Confessions of a Military Wife (18 page)

We always want to hold and kiss her, which she hates. She has never wanted me to pick her up, nor has she EVER sat on my lap.

She freaks out and starts to cry whenever I pet her for more than twenty seconds. She never hisses or attacks us. She simply doesn’t want human contact. If you leave her alone, she leaves you alone. But if you touch her, you’re asking for trouble.

This drives my husband wild because he wants to squeeze her, hug her, and call her George. Jon loves to pick her up and try to cuddle her, which usually results in huge scratches down his chest and stomach.

They have developed a bizarre relationship that included some strange games. Those games started with Tipple and Darius going outside to hunt gophers, birds, and squirrels. When it got dark, we brought the cats inside to keep them safe from the coyotes and skunks roaming the base.

On the nights my husband would come home late, Tipple would crawl onto our roof and scream in an effort to compel Jon to get her. We had a one-level house, but to get her down he would have to jump on our trampoline and then land on the roof of the garage. He would then scrabble across the roof to get to her.

Once he had her in his arms, though, she would scratch and hiss at him. The blood would follow, as would a loud hiss and frantic struggle until my Marine and cat landed on the trampoline.

This only happened when Jon came home late, and never on nights when he was in the field. This beast wanted his attention, and knew on which days to get it.

I could only imagine the neighbors saying, “Look at those two. Thank God they don’t have any children. They can’t even control their cat! Look at him on his roof! How ridiculous! How can he control a platoon if he can’t get his cat to listen to him?”

At the very end of my husband’s second deployment, a funky smell began to emanate from our bedroom closet. I wanted to concentrate on Jon’s homecoming by getting back to the life we had before he left. You know, like buying real food for the house, practicing getting dressed every morning, and shaving my legs.

However, the smell coming from my husband’s side of the closet kept distracting me. The closer I got to the closet, the worse it smelled. It was the most foul and rank stench I had ever encountered.

I searched everywhere but could not find the source. Jon only had a handful of clothes in the closet since he wears the same sets of utilities every day. I checked the armpits of his shirts to see if one of them had turned ripe after six months, but found nothing.

I wondered if there could be a dead rat in the wall. Was it the fabled “base housing mold” that seasoned wives talked about? You know, where you breathe the mold spores for years and then your kids grow up abnormally tall or develop horrid skin rashes?

I didn’t have time for this drama. I was on a countdown. Jon was due back in three days and I had this awful reek in our bedroom. I needed to find the problem and eliminate it ASAP. This was not the type of ambiance I wanted in our love nest.

By the second day when I hadn’t found the source, I had a horrible thought. Maybe I was the cause of the stench? Could it be that over six months of neglecting my basic hygiene that I had begun to rot?

I had to admit that not only did a few days slide between showers, but I had also been known to wear the same outfit (OK, pajamas) several days in a row. And I had lost my toothbrush—several weeks ago.

While I thought the smell had been coming from the closet, I now wondered if it was my nasty breath bouncing off the clothes and back into my face! I went nuts thinking the stench was coming from me!

I used a travel toothbrush I found in a suitcase to brush my teeth three times. And, yes, I even flossed. When I was done, I dashed back to the closet. The stench was still present and accounted for.

Although I had managed to shower—OK, every other day—I had stopped most waxing, pedicures, hair dying, and shaving of excess body hair. It had to be my body hair that was holding onto the odor, right?

While I knew I would have to shave my legs in time for Jon’s homecoming, I had figured that like everything else it could wait until the last minute.

Now I was sure it couldn’t wait. I showered and shaved down, which left me a pound or two lighter.

The smell in the closet remained.

I was at the height of my hysteria when I spotted Tipple exiting the closet. When she saw me looking at her she dashed off with a rather guilty look on her face. Ah, I thought. That’s it! The cat had left me the gift of a dead mouse in the closet.

When I looked inside the closet, however, there was no dead mouse to be found. When I stuck my head deeper into the closet, I was hit with a stink more potent than before!

That’s when I noticed one of Jon’s shoes had been turned on its side. I picked it up and almost passed out from the smell. The shoe was definitely the problem, but Jon had not worn it in six months. Did my husband have some kind of alien athlete’s foot that had sprouted latent spores in his absence? I looked inside and found the answer.

Tipple had pooped in one of Jon’s favorite pair of shoes! It’s bad enough that my husband only had two pairs of shoes besides his combat boots, but Tipple had used one as her toilet.

She had somehow backed her bottom right into the toe part so you couldn’t see the poop until you looked inside the shoe. Upon further inspection I found she had left a surprise in both shoes. How about that as a welcome home present?

I had to ask myself if this was the same as a gift of a dead animal left by the bed. Does the poop mean she wanted him home or was it her silent protest about having to share the house with another person?

It didn’t matter. I washed out the shoes—twice—and started locking up the closet. Even though he was not home, Tipple was still letting Jon know who was boss.

THE BIRDS!

Both of my cats are excellent hunters. In Del Mar we had countless varmints wreaking havoc—lots of moles, gophers, mice, rats, skunks, and endless numbers of birds.

As I left for work in the morning, I would see my cats in a neighbor’s yard, stealthy watching a nest of feathered creatures. When I came home hours later, they would be in the same position still waiting to strike.

While Jon was gone, their little “gifts” arrived more frequently. It was quite unsettling to find half of a bird or a pair of gopher’s legs in my bedroom—especially since I had no one to get rid of them for me.

I knew when to be on alert for their gifts. They would announce it with a particularly chirpy type of meow. That’s when I knew I would have to check under the bed, in the closet, or in the bathroom.

One day in particular, Ms. Tipple was in my bedroom acting strangely. She was carrying on and chattering, pacing and meowing—a sure sign she had brought me a present.

Then I saw the large black feathers scattered around the bedroom. I checked in the closet, the bathroom, and under the large canopy bed.

Nothing.

Then I noticed Tipple was staring at the top of the canopy bed. I couldn’t deal with it. I figured the dead animal could stay there until my husband returned in two weeks to clean it up. This cat had already put me through enough with the shit in the shoes and dead animals everywhere.

For three days Tipple sat beside my bed chattering, meowing, and pacing, but I ignored her.

One afternoon, Autumn stopped by to return a pan. We were standing in the hall when we heard a loud fluttering and felt something swooping overhead. We both looked up to see this huge crow coming out of my bedroom, straight down the hall, and straight for our faces!

I knocked Autumn to the floor. We were lying flat with arms over our heads in a protective stance. “Cover your eyes!” “Oh, God, where did that come from?”

I leapt up and found the bird frantically flying around my living room. I ran to the sliding glass door leading to the backyard and flung it open. The crow flew out, landed on the power line, turned, and stared at me.

That crow had been perched on top of my canopy bed for three days just waiting for the right moment to fly my coop! How my fifteen-pound cat had managed to get that giant black crow into my room will always be a mystery to me.

I do think it was part of Ms. Tipple’s plan to have the crow peck my eyes out. I’m convinced she wanted her daddy home and me out of the picture!

The worst gossip about my pets started when CoCo hurt her hip. Every night Michelle and I would speed walk about two miles through the neighborhood. We wanted exercise and fresh air. It was also an opportunity to get out of the house, chat, and burn off a few calories.

Michelle would push her youngest, David, in the stroller and walk her cocker spaniel, Molly. I would walk CoCo and Monsieur.

CoCo had had two litters of puppies and was now in the empty nest/ retirement phase of her life. She was glad to have her children out of the house, which was near the beach. Never mind the fact that she still lived with her parents.

Giving birth will change a woman’s body. Ever since the birth of her last litter of twins, Coco’s hips had not been the same.

Sometimes on our long walks, CoCo would simply stop walking and I would end up carrying her. Although six pounds is not a burden, Monsieur would get jealous and demand to be carried as well.

Sometimes if David was in high spirits, Michelle would suggest that CoCo ride with him. Many times David obliged, but he was also three years old. Without warning, David would throw CoCo out of the stroller.

Other times they would be quietly riding along when Monsieur would get jealous and dive into the stroller landing on a sleeping David and CoCo.

Of course, David would react by ejecting both dogs from the stroller.

One evening we saw a stroller on the side of the road left by a family that was PSCing out of the neighborhood. Michelle urged me to take it to use for the dogs on our walks. It was a brilliant idea. I loaded the poodles in it and took off.

I enjoyed those walks with my children in their stroller, waving at neighbors. Then I started hearing the rumors flying around the mail boxes and commissary: “Poor Mrs. Gross, such a shame. Her husband couldn’t give her a real baby before he deployed. Now she has gone crazy and thinks her dogs are babies!”

Or better yet: “Poor Mrs. Gross, I heard she is barren. All she has to live for are those dogs!”

I didn’t mind the rumors until they reached my husband in Iraq. Once my husband’s CO heard I was trying to breast feed my poodles, he thought it had gone too far. I had to park the stroller and get the leashes back out.

I credit my pets for being my main support during both of Jon’s deployments. I know I had friends and family, but a pet’s unconditional love cannot compare. Keep in mind that many of us were war brides, newly married with no kids. Our pets became our babies.

My girlfriend Erin, who was stationed with her husband at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina, had a yellow lab named Ashley. She’s become Erin’s number one companion.

Like kids, pets can go a little bonkers when their “daddy” is deployed. Maybe it’s because they miss him or they sense their owner’s nerves are on edge. For whatever reason, they usually end up in serious trouble.

Erin had noticed that Ashley was not acting like herself. She had become excessively hyperactive and was chasing her tail all the time. The dog was spending more and more time outdoors as if she was looking for something in the grass.

Eventually, Ashley would start barking like mad and run up to the door with a crazed look in her eyes and foam around her mouth. Erin knew it couldn’t be rabies since the dog had been vaccinated. Ashley continued to spend her days nipping at the air and barking at nothing. It was truly bizarre behavior.

After a few days Erin found a toad on the porch. She watched as Ashley followed it around, licking it.

Erin called me to ask what I thought was going on. I told her what any parent with a husband away on deployment did not want to hear.

“Erin, I think she is addicted.” I went on to explain that some toads secrete a hallucinogenic. If you lick one, you can get high.

Erin screamed, “No, not my child! How did I not see this coming! I ignored all the signs!”

She was blaming herself, yet how could she have known? Her child was getting high right in her own backyard! I suggested she take Ashley to the vet to get a professional opinion.

The vet confirmed that Ashley was addicted to toads. He informed Erin that she would have to immediately separate the two. Since Ashley was addicted, the toad would only peer pressure her into continuing to abuse toads.

It was up to Erin to kill the toad. Even worse, Erin would have to tell her husband, who was in Afghanistan, that their child was an abuser. It was not a good call, but Erin and her husband loved each other and they loved Ashley.

The family eventually got through it and Ashley recovered. The toad, on the other hand, mysteriously disappeared.

Beenie and I played this fun game with our husbands. The thing was they didn’t know it was a game. We had both married our spouses after very short courtships. As a result, much of our honeymoon phase was spent getting to know each other.

Beenie and I had already had four pets each when our husbands said, “I do.” But we would often go on and on about the exotic animals we wanted for pets.

It really made Lloyd and Jon nervous. The thing Jon and Lloyd had in common was they found it hard to say no to their wives. Their best hope was that no new strange ideas would creep into our minds.

The one thing Beenie and I shared was a love of animals, and we both always wanted more.

During Jon’s first deployment, I decided I had to have a turtle. Jon freaked, particularly since I had already picked out a name—“Frere Jacques.”

One day Jon called from Iraq just after Beenie and I had been checking out turtles at the local pet store. I had no intention of buying one, but Jon and I had been apart for so long that he was starting to think about the go-cart incident.