blanket around him. He really is frightening sounding and if you didn’t know that he was really a mama’s boy, you’d think he was rabid and going to rip your eyes out. Oreo is the hunter of all three cats—finding squirrels, birds, snakes and lizards in the house is not uncommon during the summer months—and not always dead either!

  I have to throw Ripkin in here at this point even though he isn’t really my dog, but my neighbor, John’s. Ripkin was a rescue dog; John got him in Texas as a 40+ pound, approximately two years old adult dog, so his history is unknown. He is a yellow lab mix, and somewhere in his DNA is a little Chow that shows as black spots on his tongue. As soon as Trooper and Ripkin met, they were best buds. Ripkin can stand completely under Trooper, and Tink could (and often would) stand under Ripkin, so they looked like one of those stackable children’s puzzles. Since John is active duty military, Ripkin often camps at my house when he is on temporary duty away from home. He now also comes over during the day occasionally for our own “doggy day care” at my house. As a result, Ripkin has learned to tolerate and appreciate my cats—all of whom accepted him with their usual attitude of “Oh great. Another dog. Whatever.” He did make a few attempts to chase one of them up the stairs before he got the sharp end of Ebony’s paw when he tried to chase her. Ripkin has one of those happy, go-lucky personalities. No one is a stranger to him, and he loves to meet, greet and frisk you for treats. Whatever his history was, at some point we think he must have been starved for food. He will quickly inhale any food, treat, or potentially edible substance before he even knows what it was. Most of the time without even chewing, and will always look for more as if he has an insatiable hunger. Both Ripkin and Trooper recognize each other’s names and know where the other lives—if Trooper and I are returning from a walk and he is off leash, I can ask him if he wants to see Ripkin and he will make a beeline for his front door. Ripkin will do the same. They are, for the most part, inseparable pals who are always excited to see each other and spend time playing or just lying on the fl
oor napping. I can tell, however, after a week into one of Ripkin’s extended stays that their relationship is almost like a big brother (Trooper) with an annoying little brother (Ripkin) in spite of the fact that Trooper is the younger of the two. Ripkin can have a pushy “me first” attitude about everything from eating to getting out the door first for a walk, or getting upstairs to bed or to who gets to ride shotgun on the way to day care. On a recent two week stay, when I did our usual “last one upstairs is a rotten egg” call before going up for bed, Ripkin made a good attempt at getting up first, but Trooper body slammed him into the wall at the bottom of the stairs and beat him. Yep, typical “siblings.”

  My pug, Tink, was also a rescue and I got her when she was nine months old. Officially, she was “Tinkerbell,” however “Tink” seemed to fit her personality better and so it stuck. One Halloween she and Trooper dressed up as Tinkerbell and Peter Pan, but that was the only time she ever wore a costume or shirt other than a bandana after a grooming trip. Her extra “padding” made her overheat quickly and so keeping her in a shirt or costume for too long could be dangerous. Trooper on the other hand, loves to wear shirts. When Trooper arrived, Tink was three years old and had already had two major surgeries to remove bladder stones. She was diagnosed with liver shunts after her second surgery, and her health issues just seemed to grow each year. In spite of it all, Tink never seemed to be afraid of anything or anyone. She was a happy, carefree spirit who greeted everyone with a tail wag and a face full of pug snot if they got too close. We joked in my townhouse complex that she was the “official” greeter—she would wander into anyone’s open front door, or hop in their car for a ride if they left the door open. Everyone loved her, and she loved everyone. At the dog park when she felt that the dogs were being too rough with someone—even a dog ten times her size—she would 59 wade right in like a referee to break it up. Chasing the big dogs at the park was her favorite thing to do… barking like a squeaky toy as she ran. Someone once asked me if she was hurting because of how she barked when she ran, and I told them no, that was her happy bark. She was having the time of her life playing with the big dogs. She took care of everything with a big slobbery pug kiss. The only thing her kisses—or mine - couldn’t fix was her own health problems.