Recently I’ve been having dreams about relatives and pets who have been “somewhere over the rainbow” for literally decades.

 

Last night I dreamed that I had left my Karma Kat (Charisma, a seal point Siamese whose nickname was Turkey) in Arizona in a travel trailer and had been so long away that I was trying to get my aunt and uncle to visit it every couple days (at least) to be sure the air conditioner was still working, to clean the little pan, and to be sure that Turkey had adequate food and water until I got back.

 

Arizona is one state I have never lived in. Oh, we (Dad, Mom and I, plus subcontractors) did a remodel there of a restaurant in Tempe that took about two weeks, but other than that, we only passed through the state, and Turkey wasn’t with us when we did that. And I have never had aunts and uncles living in Arizona.  So, in my dream, I was getting desperate to either return to the travel trailer post haste (but couldn’t find a way to do it) OR to find someone who would look in on the cat and be sure he was all right.

 

ABOUT CHARISMA/TURKEY

 

Charisma (Turkey) was psychic, I swear. He KNEW when my mind landed on him in an agitated (“Oh, My God, I haven’t seen Turkey in a while! I wonder if he’s okay?!”) manner, even when he was in another room. He would immediately chirp and come into the room I was in.

 

I couldn’t FAKE agitation or ACT agitated; he only responded to GENUINE agitation/fear.

 

I wrote a poem about him which ended up in LET NO DAY DAWN THAT THE ANIMALS CANNOT SHARE. I’ll reprint it here.

KARMA KAT

 

Charisma, for your nickname  (Turkey),  I honestly apologize.

Surely you deserve better than attempted humor.

Fortunately, it means to you what it has come to mean to me, because of you:

reverent, unabashed, all-consuming love…trust…respect…and UNDERSTANDING.

 

Charisma, dear palace cat of Siam,

Your soft searching paw seeking sanctuary

‘Neath the warm bedcovers in the dead of the night

Reaches my heart and my soul with an ease unmatched.

Share my warmth, my life, my dreams, my world

As your species always has.

 

Remember?

We shared lives in Greece long years ago

And for our association during the witch hunts

 We both burned at the stake.

You saved my granary during the Middle Ages

And when your crises came, I was there for you.

 

Recycled lives. Recycled love. I’m content—absolutely—

to spend eternity with you, Cat.

 

Yeah, he was among my most memorable pets, so I still dream about him…

 

RAINBOW BRIDGE

 

I wonder how many of my pets will greet me across Rainbow Bridge when I cross over?  Fancy the skunk, Gabriel raccoon, Deaken the serval, Bish-Bish the cat, Bursties the cat, Sugar Babe the horse, Puddles (Cindy), my first dog, Snazzy (black lab), Lucky the red-tail hawk, Skippy the mouse, the orphaned fawns from the Mt St Helens Eruption, Tammy the fawn in Cle Elum? I could go on and on and on, there have been so many… I loved them all.

 

There were times when I thought my only true friends were animals, as I was afraid to entrust my friends with the secret knowledge that I was a guy stuck inside a girl’s body. (Not a common topic of discussion in the late 50’s or 60’s or 70’s or 80’s or 90’s, you know?) The animals loved me unconditionally, and I, them. In fact, they taught me HOW to love unconditionally. No one else in my life did, up until I hung with my favorite actor and my mentor DeForest Kelley up close and personal starting in 1989 after I moved to Hollywood at the Kelley’s urging.

 

Animals kept me alive and happy. They still do.

 

So that’s probably why I have dreams where I’m somehow not living up to my end of the bargain.  I have never left an animal unfed, un-watered, or uncleaned up after in my life. I love taking care of them!  But some dreams plague me, showing me accidentally/innocently neglecting them and then feeling horrified that they might have died from my neglect.  They’re awful dreams.

 

DO THE ANIMALS IN MY DREAMS = PEOPLE?

 

Suddenly, I wonder if the animals in my dreams are “stand ins” for  HUMAN beings that I have loved and accidentally/innocently/circumstantially or willfully/blatantly neglected. I’m estranged from family members who continue to be Trump supporters because I can’t separate that hate-and-wrath-filled psychopath from his otherwise-assumed-sane supporters.

 

 

One time, when my grandniece Jamie was five or six, she came to me and asked, “Don’t you like children?”

 

At the time, I was stressing out so much about keeping my head above water financially that all I did was look for writing work during every waking hour (70 to 90 hours per week), so I looked (and indeed was) completely absorbed in that pursuit. I told her, “I do like children, but I’m very busy and simply don’t have enough  time during my waking hours to do anything but sit here and look for work.”

 

She went away, apparently satisfied with the answer, but I still felt bad. But I didn’t stop, because keeping the roof over my head was my priority.  It was that simple:  survival first, relationships second.

 

And because I love writing, and critters, and hanging with already-friends, I haven’t done much since I got my feet under me financially (which happened relatively recently, in fact, and can change back at any moment should I lose a client or two) to change the dynamic between Jamie, her sister Casey, and me. It feels almost too late, and it may be too late. They don’t interact with me more than they absolutely have to to be polite as eighteen and 21-years-olds, and I have myself and my  circumstances  to blame for that. I’m a living version of the song CATS IN THE CRADLE. I’m sure those of us without children and without adequate funds who aren’t teachers can relate. Sometimes life circumstances turn people into strangers.

 

THE UPSIDE OF ALL THIS

 

Oddly enough, I am so NOT a stranger to other people. Just to my sisters’ families. I’m such an open book, being a writer and podcaster to literally thousands of people, many of whom have become friends-I-haven’t-met-yet except virtually.  I feel well-loved, well-respected, even admired by some. I’ve been called courageous, wise, funny, bright and a hoot. My “children” are the books with my name on the cover (most of them memoirs of one kind or another) and the words I write for clients to help them build audiences, loyalists and their bank accounts. They are my legacy.

 

And as I’ve gotten older, I no longer want to forge any other kind of legacy. I always thought I’d like fame and fortune, but I’m happiest when I’m just here at home being myself and hanging with the people whose sensibilities mirror my own. I like kind people, compassionate people, fearless people (those with a fearlessness of diversity and personal challenges and goals).

 

I realize now that the ONLY person who truly EXPECTED great things of me was ME.  Everyone else was either afraid for me (that I wouldn’t become a good little cog in the wheel of capitalism, or of homecraft).  The teachers who encouraged and promoted me, calling my writing exceptional, are long gone (except in my heart) and I no have no one to prove right or to impress anymore, nor am I interested in doing so. I’m interested in communicating.  I’m interested in, “Don’t write to impress, write to express.”

 

So, there are no more hurdles to jump. I have placed none before me, and I don’t respond “appropriately” to those who place them before me.  Make it easy for me to help you, or find someone else who you can get to work harder,  not smarter. I’m done with hurdles. At 70 (almost 71) I want the rest of my time to be less stressful, not more. I want to love every moment I’m putting fingers to keyboard. That’s why I hung my shingle to begin with.

 

To those whom I have harmed innocently, accidentally, circumstantially or BLANTANTLY,  I offer this nightly MANTRA before I fall asleep:

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.”