Surplus Cats

My gramma had a dachshund for nearly thirty years — at least as far as she was concerned. In reality my grandfather would go to the pound for a new one of similar size when Sally would pass, and pass her off as the previous Sally. He didn’t mean to trick her.

The first time he found Sally had passed on, Gramma was out. He was so worried she would be devastated and thinking perhaps having a new dog to fall in love with would be a distraction, he quickly went to find a replacement. The shelter had another liver colored doxie. Perhaps familiarity would be comforting? But when she came home she immediately started lavishing attention on “Sally”, not realizing she wasn’t, before he could explain.

The seventh, and last Sally, was a boy, and not even the same size or color. You’d think walking “her” would finally be a tip off, but she’d just say, “Land alive Miss Sally! You put that leg down and act like a proper lady!”

It was very difficult to get a word in with Gramma, so I can see how this happened. She also insisted she was Russian royalty, and wouldn’t hear otherwise; a direct descendant of Anastasia — and no time lines or encyclopedias were going to sway her.

She also read tarot cards for her friends and neighbors, as well as gave readings of tea leaves. She refused to read mine saying that my future wasn’t set yet. (This left me wondering when futures are set.)

According to Gramma, a bit of green glass she stepped on as a child was circling through her body causing all of her ailments. Her knee hurt? “Oh that glass!” Maybe her shoulder ached? “There’s my glass again.”

Finally, her doctor cured her; she had the shard of green glass in a small vile to show for it. I think about this doctor, a man I never had the pleasure of meeting, quite often. What a kindness to a nice elderly lady. What kind brilliance.

I never questioned her directly, or rolled my eyes, or giggled. I never said she was insane or strange or silly. She was a nice old lady, who made killer latkes and collected elephants with upturned-trunks. She would crochet Muppets for me and managed to give me the same birthday card for five or six years — the same pink unicorn, yet somehow with increasing digits in the printed greetings. Amazing. But I never said a word to her about her odd beliefs. But she also never said I had to agree with her.

So if you’re going to play the Grandma Gambit with me — maybe let me do the honors first: If your dying grandmother wanted to read your tea leaves on her deathbed, would you stop praying and listen?