I’m a sucker for bungalows. When I found this 1922 house on a quiet side street, I thought it was perfect: lovely woodwork, hardwood floors, steam radiators, plaster walls. There was just one thing: there was only one bathroom, upstairs. Mind you, it’s a big bathroom with a luxurious antique claw foot tub deep enough to swim laps in and the original 1922 built-in medicine cabinet. The good outweighed the bad, so I bought it, moved in, Chloe joined me, then Annie, and I began to renovate. New windows, new kitchen appliances, a new furnace, a new roof, new paint inside and out replaced the old, not to mention a new flower garden in the front yard. Frugal person that I am, I would save up some money, then spend, save, then spend, until the last items on my to-do list were complete except for two big-ticket items. I wanted a downstairs bathroom, new construction, and the kitchen cabinets, probably installed in the late 1960’s, needed to be replaced. For these major renovations, I would need a loan.
The city where I live was not a serious victim of the housing bubble; increased valuation has been moderate. So by my estimation, refinancing with the lower, post-bubble interest rates would allow me to renovate without too much of a shock to the budget. My credit was good, so I was sure I could qualify for a loan despite the tight post-bubble standards. I drew up a sketch for a modest first floor addition and began interviewing contractors.
Chloe and Annie were not pleased with the parade of contractors visiting the house, but since the plans were confined to the first floor, they stayed upstairs during the visits. “You’ll need to add a heat source for the added bathroom,” said the contractor I had chosen. “Here’s the name of the heating contractor I use. Have him come check out the possibilities.”
The heating contractor descended to the basement to check out my options. “You need to come down here immediately,” he said ominously. “I have something to show you.” A puddle was spreading on the basement floor. “Your steam heat pipes are leaking somewhere in the walls upstairs. Have you seen any damp spots?”
“Could that be the source of the damp spot on the dining room ceiling? I thought it might be a problem with the new roof and was about to call the roofer.” We went to investigate.
“You have to get behind that plaster to check out the leak. Good luck!” said the heating contractor, giving me the name of a carpenter he recommended.
The carpenter put a big hole in the living room ceiling with a bucket below to catch the leak, not before a chunk of plaster had fallen, knocking Chloe on the head. “You really should have that whole steam system replaced,” said the carpenter. “If one pipe broke, it’s only a matter of time before a second pipe leaks, and you don’t want to keep ripping out plaster.”
I went back to the heating contractor and we decided to replace the steam system with a heat pump that could also replace my window air conditioning units with central air, all for a price, of course.
“My costs are really mounting up,” I said nervously to the heating contractor, “And I haven’t even begun work.”
“Well, at least you won’t suffer any more surprises,” he said on his way out. Then the doorknob came off in his hand.
The contractor recommended a mortgage broker who worked from her home, a four-by-four built in the 1920’s filled with antiques and inhabited by a big tabby tom cat, Felix. I had plenty of occasions to visit since the loan qualification process took forever. As part of the qualification process, I had repeated visits from the general contractor, a building consultant, the mortgage broker and the appraiser. Each time the doorbell rang, the cats scurried up the stairs. I began leaving the upstairs closet doors open so each could have her private hiding place. “When I remodeled my house, Felix hated the disruption at first,” the mortgage broker said. “But he got used to it and even made friends with some of the construction workers.”
“I wish Felix could communicate with my cats,” I responded. “They could use a feline transition counselor.” The minute I said these words, Felix, sitting at my feet, jumped onto my jacket which I had thrown on a chair. He kneaded it thoughtfully. When I returned home and tossed the jacket on the sofa, each cat sniffed it carefully, a behavior they had not evidenced before. Clearly the lines of communication had opened.
My jacket and I made about ten trips back and forth to the broker’s and Felix’s home as the underwriters’ requests for financial information snowballed. I began to think my fitness as a mortgagee depended not on my fiscal soundness, but on my ability to keep records. “Here’s the key to my house and another for my filing cabinet,” I wanted to say to the banker. “Just rummage around and find what you need. My life is an open bank book” At each visit, Felix paid my jacket special attention, sniffing and kneading. Chloe and Annie inspected it carefully upon my return home. Fifty days after I filed by first request (mind you, that’s ten days longer than Noah was in the ark), the loan was finally granted. I could now spend three times what I had originally budgeted to do twice the amount of work I had planned.
So what coping skills has Felix counseled Chloe and Annie to use in the difficult days ahead? Here are the Feline Transition Counselor’s three rules for cats facing construction trauma:
1. For God’s sake, get under the bed! The only safe place is under the bed!
box, Standing in a cardboard box makes cats invisible.
3. If you crap on the carpet often enough, the workmen will
go away.
go away.
Wish us luck! The new construction begins.
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