Morti and Me
Slice of Life
By – Sheri de Grom
I departed for Germany with a sense that my life would never be the same. Our names had reached the top of the list for temporary military housing. I was eager to join my husband now stationed in Germany. Our three-year old daughter danced with excitement everywhere she went. She didn’t understand where we were going or why; all that mattered to her was that daddy would be waiting with open arms.
I’d never thought the day would come when Morti and I would be separated. He’d been my constant companion and he couldn’t fly until warmer weather. Winter has always been my favorite season—with the exception of those long months when Morti was in Kansas and we were in Germany.
Temporary housing turned out to be a six floor walk-up in a German village. My first thought upon entering the front door: Morti will love it here, high above the trees.
This was my first trip abroad and I was eager to experience all our new way of living had to offer.
Letters from home assured me Morti was doing fine. Little did I know just how content he was until I received a letter from Morti himself. It read:
“Hi. It’s the big guy from Kansas. That’s what they call me here, big guy. Everyone seems to have forgotten I have a proper name. I remember you used to call me Little Guy. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
“I was afraid I’d be lonely after you left but, fortunately, I’ve developed a hankering for regular bird and critter watching. There’s not a moment’s peace.
“I need more nap time. The eats are good. I haven’t seen my regular food in days. Do you think you could ask for recipes?
“I miss reading with you.
What the heck. Who wrote the letter for Morti? I didn’t recognize the handwriting. It didn’t belong to Mom or Dad. I couldn’t imagine my mother cooking for Morti, so who? Who was visiting often? I wanted to know.
Winter lingered on and in the meantime Dad located a veterinarian who would transcribe Morti’s medical file and sign it within thirty days of his flight date.
I’d made arrangements for the transatlantic kennel before leaving Kansas. Morti wasn’t going to like his travel accommodations. After all, it was a crate!
Spring finally arrived and I was in a panic. We drove miles using our precious gas ration coupons searching for Morti’s regular cat food. How is it that in all of Germany, we couldn’t locate a single can of Nine-Lives Tuna? My Morti was brand loyal.
Immediately I called Dad and asked him to air-freight me three cases of Morti’s favorite food. Dad assured me Morti would eat whatever I fed him when he was hungry but that had never been the deal between Morti and me. We had mutual respect for each other.
Desperate, I purchased a case of Purina cat food. To be on the safe side, we also had shredded breast of chicken, baked and flaked white fish and of course Morti’s daily requirements of cream and Hostess Twinkies.
We arrived at the Frankfurt airport, cargo terminal, two hours before Morti’s arrival time. I was sure I’d stood in line forever, only to be met by a stern looking officer who barked, “Come back in two hours, your cargo will be ready for pick-up.”
Cargo! Two hours! What was taking so long? I’d been told animals were last on and first off planes, so where was my Mortichi? We’d been apart six long months and I wasn’t happy.
Please join Morti and me next time for our continuing adventures.