The most recent drive from cornfields to clam flats was stressful, to say the least. The worst of it? I brought the stress on myself, because foremost in my brain was the memory of the last time I drove east with my pets. It was on that trip, exactly a year ago, that one of my cats, Gus Gus, passed away.
I had no idea he was ill. Though I suspected something was off, I assumed the issue was more about territorial posturing than anything medical.
Gus was older, wiser, and had always been a spoiled, domesticated feline prince.
Patrick my newest addition, hated him. Pat was younger, bigger, and rougher. He’d spent the first year of his life in survival mode, a tough street cat. Then I trapped him. Within weeks, he was settled in like the royalty he was born to be.
Given that he was at heart a cat, Gus was unusually tolerant of Patrick. When they first met, Gus tried cuddling him and even gave Pat first dibs on their shredded cat food. But when it came to Gus, Pat was all about winning.
Gus was a pile of mush. Patrick was and still is an alpha. There was one year of battles before we embarked on that devastating fateful trip last year.
I didn’t realize Gus was in serious trouble until the second, the final night, of our voyage. When I let the cats out of their carriers in our cut-rate, highway motel – pets welcome, the others scampered out and immediately commenced sniffing around.
Gus didn’t move. I pulled him from the carrier. He tried to stand but trembling, sunk back onto his tummy. In seconds, I was online searching emergency vets. Found one just a few miles down the road. Three hours, two thousand dollars of testing, and many tears later, Gus passed away.
Numb, exhausted, I ordered his cremains sent to where we were headed, went back to the motel, got no sleep, then drove another four hundred miles the next day.
How stressed out did all this make me? His box arrived a few weeks later, while I was running a marathon in another state about three hundred miles south. I got the delivery notification while I was taking a water break about fifteen miles in.
I panicked, picturing poor Gus’s box outside on the cement stoop in the elements and subject to rain, heat, predators. Instead of running, I commenced walking, and started searching phone numbers, calling neighbors I barely knew, and leaving messages pleading that they pleasepleaseplease keep the box safe for me until I got back a few days later. I spent more time the next hour planning for Gus’s remains than I did running on the course.
When I got home, after two marathons in two days, I was so relieved to have that cardboard box in my possession. I don’t even recall what I did with the race medals.
I couldn’t bring myself to unpack Gus’s box. It stayed on the table next to the front door the entire summer. When the other pets and I drove back to cornfield land that fall, I packed it with the rest of my luggage.
That same package, wrapped in postal service tape, covered in stamps, stayed on my bedside table all fall, winter, spring.
It was on the table when I went to bed. I’d notice it with some surprise, and say to myself, “I should really open that. It's too late now. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow would come and the box would be there, still waiting. Again, I’d look at it like I’d never seen it before and think, “I’ll open it before I go to bed tonight.”
For nine months it sat there, untouched. For the better part of a year, I reminded myself each night and morning that I should really open that box, but I never did.
Then, a few days ago I was packing the car for this next trip east. The trunk was full and I’d just put down a folded blanket on the back seat and put puppy pads on top of that, just enough room for three cat carriers, along with their food, bowls, litter, plus a backpack with some overnight things for me.
All that was left was to get myself and the kitties in the car the next morning then drive the 1,300 +miles route I’ve driven at least a dozen times.
I’ve driven east two times since Gus passed, but this was the first trip back since then that I’d be taking the cats.
The replaying of that horrible night that Gus died would not leave my head.
For the billionth time I looked at that little cardboard box, and I swear that box looked right back at me. Without another thought, I ripped off the band aid. In seconds, mailing tape curled at my feet. In my hands I held a simple mahogany box, silky to the touch, with Gus’s name engraved on a silvery plate on top. It was beautiful and horrible.
Gently, I placed the box at the bottom of my pocketbook, which always stays attached to my body when I travel. There was something comforting about having Gus close by. The proximity meant he was in my thoughts the whole drive.
I don't think the world is a welcoming place right now, but for some reason having Gus near me shifted my mindset. I was overly solicitous when it came to making sure the cats were comfortable: multiple stops, head pats, treats. Poor things. I woke them from some solid naps just so that I could scratch their little chins. I looked for kindness on the road and found it.
Day one
First. Coffee and gas stop in Iowa. Amazing kind clerk who asked so many questions about Massachusetts -- while I was itching to get on the road and doing my best to disguise my impatience -- and told me about how he hoped to visit one day but for now his favorite place was Colorado, which he visited once with his dad when he was little.
Him: There were huge mountains all around me. I felt so tiny. It was awesome.
Second. At new to me motel in Ohio which online said it allowed pets.
Me, exhausted after driving 665 miles with constant threat of high winds and heavy thunderstorms, checking in: First, chatted with the clerk about how bad the traffic was, then said, “Sorry. I’m a little impatient. It’s warm out (88 degrees at 7 pm) and the cats are in the car, and I don’t want them to overheat.
Clerk, brusquely: Oh, we don’t allow pets. Sorry.
Me, agitated in a way that one can only be after a day living on large coffees and bottles of diet, caffeinated soda: But that’s not what it says online.
Clerk: Oh. (silent for two beats while I imagine being forced back in the car, driving forever, falling asleep at the wheel, crashing, burning, etc.) I don’t see any cats here. You’re all set. Enjoy your stay.
Day two
First. Dawn, coffee and gas stop in Ohio at a favorite stop.
Young guy in beat up shirt, torn jeans, scuffed work boots while we both are filling our coffee cups: If you’re looking for the half and half, it’s right here. (I said no but thanks.) Yeah. I drove all the way across town from XYZ because they didn’t have half and half. Love that stuff.
Me: We humans are weird, aren’t we?
Him, grinning: Got that right. You have a good day, Miss.
Second. Walking out of same coffee place, two kids, middle schoolers maybe, see me coming, arms full of coffee and sandwiches. They smile, hold interior and exterior doors for me, and nod when I say thank you.
There was kindness everywhere on the roads. From the only other car on the Ohio Turnpike also with Massachusetts plates that I traded lanes with for a hundred miles to the closed, traffic jammed sections where drivers motioned me to cut in front of them and returned my thank you waves.
So minor, I know. But it all mattered because things got better. The roads lost their danger. The constant storm clouds gradually got less menacing. Noticing the small kindnesses made a huge difference.
When I got to my ocean, 1,379 miles from the start the day before, I did the usual: stumbled from the car on half-wake legs and gave them a quick shake, then jogged over the shell-strewn sand to say hello to the mighty waves of her highness, the majestic Atlantic. Normally, I inhale the views and breathe in the salt for as long as it takes to bring my road-battered brain back to life. But today I had passengers waiting so I kept things brief.
At the water, I bent down, ran fingertips through the waves, genuflected, and said a quick prayer of thanks. Not a practicing Catholic anymore, but some habits die hard. Those roads aren’t easy. I’m grateful that on so many of these trips, things have mostly been good.
The water sang and sparkled as two ferries on the horizon shining bright as clouds played tag, back and forth, back and forth. I saw my first shirtless runner of the season and for the first time in ages thought about running again. Maybe.
Got back in the car fast because the beasties needed to stretch their legs too.
A few minutes later, me and the cats -- Patrick, and David and Alexis Rose, were out of our cages. While the furry ones scrambled and sniffed at dusty corners and scratch-free-for-now upholstery, I got their food and water and their Gus all set.
The food and water is by the back door so the cats can watch our squirrels and chipmunks while they eat. Gus is upstairs on my bureau next to my writing journal, a bunch of pens, a handful of coins, and three of my favorite running hats.
I still have a ton to unpack. This morning I started that by writing. As always, it’s good to be home.
