A cat in wolf 's clothing.

I'm convinced that no sentence uttered aloud should ever begin with the phrase “Watch out,” unless it involves a life or death situation. I recently came to this conclusion and communicated it quite clearly (and loudly) to my husband as I escaped death (or at least severe injury) by a tiny little woman in a big black SUV. She was talking on her cell phone and checking out her eye makeup in her rearview mirror. My husband told me to “Watch out.” I told him afterward to never (ever) do that to me again. Even now, my heart races as I think how close I came to being parking lot road kill. It’s like Woody Allen says, “I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens”—to which I add—I’m just a little picky about how, when and where it happens.

Seriously...my near (and potentially very messy) brush with death aside, I'm pretty sure you’re thinking that my husband told me to watch out because he saw the diminutive diva barreling toward me. You're thinking that he saved my life....and that I should be grateful that he was “watching out” for me. You’re thinking that I should thank him for not cashing in on my life insurance policy and hooking up with a more appreciative chica. Wrong.

It was my husband’s fault that I was in the line of fire…or perilously close to being run down in front of my local grocery store. As I casually walked along that day, slightly in front of him, he said “Watch out,” in an urgent tone. It was then that I actually jumped into the path of the SUV and the preoccupied driver. My husband wasn’t warning me about the woman behind the wheel of the big black beast. He wasn’t trying to save me from becoming her new hood ornament. He was worried that I might step on a piece of gum that someone had carelessly spit on the ground.

Okay, I hear the grumblings. Before you all say in unison “It isn’t his fault, he was only trying to be helpful,” let me explain something. This isn’t the first time I’ve “over-corrected” myself into the danger zone stemming from one of my husband’s urgently uttered warnings.

There was the time I ran our boat into the dock because he urgently said, “Watch out.” I was at the helm and swung around too quickly because I thought I must be running over something that I didn’t see. Nope, the sea lions were still safely lounging on a nearby buoy and we had a few thousand dollars in repairs to make to the boat. This “Watch out” referred to his drink that almost fell from the console as a wake from a larger boat drifted toward us. Then there was the time that I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the freeway. Again, I thought his urgent “Watch out” meant we were going to hit something, or something was going to hit us. As it turns out, a lot of somethings nearly hit us, but only after I stopped. We were fortunate and survived unscathed, except for my nerves. What was the husband warning me about this time? There was a highway patrol car seven or so car lengths in front of us, and he thought I was going too fast and might get a ticket.

Please don’t get me wrong. I know I’m fortunate that my husband is always looking out for my welfare…but it’s wearing me out. I have a reoccurring nightmare that I will soon succumb to the “Cry Wolf Syndrome.” Yes, it’s true that I almost met my maker on the plastic bumper of that big black SUV, but that was a fluke. More and more I find myself reacting much slower to these urgently uttered warnings, and this worries me.

I fear that some day my husband will urgently say “Watch out” and I won’t react as quickly as I should to a real danger. I worry that I’m gun shy and have heard this loud blast too many times. I’ve heard him cry wolf, when there was no wolf…only a tiny little shih tzu. I’m afraid I won’t recognize the wolf when it comes for me, and I will be dead and gone, and my husband will be telling everyone, “I don’t know what happened. I told her to ‘Watch out.’”

We’re working on this communication glitch and it’s made me wonder: Why does my husband react so urgently whenever I’m faced with a little situation…and why the same reaction for a bigger, more ominous situation? The simple answer, of course, is that he loves me dearly…and never wants me to be inconvenienced or hurt. For this I am appreciative and blessed. But why does he worry about me so much these days? Do I give off the air of a helpless chica? Do I seem preoccupied, as if I wander through life not paying attention to the details…or the big black SUVs?

I have my own theory. I admit that I can be preoccupied at times, but I am a multi-tasker with excellent peripheral vision. There’s not much that misses my radar. My husband knows this better than anyone else. I think he has an empty nest syndrome and has transferred all of his worry onto me.

His empty nest syndrome doesn’t just encompass our absent boys; it includes pets. We’ve been petless for three years, except for Fred II the amazing Beta fish we inherited from the youngest son a few months ago. Please don’t ask why this fish is amazing, or what happened to the first Fred. Both of these fish belonged to our son...and Fred II is still alive. Need I say more?

I think that it’s time for our household to welcome another pet. This sounds like an easy solution, but alas, it is not. Our hearts have grieved for three years over the loss of our beautiful, smart, funny, messy and noisy parrot. I’ve not been ready to give my heart to another animal. I still feel the pain and I still hurt. Only now do I realize that I've been selfish. While I may not be ready for another pet, my husband is more than ready—and has been for quite some time. No…not for another parrot. Trust me when I say that our bird days are over.

My husband wants another cat. I tell him we need two cats that will keep each other company when we travel. I realize now that I say this because my husband doesn’t want two cats and will never relent...so end of discussion and we remain petless except for the fish. I know that two cats are not the same as one. My husband wants a big old fat tabby to sit in his lap at night. He doesn’t want two cats who play together and ignore him. But it’s not his attachment that worries me. It's mine. Two cats might not expect as much from me, and therefore I might not get as attached as I usually do to our pets. If I don’t get too attached, then I might not hurt as much if something happens to them. There’s another reason I’ve used for not getting another pet. I’ve said many times that it’s not fair to get another pet now because we will be doing some remodeling soon and it might traumatize the animal. I’ve been saying this for two years…with no remodeling on the horizon...or at least on the drawing board. Excuses. I’ve been making excuses because of my loss…my pain. Even as I write this the tears well up in the grief I still harbor for that silly old noisy and messy Macaw.

It’s apparent that I didn’t allow the grieving process to completely process. I’m not saying that I needed to get over my grief by replacing my beloved pet with another pet. I’m saying that I allowed a part of my heart to harden…and hide. I realize that giving love to another animal won’t diminish the crazy love I had for my last pet. It will just be giving love to another animal.

So…I guess I had better get used to the idea that a new member of the family will be here soon. I don’t know where we will find him, or when he will arrive. I do know that this will happen, because I am finally willing. I also know that he will be a “he,” because for some reason I don’t get to cohabitate with females. All boys, always boys. Sons, cats, dogs and birds…never any females. It’s not premeditated; it just works out this way. I’m even convinced the fish is a he, which is probably good, since his name is Fred.

Because it’s my biggest boy—the husband—I worry about most, I will put my fear of attachment aside. It’s for him that I will expose the hidden portion of my heart that’s reserved for the helpless, depend on us for everything, give us so much unconditional love in return, pets that he and I have always had in our lives. Perhaps if my husband has someone (or something) else to worry about, he will be less apt to cry wolf over a tacky piece of gum stuck to the pavement...and maybe, just maybe I will start to listen intently to his urgent warnings once again.

So I will finally let my grieving process complete its cycle...and provide my husband with that additional something to worry about, fret over, and love on a daily basis. I also vow to open up my heart again and I promise to be more careful where I step. I will try to watch out for myself a bit more cautiously than in the past. In return, I hope to hear the cry of “here kitty, kitty” a lot more often than that proverbial, nerve-shattering cry of “wolf!”

Postscript: Wish me luck. If this doesn’t work, then my days are numbered. In my neck 'o the woods there are plenty of preoccupied and diminutive divas barreling down the road in their big black SUVs. They’re dangerous in their pursuit of happiness—I mean their pursuit of the perfect latte, or the perfect hairdresser, or the perfect pair of shoes, or the perfect play date, or the perfect hood ornament. Meow!

Dedicated to all who have ever lost a beloved pet and to those worried about losing their faithful companions soon. I know how you feel. Also...to Fred II. My husband says that only I could make one tiny little Beta, who has survived many (many) brushes with death, high maintenance.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta