If I had kids, I'm afraid I'd be more than a helicopter parent. I'd be an AH-1W Super Cobra. Obviously, I had to Google that.
But my point is that I'd be a high-maintenance father, channeling my inner Chicken Little with every minor incident. At least, that's what I assume based on this weekend's drama with my fur child, Ali Tabouli.
Ali (as in Muhammad Ali) Tabouli (as in a salad of bulgur, parsley, tomatoes, green onions, mint, olive oil and lemon juice) came into my life in August 1999 when he was at least 1 year old, according to Nellie, who found him. Declawed and neutered, he'd been abandoned by a family, which has never made sense to me because he's the sweetest, most affectionate living thing on earth. Unless, of course, you're either a child, some inappropriately shrill person or the owner of other animals, which he'll smell on you and become Satan.
Anyway, at age 15 or 16 (which is like being 80 to 84 years old, according to CalculatorCat.com), it's to be expected that Ali has some issues, right? Still, I've just recently been steeling myself for the cold, hard obvious fact: Ali isn't immortal. Not that I ever thought he was, but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't envisioned accepting some plaque on his behalf from Guinness World Records for being the oldest feline in the known galaxy.
His recent behavior sobered me from that pipe dream. A few days ago, he stopped greeting me at the door, tail aflutter, talking nonstop. Being part Maine Coon, he chatters a lot. Our conversations following my arrival home usually go like this:
Ali: "Meow, meow, meow."
Me: "Meow, meow, meow, Buddy, what's up?"
Ali: "Meow."
Me: "Really? Tell me some more of that story ..." And that's our daily ritual, usually repeated once more before bed and again in the morning after he walks across my face to alert me to his breakfast time.
But he stopped doing any of that late last week. Usually, his favorite spot to lie is on the carpet between my kitchen and den, or occasionally in the mini bay window, which explains why I find Mr. Ficus and Robert Plant on the floor once a month.
Lately, though, Ali has taken to perching on my office futon, tail still, not purring, and doing more than just thinking outside the box - aka, the flushless toilet. That's never a happy harbinger.
On Sunday afternoon, I found a tooth in his food bowl. You would've thought I found his whole head lopped off the way I carried on, texting multiple people in Calamity Jason mode, dark clouds forming on my mind's horizon.
I'm not going to bury him in my backyard, I thought, worried his days were numbered. Do I want a pet mausoleum? Should I have him cremated?
Taking a few deep breaths and reminding myself that I've known people with pets who have lost teeth and lived to tell it (the pets, not the people), I calmed down and, after half an hour's observation, saw that Ali was perking back up. That evening, when I came home from work, he even met me at the door. And Monday morning was probably the first time I was ever grateful to feel something stepping on my eyelids.
Still, I've made an appointment for this afternoon, where I hope to hear the vet say, "Better clear a spot on your wall for that Guinness World Record." Whereupon I'll immediately start channeling my inner thankful parent, with or without the metaphorical whirling copter blades.
Original Print Headline: Parenting style comes out with cat
