Avery and the Cats

I adopted Bertie long before Jack came into my life. Although I’d always wanted a pet, my parents would never allow me to have one. Not that I was surprised, because this was often the case during my childhood—“No, Avery, you can’t play the violin. Take up your older brother’s hand-me-down guitar”—but I digress. In retrospect, getting a cat may have been a passive aggressive way for me to stick it to my parents, with whom I was still living with at the time.

It’s often said that you don’t choose your pets. They choose you. I visited an animal adoption agency and was taken into a room filled with cats. All seemed preoccupied except for Bertie, who made a beeline for me. For the next 15 minutes he didn’t leave my side.  He was a beautiful blond tabby—I think I previously mentioned my family’s blond German fetish—and was named after one of my favorite childhood characters. I adopted him immediately.

Fast forward to my bachelor’s loft in the West Loop, Jack (who’d by then moved in) and I’d decided that, with both of us working so many hours, Bertie needed a playmate. Off we were again to the animal adoption agency. In we went into that same room filled with cats.

As we stood and watched the preoccupied cats play, one cat in particular took an interest in us.  In fact, he marched directly over and lay across my feet. I couldn’t get rid of him. His name was Bouncer and he was ours. Since that day—Jack’s birthday—Bertie and Bouncer have gotten along famously.

For this very reason, I couldn’t possibly take Jack seriously when he told me that he wanted custody of Bouncer. He was very sore about my stance, stating that Bouncer had been a birthday gift and using vile and offensive terms like “Indian giver.” Regardless, I held my ground. Separating the cats would be cruel. Furthermore, there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks I was going to relinquish Bertie. Bertie had been with me long before Jack came into the picture and, as it seemed, would continue to be with me long after Jack took his final bows.

Finally, Jack changed the subject. We agreed to reconvene the following morning after my shift at the hospital. He’d taken the day off. We’d separate our belongings and he’d leave for Berwyn (I can barely say the word without heaving). That was the end of the cat conversation. So I thought. Little did I know, Jack was still very upset about the ordeal. He would end up taking revenge in the cruelest way imaginable.

Avery Considers Homicide

Alright, so maybe I exaggerated a little. I didn’t exactly punch Jack in the beezer when he said, “I wish you the best,” after I told him I’d be buying the condominium myself. In fact, I didn’t punch him at all. Yes, I wanted to go postal. I wanted to pretend he was an annoying Chihuahua and I a gun wielding mail carrier. I wanted to him to feel as powerless, hopeless, confused and scared as he’d made me feel. But I didn’t.

Chris Rock once said—and I’m paraphrasing here—that you’ve never truly been in love unless you’ve considered committing homicide. I guess no one could ever accuse me of loving Jack.

“When will you move out?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. There’s so much to do before then.”

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Jack was correct. Lots needed to be done before we said our final goodbyes. Our CD collection needed to be divided. He needed to disassemble and remove his office desk and the other tacky furniture left over from his dorm days. I’d always hated that furniture. On more than one occasion I’d threatened to burn it. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

“I just thought of something, Avery.”

He spoke slowly and quietly, as though he were choosing his words very carefully. I immediately tensed. The tone was that same he used when telling me that he no longer loved me. He spoke just as succinctly when he said that he’d be moving out of our home. He delivered his “yeah” just as softly when he confirmed that there was another man.

“Yes, Jack?” I held my breath and waited for the next in the list of bombshells I’d received in less than 48 hours.

“Well,” he slowly replied. I hated the way he was dragging out his words. The mix of anticipation and dread killed me. This was not going to be good.

“Get on with it,” I urged, unable to wait another second.

“Avery, I want to keep the cats.”

If Chris Rock’s words were true, I was more in love with Jack at that moment than I’d ever been.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss… That’s a Wrap

the first time since this ordeal began that he showed any emotion at all. Too bad the emotion wasn’t his love for me. Or was it? I called his bluff.

“I said,” repeating myself as coolly as possible, “I’m not calling the landlord to get out of the lease.”

“But I’m not staying here,” he replied, confused.

“I know you’re not. I am”

Jack, unresponsive, blankly stared at me. I think that he might have thought that I’d had a minor stroke resulting from the previous 24-hour’s information overload. I continued my monologue.

“I realize, Jack, that you don’t want me anymore. I’m okay with that,” okay that was a lie. “But this is my home, and I love it dearly. Secondly, I’ve already paid a substantial non-refundable deposit toward to secure a mortgage. I’m moving forward with the purchase. Alone.”

Jack took a seat and remained silent. It was now my turn to determine whether he’d had a minor stroke. I have to admit, a part of me wished that—since I’d called his bluff—he’d fold. I wished that he’d tell me this had all been an elaborate (albeit twisted) game, and that we could continue on with our life together. Our domestic bliss. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

“I wish you the best,” he said having lost what little emotion he’d just exhibited. My mind raced a mile a minute.

I wish you the best? Is that really all you have to say? What a jackhole. What a waste of time you’ve been, sending me to New York on some wild goose chase, with the false hope that we could rebuild what he had. What garbage. I’m glad you’re leaving. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

I’m not sure if it was the emotional stress of the death of our relationship, the mental fatigue  of my time with the good doctor, too much booze—or all of the above—but I was suddenly overcome. Naomi Campbell described it best when explaining her violent outbursts to Oprah. I stopped breathing. I saw red. My jaw clenched and my shoulders tensed. My fists tightened and—I swear it was involuntarily, officer—I punched him. I punched him right in the beezer.

I wish you the best as well, Jack.