Old/New World Discourse: No more Murphy

Murphy the cat is gone. Computer Cowboy, Missy Oldest, Boy-Getting-Taller, Missy Youngest, and Boy-Who- Needs-Books brought her, in a box that I had saved to pack up our dishes during prepesach cleaning, riddled with carefully cut holes, to a farm. Murphy was no longer able to live as an indoor cat.

Not that we didn't try. Between the hormone injection, the pregnancy test (performed via house call), the bladder biopsy (the cat was sedated, heavily), and more, we used a lot of money and a lot of our veterinarian’s time to try to determine why poor Murphy-the-Cat was so miserable (See: "Little Smile," posted in "Cell Phones and Electronic Gate Keys," March, 2008).

Yes, we found bloody discharge while Pesach cleaning as predicted (See: "Murphy's Law," March 2008). Yes, we tolerated her caterwailing for days at a time, round the clock. Yes, we gave her premium quality food and much more undivided attention than she wanted (which she often excused herself from by scaling the bunks on Boy-Who-Needs-Books or on Boy-Getting-Taller's beds. Remember, this critter knew not only how to jump, but also how to climb ladders. See: "Little Smile," posted in "Post Purim," March, 2008).

Yes, over almost three decades, my family has championed a little less than a dozen felines before her. Yes, we cried and otherwise grieved when we realized, in cahoots with our vet, that Murphy belonged outdoors.

Yes, we selected a farm where a friend, also a vet, lives, to release her. Yes, we had her shots and her other care needs updated.

There remains a void, none-the-less. Murphy had been our little Sabra, the one we rescued from otherwise predatory humans (See: "Something Furry," December, 2007), the one who needed a home, in some ways, more than any of the many cats we adopted from shelters or from the cages of merciful animal doctors (many kind vets who say they never take unwanted animals actually do-if you want to adopt a pet, start by asking your vet who he or she has that needs a home).

So many times we had asked shilot to make certain our care for Murphy was within halachic parameters. So many times we (especially Missy Oldest) had sat up or had woken up with Murphy to make sure she was okay.

And yet, none of our care met the one need that prevailed in her life; to live outside, among the type of cats that had sired and birthed her. In short, Murphy was miserable confined to a city apartment.

Now Murphy-the-Cat will roam, with an existent pack of cats, among cows and farmhands. She will sniff noses with dogs and will have her choice of small rodents on which to chomp. She will be able to climb, to dig, to hide, and to reappear, without a home full of humans worrying again and again whether she will return after she "got out."

Now, my family will have an empty space in our hearts. Murph, we miss you.

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Little Smile:

In Israel, just about everything I learned at university and just about everything I learned on the weight training floor (let alone in the locker room) has proven to be of small utility to me in fathoming the rules of discourse. Albeit, this society is constituted not only by Middle Easterners and Europeans, but also by North Americans, and albeit my teenagers have no problem chirping away in the local language, I cannot help but feel as though I am still missing a few beats each measure.

Consider a recent grocery store moment (or go back to another one, if you choose. See: "The Goat Yoghurt Story," May 2007). Using my best imitation of native talk, I conveyed to the cashier how I wanted my purchases bagged. She nodded and flashed me a small smile, the regional equivalent of "sure, whatever you want as long as you don't interrupt my daydreams about my boyfriend any longer than necessary," and jabbered away at me in more of the same.

Suddenly, a fellow appeared behind my cart, his arms loaded with sacks and cartons. He eyed the conveyor belt onto which I was offloading my selections. He eyed my yet half full cart. In an attempt to appeal to the kindness of the cashier, he eyed, her, too.

She answered him as she had answered me moments ago; she flashed a few of her incisors and canines and then returned to her personal musings. As though inspired, the man began to speak to me. Although his accent, his diction and his syntax indicated that he, like me, harked from a part of the world where English reigned, he chose to communicate in a garbled version of the indigenous language.

I'm usually not sure, when I use Hebrew, if my meaning is conveyed. I've experienced the equivalent of asking for carrots and receiving parrots, of seeking help finding peas and receiving bandages for knees, and so forth. This week, alone, years after having moved to this clime, I received dollars, instead of the home currency, from an ATM. Go figure.

Regardless, in the case of the checkout line, not only was I unsure of what I was saying, but I could make no sense of what the burdened fellow, behind me in the queue, was saying either. So, I looked at him, looked at my not yet emptied shopping vehicle, lifted my shoulders toward my ears, and then released them quickly.

The man shook his head in answer and clutched his purchases more closely to his body. I wish I knew what we had just communicated.

Meanwhile, the cashier twittered a few more polite phrases in my direction. The gentleman also twittered at me. However, to his companion, who suddenly appeared, the gentleman spoke English.