I Am Not Edith Piaf or My One Regret

If I were exactly like Edith Piaf and not like myself I would have no regrets. I would warble “Nooooooo, Je ne regrette riennnnnnnnnnnnn. Riennnnnnnnnn. Riennnnnnnnn. Je ne regrette riennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn” as I made my way regretlessly through life.

And if I were simply more like Edith than like myself I would indulge one regret, but that would be all. I would sing “ Ouiiiiiiiiii, je regrette quel-que-chosssssssssssse. finalmennnnnnnt, je regrette que-que-chosssssssssse. Il n’est pas grand, mon petit quel-que-chose, mais enfin il existe, mon petit quel-que-chose”.

I would regret neither my marriage and subsequent divorce, nor any love affair that I have or haven’t had. I would not regret the gym memberships that I have paid for and not used. I would not even regret tearing a rotator cuff when the dog ran after a squirrel and I refused to let go the leash, although I would come close to regret in the Emergency Room later that day when the male nurse gave me a shot in my hip and I’m pretty sure he had no way of not understanding the complete architecture of my white lacey thong underpants, though given some of his jewelry I have no reason to believe that he doesn’t own a pair just like them. His might not be Swiss, of course, but then again they might be. And I wouldn’t even say that I regret the fact that I didn’t know costume day at school was specifically space alien costume day, and I sent my daughter as Snow White, although I am a little concerned that other parents were able to discern pertinent ideas from the jumble of so called information that gets sent home in the form of fliers.

No, what I would regret will last longer than flashes of excruciating pain, personal embarrassment, romantic mishaps and first grade. It can outlive a marriage. When this kind of regret finds its way into your life, you can bet that it will stay for a good long time.

My one regret would be Michael. He is white, with pink accessories, like Stuart Little, or Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.. He has beautiful green eyes, and everything about him is just so, until you reach the end of his tail, which is always wet, his pacifier.

I know better than to go to Animal Control-- for any reason-- but one day my car drove there. “O.K.” I thought, “I must need something”.

And there it was, what I needed, poking its little white hands through the bars and pulling me the final 3 feet to it, as it had pulled my car. He was not a new kitten, but a sweet archangel of medium sized kitten-ness; just a few more days and he would be ripe for the gas chamber. I did what I couldn’t not do.

He was a hit at home, his place in my children’s hearts neatly secured. He slept with us and followed us on walks. He held his own with the dogs. He was THE CAT from which family cat memories would be made. Our family was complete.

But as with all families trouble eventually found us. Returning home late one night I found a dead snake on my doorstep. I was mortified. I hadn’t lived here long enough for any one to hate me, I thought. On inspection I found poor Monsieur Snake had been perforated in a very feline way. And then another snake, and a chipmunk, countless voles, a nest of cardinals, and then Alice the grackle, black and shining and ready to go, hand reared by me since she was a naked flightless imp, now she lay in my hands staring at me, understanding everything and begrudging me nothing, her warm red blood pouring out of her twitching body, through my fingers and onto the floor. I now knew regret.

As all good things must come to an end, so must all bad things. Michael found a new home at a nice farm with lots of mice, where he could practice his wanton killing skills with impunity. I was left with regret, but at least there are no more dead snakes on my doorstep. And this years grackle was raised and released, and still talks to me from the trees.

THE END

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