THE THREE-WORD SENTENCE MEMOIR
Cats and Dogs
Cats in places. Dogs in others. Cilla, Rags, Pipi.
So many places. Collins, Ames, Woodward. Cilla before me. There at
birth. After Elvis’ wife. I don’t know. No Elvis fans. Ate underwear
crotches. Died under car. Barely touched her. Attack of heart. My father
cried. I slept alone. No one explained. Confused at absence. Cilla is gone.
No heaven story. Not even Valhalla. Pictures with her. Red cheeked baby.
Grey poodle dog. Smiling and eating. Now no Cilla. Kate perceived
nothing. She said nothing. Kids are resilient. Get over it. Get another dog.
Audubon, Duluth, Hazelmere. Rags after rags. Not so attractive. Like a
mop. Kate took her. Stole her really. From the neighbors. Grandma’s
cruel neighbors. Poor thing howled. Kate wanted it. So Rags came.
Arrived at night. Liked us better. Much less howling. She ate toast.
Saturday morning cartoons. On the couch. Rags and me. Gas main broke.
House blew up. Did Rags burn? Was it quick? Image is there. Will not go.
Guildford, Minneapolis, Hazelmere. Pipi I chose. Fifth birthday
present. Pipi after redhead. Scandinavian like me. Happy little orphan. I
had parents. Black, black cat. Her own self. Regal kitty thing. Her secret
life. Out with cats. Brigade of friends. Will she return? Yes, she’s mine.
Out fence singing. Had kittens after. In Hazelmere, Surrey. I wanted them.
Sold for pound. Almost a dollar. Hit her once. Once was enough. How
could I? I never forgave. Rotten little girl. Perfect friend kitty. Apologized
to her. Still no good.
So many places. Guildford, Minneapolis, Hazelmere. Back and forth.
Again and again. We moved constantly. For no reason. Leaving all places. I
developed rituals. “Goodbye my room.” I left some-thing. For next girl. A
fabric snip. A tiny doll. Broken blue china. Was it found? Garbage to
them? Swept it away. Threw it out. My small talismans. My planting roots.
In empty rooms. Echoing blank rooms. I hated it. But no questions. Time
to go. “Okay,” I’d say. “I’ll go pack.” “Let’s leave Pipi.” “Okay,” I’d say. I am
brave. Don’t need her. Or she ran. Out the door. At the last. Get another
Pipi. Can’t be helped. Kate loved loss. Especially mine. “Kiss her
goodbye.” Or not even. Away in England. Calls on phone. “Do you mind?”
“No it’s fine.” Felt was better. Less moving around. “Cats like stability.”
Send her away. To a farm. Happier out there. Swallow back gut. On the
phone. “Yes, you’re right.” No last goodbyes.
Stopped at 12. We moved again. “Let’s get Pipi.” “No,” I said. No more
cats. Certainly no dogs. Not after Rags. Couldn’t take it. No more friends.
Sister got cat. Just the one. Pelle after Pelle. He played football. With
crumpled paper. Until one night. He attacked her. Scratched her face.
Tore her arm. Ripped her shoulder. Blood on walls. Painstaking plastic
surgery. Make her right. Put her back. She was eight. Pelle was one. His
mystery death. The next day. Brain tumor theory. No autopsy performed.
Sister wanted another. We were shaken. No more cats. Definitely no cats.
Had to move. Blood on walls. Haunted us all.
Trail of cats. And two dogs. My Pipi wake. Look behind me. I look back.
Where are they? God, I’m sorry. So much confusion. So little there. Their
grand lives. Loved so long. If only adult. Keep them all. I would now.
—THE THREE-WORD SENTENCE MEMOIR
Crystal Gandrud