FROM CHOUPETTE TO GASTON, THE IDIOTS, AND THE GREAT BEYOND

[My friend PJ reminds me that the original purpose of the inter webs was to post cat pictures. So let’s just get that out of the way today, shall we?]

I read this morning that Karl Lagerfeld wished to be cremated and his ashes scattered with those of his beloved Birman cat, Choupette, should she predecease him. She did not. This has caused speculation in some quarters that Lagerfeld must have provided in his estate plan for the continuation of Choupette’s lavish lifestyle. According to the Forbes article, Choupette has followers on Instagram, a modelling career, and a coffee table book. Surely Lagerfeld would have wanted her pampered until The End. And why not?! I’m 100% on board.

This is Choupette. Quite a looker!

I first contemplated the possibility of “Oh, God! What if we go first?” when Gaston joined our family. Gaston was a cockatiel, a lutino to be exact. When the pet shop owner told me his breed, I thought he said “latino,” which kind of made sense since we were living in San Francisco’s Mission District at the time. (My husband brings this up every time anyone mentions Gaston and laughs heartily at my expense, which is the only funny thing about that poor bird’s story.) Anyway, cockatiels can live in captivity for 16 to 25 years, sometimes up to 32. So this presented a bit of a problem for mid-50’s pet owners. The problem solved itself, sad to say, because Gaston, sweet cockatiel that he was, quirky member of the family who had made the transcontinental move with us to Italy without making a single peep on the long flight, met a bitter end in the mouth of our neighbors’ dog. (Horrible experience and, truth be told, it was my fault, since I had left the front door open—for fewer than 5 minutes—to let the just-washed floors dry while I went to look at my neighbor’s I-don’t-even-remember-what-it-was next door. But that was enough time for the dog to enter, and I will never, ever forgive myself. Happy endings are written in Hollywood. In real life, not so much.)

But back to the topic at hand. The issue of estate planning for our pets has come up again, this time in the person of the Idiots. Like Choupette, who looks to be a lilac point Birman, the Idiots are our three chocolate point Birmans: mamma cat and her 2 progeny. Her third kitten was adopted by a lovely young woman who doesn’t face a longevity conundrum. But we do. Our life expectancies and those of the Idiots are running pretty much conterminously, which means we’re all living on the Island and the question is: Who will be the Survivor? Not leaving anything to chance, we’ve provided in our will that our Executor will do his very best to find a loving home for the Idiots and, if at all possible, keep them together as the nuclear family they are. No fancy living trust. No diamond collars. No annuity. No Instagram account, modelling careers, or coffee table book. Just unconditional love. That’s what they’ve given us, and they deserve nothing less.

These are the Idiots. Three times as cute as Choupette!