One of These Things is Not Like the Other

I drew it on a whim, quick strokes just for fun. Four years later, it’s still there: a little cartoon drawing of Ferg on my dry erase board. It cracks me up when I pair it with his voice in my head - a shy kid in the back corner of the classroom, a little drip of snot beneath his nose with hair sticking up all over the place. Low register, slightly stuffy even. Hi, Mob. Lub you, Mob.

Don’t all pet parents put a voice to their furbaby? No?

He wasn’t needy. He just had needs. And, I LOVED that about him.

There was something cathartic about refilling his giant green pill case once a week and cutting his tablets in two, dipping some in peanut butter and tucking them in his kibble. I ate up the sound of him crunching when he gobbled it like a champ.

Jeez, I even loved the way he’d scare himself with the sound of his little toots (apple chunks! fiber!) lying on the couch. His head popping up in surprise, like, Hey! Who did that? All you, bud.

And to cap it off, his tail was perfectly crooked. Maybe it got caught in a door at some point, though I’ll never know. Honestly, he reminds me of me. There’s that saying: people eventually start to look like their pets. Or maybe, it’s the other way around. But I’m convinced we mimicked more than each other’s looks – we reflected each other’s insides.

As I’ve said before, he was my heart outside my body.

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It takes both my hands to count the number of times I transferred schools before freshman year, constantly the new kid at the back of the classroom. (Literally – it comes with the territory of a last name starting with W, seated in alphabetical order.)

I ran to Mom crying during kindergarten orientation convinced I was entering a grade “just for boys.” In sixth grade, the girl sitting next to me gaped wide-eyed when I announced I’d be getting braces soon. “Wait, you’re gonna have both glasses AND braces? WOAH.”

And let’s face it: for five years all I wore were hoodies to help cover the dessert plate sized sweat stains taking up real estate under my armpits that no amount of CertainDri could control. Special in oh so many ways. The coveted outlier.

The same one I am learning to be gentle with daily. We’ve come a long way, she and I. But oooh, it takes work. And mountains of patience.

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photo: National Aquarium

We spend a large chunk of time feeding our sea turtles every week at the aquarium. Sometimes it can take hours to feed cold stuns. Before taking on the role, I was asked about my level of patience. Good thing I have plenty of practice in that department.

Many of the turtles are becoming healthier and more themselves by now, zooming through makeshift kelp forests and scratching their backs on sunken scrubbies. But a few still require a little extra help.

One little turtle favors shrimp, peeled and chopped. Easier to digest that way. As the speedy others devour delights all around him, I see him getting so close to a nibble, then SWOOSH. Another one snags it. Over and over, he’s a bit late to the food game, surrounded by those with fast, full bellies. I try and try, but no luck. It’s okay, we can tend to him later, the staff encourages. But something in me knows, keep going. Pull an extra shrimp from the freezer, let it defrost. Shell it, chop it and… it’s intercepted again. Another shrimp. Another defrost. This time, I wait a little longer for just the right opportunity. And then, I toss his delicacy in with a splash. Go buddy, go! It's a victory – for both of us.

I pass the photo of Ferg and me posted to the team wall. He must be thrilled to be on turtle watch 24/7 looking over that pool.

A favorite summer spot by Chicago's Shedd Aquarium.

My boy’s last week on earth was a bit like us all joining the cast of Benjamin Button. The seasoned gent had reverted as I became a constant caregiver to an entirely dependent newborn. Waking every hour. Water to his lips. Supporting his body to pee. Wiping his bum. Hand feeding. Stroking his fur, calming the panting. I called on my people to help. Dad and I took shifts. Because there was no question of what came first, desperately wanting time to last.

To have needs is to be hand picked, to be cherished with support, enveloped with that much more love.

That dry erase board sits behind me as I write this now, still a favorite tool of mine for bringing ideas to life. It captures trails of thoughts as I’m tempted to always rush full steam ahead – because isn’t the clock ticking? Am I running out of time? But then I look back at those effortless pen marks. His scruffy words remind me: It’s okay, take your time, Mob.