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© St. Petersburg Times, published September 26, 1999
The Florida Nurserymen and Growers Association has asked nursery owners to stop selling these plant species. All are in category one (most invasive) of the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council's 1999 list of invasive pest plants. Carrotwood is also on Florida's State Noxious Weed List, which regulates the movement of invasive species; it will be illegal to sell or distribute after Jan. 1, 2001.
Orchid tree ......... Bauhinia variegata
Carrotwood ........ Cupaniopsis anacardioides
Chinaberry tree ......... Melia azedarach
Guava ......... Psidium guajava
Java plum tree; jambolan ........ Syzygium cumini
The neighbor brought the monster to the door while I had my morning coffee. He laid Cisero's blue collar with the little silver bell and reflective blue tags next to my cup
I went to my daughter's room. She slept a peaceful, sweet-16 sleep. As long as she dreamed, nothing had changed.
I was bringing the creature to her, like the evil mother in a grade-B movie. Cisero was her boy. He was the big, bad boy, the sissy roo, the lover boy, the killer beast. He was Spike, Big Guy, the pain. He was our constant inspiration.
I understood her keening and wailing as she watched Vic carry him home. I know the depths of despair that these sounds are born of. It's a visceral pain, a dull knife in the gut.
Cisero picked her well the day we went to the shelter. She was looking for a cat that would love her exclusively, since our other cat, Lilly, turned out to be a fickle wench who bonded only with me, and old Kristina's loyalties were with Vic.
Cisero played it cool. While the others begged us to take them, he sat in his cage, confident in his sleek gray and brown tiger coat with the white heart on his belly. He was like a sleazy lounge lizard eyeing her from across the room. And those eyes, those golden eyes.
I was surprised she chose him over the little gray with the sniffles, or the orange and white Manx. He was already an adolescent; he might have issues.
He was born on a roof. His mother and his siblings were kept in a separate room because they were so wild. The shelter lady said they called him "Lover Boy." I knew he would break her heart.
He started with the wine glasses, then the salt shaker. He smashed ornaments and a couple of dishes. The first Christmas, we had to fish him out of the tree. He terrorized Lilly, tolerated Kristina and tormented the dog.
He adored my daughter.
He turned every piece of furniture into his personal king-size bed. He watched us with his bedroom eyes. He was kinky. He liked to sit on our laps as we sat on the toilet. He was like an elusive rock star when he hid from everyone but us. We were his valets, his roadies, his groupies.
She'd carry him to me and demand that I "love him!" "kiss him!" I would decline because Lilly would be watching, and hers is a jealous love. Still, when Lilly wasn't near, I cheated on her and blew raspberries on Cisero's belly.
There wasn't a house that could have contained him. He lived fast and died fast with only two Christmases behind him.
The monster ambushes us when we hear the tinkling of a bell or look at the empty sofa or pull the chair from under the table without effort because his body won't be curled upon it. The monster grabs us every time we walk on the rag rug without having to step over him, when he fails to join us in the bathroom. He purred depression right out of us.
I planted a tribute on his grave. My daughter sleeps with his collar, and the monster has been banished once more to the basement.
-- Deborah Klein lives in Clearwater. Private Lives is edited by Mary Jane Park.