Dave grew up in a loving but crowded house overflowing with cats, dogs, parakeets, snakes, fish, and gerbils. Early in our relationship, he told me he didn’t want any pets.
Naturally, I brought home a kitten. “How can you hate a kitten?” I asked. “She looks like trouble,” Dave said. He was right. Unagi was a monster. When friends came over, she would zoom in from the other room just to scratch them. She’d fill the house with shredded paper towels, and pry open the door to Dave’s closet so she could rip up his work shirts. “It’s because she knows you don’t want her,” I’d tell him. “She’s right,” he’d say.
When we drove from Boston to San Francisco, Unagi stayed behind with a friend who was going to fly her out later that summer. One day, the friend called in tears. Her father had just died. “Oh,” she sniffed, “and Unagi ran away.”
I had a dream that Dave and I were in line to buy movie tickets when Unagi, walking upright with a pink purse, strolled out of the theater. “Unagi!” I called out. She looked straight at me, dropped her purse, and took off running.
Years later, with Dave’s blessing, we adopted a nine-year-old cat named Bella. She had been declawed, which kept her inside and slightly fearful. She had the personality of a lopsided cupcake and slept on my feet.
Bella got very sick and stopped eating. On a Saturday night, Dave and I drove her to the vet to say goodbye. The doctor wrapped her in a green towel and gave her to me to hold as she administered the medicine. I felt her body end. We couldn’t stop thinking about our parents – Dave’s mother who died way too young, and my father who needed to die but we couldn’t help him.
I explained to Willa and Simone it’s a gift that we get to help animals die peacefully when they are very sick. A few days later, Simone asked if the vet stuck a sword through her belly.
Two years ago, Dave and I snuck off to the SPCA when the girls were at their grandmother’s house. We met a bunch of cats and narrowed it down to Frisbee, a nine-year-old couch potato, and Finn, a handsome two-year-old plaything. We returned later with the kids and, torn between two lovers, chose the younger, hotter one. We brought him home where he promptly curled up in the bathroom sink. From that moment on, Finn was family.
When we decided to move from San Francisco to Perth, we learned that Dave’s employer would cover the costs of moving a pet, thus triggering the behavioral economics phenomenon known as, The Absurd Shit You’ll Do When Someone Else Is Paying For It.
Australia is very strict about importing animals. Pit bulls are banned entirely, which is curious given the fact that ninety percent of the animals in this country would devour a pit bull for afternoon tea. Hamsters are also prohibited, I’m guessing because quokkas have a monopoly on cute. Over the past few months, Finn’s been pricked, prodded, clipped, and boarded. It has been confirmed multiple times that he is free of rabies, ticks, fleas and worms.
After Finn was vaccinated for rabies, he had to remain in the U.S. for six months. Our friends Nicole and Cho graciously agreed to house him, and they were kind enough to not roll their eyes when I dropped him off with three pages of printed instructions and his anal shaving clippers.
On Monday, after spending ten days in quarantine in Sydney, Finn boarded a plane with six dogs and flew across the country to Perth. The girls and I picked him up at Qantas Freight, a glum warehouse near the airport. I showed my passport to a guy with big arms who promptly disappeared into the back room. Seconds later, he reappeared with a crate covered in smiley face stickers labeled, “Finn Handler.”
Back home, we crowded in the bathroom to let Finn out of his box. Six months, Finn! We’ve missed you! Completely ignoring us, he walked straight over to his new litter box and released the longest pee I have ever witnessed. Then he rolled around in his urine and stumbled over to his food. Within the hour, he was asleep on the couch. Our little frat boy is finally here.
