The Final Frontier

I had a strange dream last night, all the stranger for the fact that I remembered it. I know why I had it. Yesterday was the thirty-fifth anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. And yesterday I was speaking to friends about playing favorites with children.

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The anniversary of the moon landing leaves me nostalgic. The summer I remember best of my youth was the summer of 1969. I was a freshly minted thirteen-year-old, and my head was full of science fiction and space and astronomy. I was a science geek to begin with, and summer of 1969 was a summer tailor-made for young science geeks.

In June of that summer, the last new episode of original Star Trek was broadcast. Star Trek was the single biggest reason that I had become a science geek, and after three years of being immersed in the program I was going through sudden withdrawal and desperate to find new fantasy/science fiction outlets. I first read Doyle’s “The Lost World” that summer, and first discovered Tolkien that summer.

In August a close fly-by of Mars was made by one of our probes (Mariner? I can’t believe I’ve forgotten … I’ll have to look it up later.). That was enough to prompt me to spend a lot of time reading about our solar system, and inspired me to actually learn a little extra math and physics on my own, so I could understand planetary orbits.

But July … July caught the mind of an entire nation. Hell, it caught the attention of the world. Anyone of us who was alive at that time is going to have their own stories of going out at night and staring at the moon in July with a new appreciation of the sight. At that very moment I was looking, representatives of our species were standing on its face. My brand new three-inch refractor was trained on the moon every clear night. I had a map of the path between the earth and moon that Apollo 11 would take, and I put a fresh pin in it every day to mark its progress. I was glued to the television when I wasn’t out with my telescope. I was in love for the first time, though I’m not sure that NASA ever returned my affections. I dreamed of being an astronaut, and I watched with envy while the successful suitors, garbed in their lunar formal wear, walked on a globe not my own.

Maybe it’s because I was still young, or maybe because I was sheltered. There were equally big events that occurred in the summer of 1969 that I know of, but don’t have personal recollections of. The original Woodstock happened that summer. Qaddafi came to power the end of that summer. The Chicago Seven trial happened that summer. Edward Kennedy took a plunge off a bridge that summer. I know these things happened, but what I remember is a fuzzy picture on the television of a foot while hearing a voice through the static saying “One small step for a man.”

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The conversation started as a parents-only thing, where they discussed how hard it was not to have a favorite. Though no one would actually admit to having a favorite kid, they all skirted around the issue by saying how a parent was supposed to love all their children equally, and that there was terrible angst and guilt when one was a favorite. I said that, while I didn’t have children, I felt guilty sometimes because I favored one of my cats over the other. That brought a laugh, which didn’t make me feel any better about the confession, but I think the others just assumed I was making a joke. I wasn’t, though.

I try to give Clueless equal quality time, and I have to admit he’s much better about begging for attention than the Grey Menace is. But when I’m being honest with myself, I know that it’s the Kitten from Hell that will probably end up being the “pet of a lifetime” that all my other pets are going to have to measure up to.

The guilt is compounded by the fact that Clueless was probably the best thing to ever happen to my mother in her waning days, and he’s earned a good home, lots of love, and all the catnip he wants for the rest of his life for that. My mother clung to that cat when all else became unfamiliar and frightening when she was losing her fight with Alzheimer’s. Clueless took it all with good grace, and has become a sort of hero cat for me.

Clueless is now about eleven years old, and he’s starting to slow down. He’s getting extra white hairs on his muzzle, and he’s far happier just sitting around taking in the sights than he was a decade ago. Sometimes I look at him and realize he isn’t going to be around forever, and I feel guilty that I like the kitten best. It’s those times he gets an extra chin-scritch or a few extra treats.

I’m not claiming that pet ownership is the equivalent of parenthood. It’s not. That’s why I have pets but not kids. I’m suitable for one job, but totally unsuited for the other. While parents have a far more responsible job, there is one thing that is more difficult for the pet owner: under ideal conditions a parent never expects to outlive their children but pet owners pretty much know they are going to outlive their pets (unless you keep parrots or turtles or some similar thing, but stick with me here). There’s always a chance to do better by your kids. With pets, you know your time is limited.

[Disclaimer: Yes, I know that nothing is for certain. I like to believe I know that better than most people do. I therefore know there’s no guarantee of your children outliving you. I just wanted to write down the generalities, without quibbling about the specifics. Just accept my generalization, and I’ll accept your exceptions.]

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Apollo 11 and aging cats do manage to fit together into a single dream. I dreamt I was sitting in the living room with The Socialist, watching television. On the screen were black and white images similar to the ones I remember watching during the 1969 moonwalk. There were lines through the picture, and it kept breaking up and coming back. We were watching a live news broadcast from a space station.

We had volunteered our three cats, Warrior Princess, Clueless and Grey Menace, to be part of a special test program for a new space station. The cats were going to spend several years on the space station, running experiments and testing out new techniques for living weightless. Our cats had been selected from hundreds of applicants. I could make out Clueless floating in the cabin in front of an instrument panel of some sort.

The Socialist said to me how proud he was of them. I was proud too, for a moment, but then I realized that they were to be in space for years, and that the Grey Menace was the only one likely to make it back to us. I was suddenly appalled, and couldn’t imagine how I could have possibly agreed to let our cats take part in this project. I felt guilty about letting Clueless participate, and wondered if GM would even recognize me when she came back. At that point I woke up.

This damned dream has bothered me all day. It’s embarrassing to admit that out loud, especially after writing the details out and forcing myself to reread them. As stupid as I feel, though, I can’t shake off this fear and guilt that’s been following me since I woke up.

I need a vacation.