Cat Cote

A Dog Called Muppet

Saturday, 31 October. 1998.

"Well, Kitty, it sure was great to see you." My mother leans in for a hug, filling my nose with the scent of her lavender perfume.

"Sure was, kiddo." My father awkwardly reaches around Mom's shoulder to try to pat me on the back, but only gets a bit of my neck. I cough a little as Mom's hug becomes a bit too restrictive and she lets go, holding me out with a nervous smile. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

"Yeah, it gets boring around here with no one but Brian to talk to." Laura cups the side of her mouth in a weak attempt to spare her twin's feelings; despite the fact that we all know any of her snide comments are meant for him. "Brian doesn't really count."

"Hey!" Brian pushes his sister, but he's too lanky and unbalanced to do much more than make her unfold her arms.

My mother turns around and issues them a harsh word. "Kids! Stop fighting. Can't you keep it together for five minutes while your sister says goodbye?"

Gran comes over and pats my cheek. "Have a good time at camp then, Catherine," she says with earnest in her deep blue eyes.

"Gran, I'm twenty." I remind her, giving her soft hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm in college. I'm going back to college."

"Are you really? Already? You know, back when I was your age in the summer of '31, your grandfather and I used to-"

"Ha, okay, Mom, why don't you come to the kitchen and help me with the dishes?"

Gran turns a bit to wave her fingers in Dad's face as if he were a housefly and not her son. "Well, sure now, Freddie, in a minute..." Gran pulls me close, kisses my cheek, and says in a voice quite louder than a whisper: "You watch out for young fellars wanting unprotected sex, you hear? Back in '35, I-"

"Mom. Kitchen. Now." Brian snickers at me from the stairs. Laura rolls her eyes at him.

"I'll be careful, Gran. I promise."

Mom clears her throat and opens the door. Making sure I've got all the food she's given me to take back (and a number of other items she'd deemed a necessity), I find myself making my way onto the front step. A mournful but friendly bark sounds from the doorway where my dog, Mason, is wagging his tail with gusto.

"Bye, Kitty!"

"Bring Heather next time!"

"Mom, can we still go trick-or-treating?"

"Don't forget the condoms, dearie!"

"Mom."

I turn and wave as well as I can, what with my arms full of leftovers. I make my way down to my little, old Volvo, pop the trunk, and dump everything on top of the already mounting pile of used books. I shut the trunk with a rattle, and gaze fondly upon my car's rusty logo. At some point since my owning it, the initial V has fallen off so that it simply reads "olvo".

I hear the front door close, Mom's seasonal wreath thudding against the wood. I walk around to the front of my car, and take a deep breath of fresh air with a smile. This air is, scientifically, only marginally different from the air outside our dorm-something about it, perhaps just the thought of being home, sweetens it. I walk to the front of my car and lean against the driver's side door. I look up at the stars, just beginning to appear out of the dusky twilight.

The night is still young. I have plenty of time-I could visit old haunts, drop in to see a friend. I feel a rush as a wave of opportunities rise before me. Well, maybe not tsunami type wave, but enough opportunities to play out in a night.