A happy Homecoming

 Each fall, there is Homecoming at our town's school.

Until this year, the occasion merited little attention from us. Neither Michelle nor I attended school here, so as non-alumni, there wasn't much for us to be involved in. Our children hadn't taken much notice, either, beyond perhaps going to the football game (you know, concessions and all that).

That changed this year.

Each of our two sons had a date to the Homecoming Dance. Nathaniel, a junior, asked a sophomore named Kate who he knows from marching band and whom he's had his eyes on. Isaiah, a freshman, asked a girl named Alice, also from marching band, who -- as rumor had it -- liked him.

Homecoming, or at least how boys ask girls to any school-organized dance, has changed a lot. Back in my day, you approached a girl you liked and asked her to be your date. The most challenging part of all that was summoning the courage to ask.

It's a lot more elaborate these days. Each Lewis boy designed a poster to verbalize their request (I guess). They then had to concoct a moment to make the Big Ask. And that is a torturous affair in itself.

Isaiah created his ask-the-girl poster with a clever play on the marching band's musical theme, Reminisce. Michelle helped him sketch the letters, in white and purple (the band's color scheme this year) and to embroider the poster with musical notes. It looked quite enticing. I was impressed by the effort that Isaiah put into it. (I blogged about this in detail last month.)

Then that poster sat on our dining room table for days -- then a week, then a second week -- as Isaiah agonized over when, and how, to ask Alice to go with him. Finally, one day, after multiple rounds of texts, snaps, and who know what other forms of communication – and with a little more than a week before the dance, – Isaiah suddenly asked Michelle for a ride to a friend's house. He grabbed his poster, and whoosh! they were off. 

Whatever the arrangement and however Alice happened to show up, Isaiah proffered his request, and it was accepted. He had a date. 

Nathaniel asked his date with at least a little more lead time before the dance. But he, too, anguished over the poster he felt he needed to create, recruiting his friends for advice -- and presumably, moral support. I would overhear him chatting excitedly with his friends about the what, when, and how to ask Kate. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, and all it seemed was to spin the kid into circles. I don't remember the specifics, but, like Isaiah, Nathaniel suddenly bolted out the door, off to a friend's house to design the masterpiece that would be his instrument to court a date. At least he didn't let the poster linger as he dawdled about the ask. I don't know what he wrote on it, but I guess it worked. He, too, had a date.

I hadn't noticed the change, but Homecoming has become a real gala affair, seeming to rival Prom in pomp, circumstance and apparel. Maybe not as much on the guy's side. Isaiah dressed in a white shirt, with a black tie, and black pants. Simple and effective. His guy friends did the same, although one added a suit jacket to up the ante.

The girls are another clothing matter. These young ladies, all freshmen, were decked out in glitzy, glittering dresses, some showing a fair amount of skin in the upper and lower halves. Most wore heels. They looked like a group of Barbies. When Isaiah and arrived at one of the girl's homes for pictures, I could scarcely believe the pageantry involved. The girls' mothers all were clustered together, chattering excitedly, keenly anticipating the moment when the girls en masse walked down the stairs like some scene out of Cinderella. 

The picture taking session was equally orchestrated. We drove in a caravan a few hundred yards to a human-made pond surrounded by a thin stand of trees. The pond had a boulder at one point on the shore that I assume the subdivision developer had trucked in for aesthetics. The boys chose that spot for their guys-only pictures. On the other side was a small promontory at which all gathered for multiple rounds of picture taking. It lasted 45 minutes, and would have gone on for far longer if one of the date's 8th-grade sisters hadn't decided to start ordering everyone into positions and poses. Thank goodness for that.

That was just the beginning: The girls' parents had offered to give all dates a ride to a nearby city where they could go to dinner, followed by ice cream. They then would drive the group to the dance. Then, when the dance ended, they had agreed to drive the group back to the original host home for an after party of watching movies and playing games until 2 am. 2 am! One of Isaiah's friend's parents said he would pick up his son and Isaiah and return them after that. 

All I can say to all that: Thank you and really?

I'm less clear what Nathaniel, his date, and their group did, as Michelle went to the picture taking and those kids drove themselves to dinner, then the dance, and then an after party at one of the girl's homes. Like Isaiah, Nathaniel got home around 2 am.

Quick side note here: Michelle and I normally would never allow our kids to stay out that late. We originally had set a curfew of midnight for Nathaniel and 11 pm for Isaiah. But then the after parties materialized, and we realized, somewhat grudgingly, that it would be unfair for our boys to be the only ones ordered home. So, we relented. We live in a small town, where we know most folks – and they know us – so there is a level of trust here. I know there was no way I was allowed to roam the big city of Houston for any high school dance when I was younger.

But times change, and Homecoming sure as heck is a big deal now. But you know what? Our sons had a great time. Isaiah, so nervous and awkward about his date and the dance because his feelings were not on par with hers, reported he had a great time.

"She told me she didn't like me like that anymore, and then we just had a great time talking and hanging out as friends," he told us the next morning.

Nathaniel flopped on our bed, tired and happy, when he returned. He recounted that he, too, had a great time. This girl may be more than just a date, he added. 

Homecoming may be hyped more than needed, but really that's no matter. What matters is our boys enjoyed themselves, and had returned safe and sound. 

I'm already looking forward to Prom. 

A dog and a cat

We have a dog who acts like a cat, and a cat who acts like a dog.

I'll need to explain this a little.

Our dog is Shadow, so named for the black fur that covers nearly her entire body. She was found in a roadside ditch in Oklahoma, with a litter of 10 puppies, and shipped, with her brood, to a rescue service in Iowa. When we took her in, she had heartworm (no surprise) and a strange wheezing sound when she breathed that required multiple veterinary trips to successfully diagnose. The wheezing, we learned, came from a bacterial infection that had taken root in a lung and traced to rotting shellfish she had eaten as a stray. Thankfully for us, the rescue service covered her medical bills, including the surgery to remove the lung infection. (The people who work -- and those who support -- animal rescue services are truly selfless and noble; if there's a heaven, their tickets should be honored.)

Shadow, now whole in body, always was whole in spirit. She's pretty dopey, it must be said, but she more than makes up for a lack of brains with a whole lot of heart and affection. She integrated seamlessly into our family -- well, at least when she realized she no longer needed to aggressively forage for her meals. We won't forget her first night with us: Michelle had cooked enchiladas, and while she momentarily left the kitchen, we heard a loud crash, followed by the distinctive sound of shattered glass. Shadow had leapt and swiped the entire glass tray of enchiladas from the range, and knocked it to the floor. When we ran into the kitchen, she was zealously lapping the splattered mass. We learned quickly that no unattended food was safe.

Then there's Roddy the cat. He arrived from an animal shelter in summer 2020, just months into the COVID 19 pandemic. He too, had been abandoned, then found and rescued. My older son had been yearning for a kitty, and begging his mother for one. I was fiercely resistant, as I was allergic to cats. There were no cats when I was growing up. My then girlfriend, Michelle, (now wife) had a fat, furry ball named Kitty who I at best tolerated during my visits to her place when we were dating. Visiting my wife's family and their cats almost instantly triggered sneezing bouts.

Cats made me miserable.

I also had a healthy fear of them. I couldn't read them, and I didn't know how to interact them. They seemed creepy, almost sinister, with their slit-like irises and their slinky strut. Once, when I was trying to hold Michelle's family cat, Hoiberg, the damn thing bit me in the soft, fleshy patch of skin between my thumb and forefinger. That wound hurt for weeks. 

So, when the older son, Nathaniel, began lobbying for a kitty, I had not forgotten the incident with Hoiberg the Biter, and I had not forgotten my episodes of spasmodic sneezing at Michelle's family home. I was completely opposed to cat in the house, and I felt I had some pretty good reasons why. 

So, imagine my surprise when Michelle and Nathaniel came home one day with Roddy. Boy, was I not happy. "Why?" I asked. "You know I'm allergic to cats."

But my protests largely were ignored. Plaintive son wins over whining Dad nearly all the time.

I was not happy a cat was in our home. I was less happy when Roddy took to leaping on the kitchen counters to forage for food. Unlike Shadow, who one time whacked our dinner to the floor, Roddy could jump up on and thus access our kitchen counters with ease, and nibble and bit his way into anything there. Bread, rolls, buns, snacks, the bar was always open for him.

As I was now working from home, Roddy's kitchen forays began to really piss me off. 

It all came to a head one day when he leapt on the counter and helped himself to something I had made. Maybe it was a sandwich, I don't remember. But Roddy was feeding himself with impunity, and I had had enough. I clapped my hands at him, and he jumped off the counter. Then, I chased him. I chased him into the living room, I chased him into the front foyer, I chased him into the kitchen, I chased him to the stairwell, I chased him to our bedroom, where he had leapt on to the bed. I grabbed him, clutched him, and yelled at him, "You little bastard!" and threw him down on the bed. Then, I chased him again, he scurrying mightily, talons digging into wood, as he jetted from one room to another, with me screaming like a banshee, in hot pursuit.

I finally cornered him in the closet of Nathaniel's room, where he cowered on a shelf. his back arched, hissing at me. I backed away, fearing he might leap at me and claw my eye out or something.

As my adrenaline retreated, I realized how foolish I had been, and how guilty I felt for freaking out a pet who still was becoming acclimated to our home, to our family, and to his new situation. 

I later found him burrowed tightly against my younger son on his bed, trembling from our frenzied encounter.

I felt very small in that moment.

Maybe Roddy and I reached an understanding that day. He seemed to lessen his counter leaps of plenty. At night, when I'd watch TV, he jump on the back of the sofa and lick my head. Tentatively at first, I would pet him. Then, I'd pick him up, gingerly – really, because I didn't know how to do it – and put him on my lap. He sat there, content, as I stroked his fur. Hmmm, I thought, he's pretty nice, and damn if I don't have any impulse to sneeze, no matter how close he was to my face. When I picked him up, he thrust his legs forward, like a long-jump skier who had just taken off from the chute. Sometimes, I would lift him high in the air, pronouncing "Lion King!" as he looked down at me from above.

I don't know if he enjoyed any of that, but he certainly tolerated it, no complaints at all.

Since then, our relationship has gone unalterably up. Soaring, actually. It's fair to say Roddy has much affection for me -- and the feeling is mutual, which, though well established, still surprises me to write it.

I am Roddy's main breakfast feeder, and since I've worked at home for the past five years, a reliable companion. Meaning I talk to him -- sort of. I call his name regularly -- just aimlessly oftentimes -- and he comes ambling up, like a dog. In the evenings, he senses when bedtime is creeping closer, and he starts circling around me. If I move, he follows me. Where I go, he goes. When I stop, he moves between my legs, his tail swishing against either leg. He wants me to know he's here, and it's time.

That time is Roddy Time. When I sit on the bed to put on the t-shirt and shorts I'll sleep in, Roddy starts to get aggressive. He's all over me -- on my lap, off my lap, rubbing his body with some force against my torso. He knows what he wants, and he's like, 'Well, buddy, what are we waiting for?'"

I settle in to the bed, my upper body propped up with pillows. It's time, and Roddy moves in. He climbs up my chest and head butts my chin. Once, then again, even a third time. In response, I begin a vigorous rubbing of his head, ears, jowls, and under chin. I swear, it's as if eyes begin to roll in his head, he's so damn satisfied. His purring is so loud you can feel it in the mattress. 

I'll give him his version of a Turkish Bath head and body massage for several minutes -- him purring with pleasure, me closing my eyes, relaxed and sleepy as I move my fingers through his fur. He is happy, and frankly, so am I.

Never thought I'd say that about a damn cat.

As you can tell, I'm far more comfortable around dogs. I've been around them my whole life, so I feel I know them pretty well. I have no fear of them, except pit bulls, which I just don't trust.

Anyway, Shadow can be trusted completely. She is a big bundle of sweetness. I like when she sticks out her tongue, like a snake, when I approach her. I like how she'll cuddle up to me, either sitting at attention, patiently waiting for acknowledgment, or when I'm sitting on the futon, practically flopping herself into my body to squash herself as close to me as she can. 

Maybe what I like best is the mood she's in after she eats. She'll come in from the screen porch and sit at attention inside the sliding door, and make guttural, Darth Vader-like grunts. When I pet her on the head, her grunts intensify in sound. It's as if she's purring, like a cat. Start rubbing her ears? The purring reaches a whole new level, as if she's snoring with delight. What a visceral show of affection, no?

So, a dog who behaves like a cat, and a cat who behaves like a dog. Go figure.

We'll take 'em just the way they are.