Father’s Day
Father’s Day
Lorca, my largest cat, is the first one I greet: “Happy Father’s Day,” I say, as I get him his bowl of kibble. He’ll only eat on top of Dane's desk. Lorca doesn’t like to eat with the other cats.
The rest of the crew are all in their typical places. Monkey is watching my every move from the kitchen counter. He doesn’t go right for his food bowl; he wants to be petted and adored first. Rupert does too, so he heads for the bathroom, where he knows I’ll eventually go, and where he’ll hold me hostage as I rub his ears. Food doesn’t have as much appeal for him as affection.
As I’m about to wish Leo, the youngest feline, a happy Father’s Day, I’m already cycling through memories of my dad, whom I called Popsie Turtle. Because it’s morning, I picture him sitting at the kitchen table, a stocking cap perched on his wide head. He’d be holding the newspaper with one hand while the other rested on the handle of his cup of black coffee.
Dad was the first to awaken each morning. When I was younger, I’d get up early and tag along behind him as he fed Kelly and Albert, our dogs, raised the flag that he'd taken down the evening before, and often swept the garage and then hosed it down.
My dad was a good dad. On summer afternoons, he’d ride his bike up the path through Hales Corners Park to the swimming pool, where he’d lean it against the chain-link fence of the diving well section. Still seated on his bike with his fingers in the fence so he wouldn’t tip over, he’d call out encouragement to me as I made my way up the ladder. I’d stand on the tip of the high dive board, bent over, with my hands over my head and my fingers pressed together. My nose plugs were a constant source of amusement for the other children, but I hated getting water up my nose as I tipped over and plunged into the pool.
When I surfaced, I’d walk over to the fence, leaving a trail of water on the hot concrete, and Dad would give me a score between 1 and 10 with instructions on how to improve my dive. I never did get a 10, although my persistence paid off on the low diving board, where I was more comfortable.
In winter, Dad would tie his worn hockey skates and my figure skates together and drape them around his neck, and we’d walk that same path up to the ice skating rink. He never seemed to get tired of playing with me in all seasons.
Having fed the cats, I go outside to do chores—and that’s when it occurs to me that not only Lorca but the other male cats, as well as the male dogs, Finnegan and Ruben, and the donkeys and goats, will never be fathers.
I promptly change my greeting; “Happy You’ll-Never-Be-a-Father Day,” I say to Diego and Carlos as I toss them their hay; “Happy You’ll-Never-Be-a-Father Day” to Hans and Vincent, as I feed them banana slices.
There’s nothing wrong with making the decision not to become a father. At my place, I made that decision for my critters. But human males can also make that choice—and wouldn’t that solve a lot of problems, I think.
Back inside the house, Monkey is still waiting for more love. While the water for my coffee is heating, I scratch him under the chin and silently thank Popsie Turtle for having been a good dad. I got lucky.
Happy Father’s Day, Popsie Turtle. I hope you’re enjoying an ice-cold Pabst, Camel straight, and a hot game of poker, wherever you are.
