A Few Moments More

The card was a simple birthday card from my grandmother to my mother.  I'm not sure of the year it was purchased, though it had to be before 1961, since that's when my grandma passed.

It talked about how wonderful a daughter my mother was; the language was very touching and poetic. The card itself was thin cardboard, with flowers, lilacs I think, and the font was a very ornate cursive style.

This gift is over fifty years old; the person who gifted it and the person who received have long since passed away.

And I cannot bring myself to throw it away.

There's no practical reason whatsoever to keep it.  I will likely never look at it again.  It's possible that someone in my family might care to see it, but the only one left who even knew both of them is my aunt, and my guess is she isn't going to want to keep it past that first viewing.  My niece and nephew might have a passing interest in it, but again, they would almost certainly throw it out soon after, and they both live hundreds of miles away.

All logic points to throwing it out.  Oh,  maybe one last look and a quick cry in goodbye, but then pitch it.  It's taking up space; where do you draw the line? Do you keep every single correspondence and/or card that's ever been exchanged in the family, just because of some neurotic clinging to the past?  What's more, my guess is that even the people who participated in this card's history would assure me that discarding it would be fine with them, perhaps even preferable.

And still...I cannot.

And that's not the only thing.  I cannot find it within myself to throw out a great many things that have accumulated through the years, passed unceremoniously into my possession by a succession of deaths.  Minutes and assorted papers from my father's terms on the local village board, his work papers including performance evaluations and other correspondence a batch of unsent greeting cards my mom purchased for "what if" situations.

I know the arguments against saving them, of course.  Beyond the practical stuff I listed above, there's no real spiritual reason to keep it either.  I know, for instance, that my love for my family (and theirs for me) is in no way attached to these physical objects.  That love is unconditional, and the memories we share can never be discarded nor forgotten.  They won't be "mad" at me from the heavens if I happen to throw out that thing that, in life, had meaning or importance.  Their ties to those things ended when they passed; only their love for the people they left behind remains as an anchor.

And still, I keep it all.

How do I explain the wrenching tug I feel whenever I think about tossing this stuff? How do I put into words something conventionally illogical and yet so completely natural to me?

While I realize that my family's legacy has almost nothing to do with objects, I also admit that I want some reminder of them left when I pass.  I'll go into the ether, and God willing, we'll be reunited and the love we shared will hopefully live on through the actions I've made on earth and how they affected people I met and interacted with.  But I want there to be some physical evidence of their being here.  I want them to be more than some collection of neurons firing in wistful memory; I want the world to know that a man named Richard C. Miller and a woman named Beverly J. Miller walked and breathed and had dreams and did work and impacted lives and people for the better.  I want the world to know that they mattered and that they were here.

Destroying or discarding all of their worldly possessions, particularly the ones that highlight who they were and what they did, almost seems to surrender them to infinity.

No, my father is not an evaluation he received from his boss, or a suggestion he made to the village board.  My mother is not a group of unsent cards she bought ahead of time, knowing that her friends would at some point probably need one of them.  But these physical things are evidence of them, of their work, and their personalities.  They resonate with meaning and memory for me; they cry out that these people existed, that everything they touched did not simply scatter to the wind when they breathed their last breaths.


I know that ultimately, "all flesh is grass", and all material goods will fade as well.  I can't hold back the void forever.  These things I keep will decay and vanish with the passing of time.  But while they are in my care and are entrusted to me, they help keep their memory alive.  Would I forget them if their goods were gone?  Never.  But sometimes a nostalgic revisiting of these items refreshes my mind, allows for time to stop and freeze all the immediate concerns I might have so that I can appreciate once again the people who created and/or defined them.

There's a wonderful line from the old television show "Soap", where the heroine and matriarch of the show, Jessica Tate, is awaiting the results of a test that she is almost sure will be bad.  Her doctor approaches her gravely and begins to speak, and she says to him, "Wait.  Let me have just a few more moments of immortality."

I know it won't last, but I want them to have a few moments more, too.

I just saw "Life, Itself" the memorial/life story of film critic Roger Ebert, and while I would love to talk about the merits of the film and it's success in revealing the essential character of its subject, I'm going to focus on how it made me think, once again, about death.

We know going in that Ebert is going to die, because he passed before the film was finished, let alone released.  But even if we didn't know that, death hangs heavily over the film, with its frank depictions of a very ill Ebert in the hospital and all that entails.  Getting fluid suctioned out of his lungs, enduring grueling therapy sessions where it's obvious he's giving his all but is on the verge of tears as he begs to stop, his terribly disfigured face and his transformed frame, wracked by disease and weakness.  This is a man who's not got long to live, and its obvious.

It's a cliche of course, but it struck me how fleeting life is while watching this.  We see Ebert in the early portion of the film, vital and at the top of his professional game and then just a few decades later (at 71, he dies fairly young) he's at death's door.  Yes, you can say this about anyone, and yes, many people live well past 71, but the point is that no matter how successful your life is or isn't, all of us are going to have remarkably similar experiences near it's end.  Weakness, debilitation, reliance on others, degradation of our ability to do even the most mundane tasks, pain, hospitals, a merry-go-round of therapy, home care, waiting for test results, huge and difficult life decisions.

It's coming, for all of us.

And while all of those negative experiences I listed are strong reasons to fear death and try as best we can to forestall even thinking about it, there's another one that might be the most difficult of all, at least for me.  We all go about our daily lives rarely if ever thinking about our own mortality.  We're busy living in the present and planning for a future that we KNOW will include death but that we also only let ourselves think about in terms of retirement income, housing, health care, time with children and grandchildren, etc.  Nobody really looks into that eye of the abyss until a doctor gives them a timetable. THEN we think about what we should do with the time we have left, who we want to talk to, where we want to go.

And we thing of all the things we should have done and can't now.

That's one of the toughest for me to get my head around; the realization that if we accept the inevitability of death, we really need to wake up and account for every moment we're still alive.  If we embrace this, there's really no way to justify all the countless hours we waste; on the Internet, watching TV, talking about things that don't matter, being envious, being resentful, being lazy, comparing ourselves to our neighbors and friends, worrying about what we look like.  None of it matters, and all of it is just a distraction from what we all know we should be doing.  But it's hard to do all these meaningful things; it's hard to resist all the wasted time.  And we wouldn't even KNOW it was wasted if we didn't know (at least somewhere in our minds) that our time was limited.  But we do know it, we just don't want to face it.

Knowledge of our mortality tasks us.  It asks us to consider how we live our lives every day, the choices we make.  But if we ignore that knowledge, it doesn't matter if we surf the net for four hours a day and post crazy stuff on message boards and watch silly political or comedy videos.  We can convince ourselves that we have forever, that we'll get around to the important stuff SOMEDAY, just now right now.

Ebert didn't give himself that out; he set about working ceaselessly, as he had always done, but perhaps with an even more intense focus now, knowing that what he was doing was leaving a record of his life and work for the world.  Sure, he had the type of physical prompting that a lot of us don't have (yet); his jawbone was removed, he could no longer eat, talk or walk, he was weak, in constant pain and endured multiple hospital visits.  But my guess is that even with those dark alarm bells, many of us would still continue to remain in Kubler-Ross's "bargaining" stage, or earlier, trying to squeeze every last ounce of denial would could out of our remaining days.

There were things to dislike about Ebert certainly; his ego, his occasional pettiness, his need to be the smartest person in the room.  But I came away with a renewed overall sense of admiration for this man and the way he faced his impending demise.  Like Morrie Schwartz, who I discussed above, Ebert didn't fall back on excuses to wallow in self-pity; he recognized the gravity of the situation and bravely and tirelessly responded in a productive and personal way.  Unlike Morrie ,who communicated himself mostly through talking near the end, Ebert, denied that privilege, used the medium that was still available to him to speak to the world.  His daily blog became a ritual of purpose and something more; a final testimony of what he loved most and felt deepest about.  Not just the movies, but what they said to  him and how they could inform and enrich us all.
  Unlike Morrie, who seemed to make a turn toward belief in the afterlife and God near the end, Ebert was an avowed atheist, so he didn't even give himself the hope of living on in some other form.  I suppose ultimately that puts his struggle on an even more epic level; that of knowing (as far as he or anyone could know) that this was literally the end for him, and facing the endless void without the buffer of a parachute of any kind.

What he found immortality in, apparently, was his work and the legacy his blog and his website would have for the world.  I hope when my time comes I'm as productive and forward looking as Ebert. Between he and Morrie, I've certainly got two great examples of how to stare down death, unblinkingly.  The trick is to be able to do what Ebert did in his final years, even if our health seems good and our future endless; that is, to know that our time here is short and to let that knowledge guide us every single day.  Of course no one can literally consider their own demise all the time or life would be a very depressing experience. But we can and should carry the inherent meaning of time with us wherever we go; step back from the banality of our daily lives and conflicts for a moment and consider how much of it is really meaningful or not.  Distill the important stuff into a daily philosophy, a spiritual or psychological regimen, if you will, and go from there.

Most of the time it won't be fun and it will never be easy.  But my guess is it feels a lot better than the alternative, and if we all sort of make a cultural agreement to do this, we won't be alone in our efforts and it will become the norm.

Think of it; a whole society living their lives meaningfully, mindful of their mortality but not imprisoned by fear of it.

Roger and Morrie would be proud.

I'm currently reading Mitch Albom's book, "Tuesdays with Morrie", and like millions of other readers in the last twenty years, it's forcing me to look at some aspects of my life (and life in general) that are difficult to face.

Morrie Schwartz is a very brave man; facing his terminal illness with hope, and laughter and purpose.  I seriously don't believe I could ever even approach his level of serenity if faced with something like that.  I'm fairly certain my first impulse would just be to start running, or walking, or driving somewhere, anywhere, far, far away and just keep going till I couldn't go any further.

One of the greatest fears of my life has always been that "can't win" situation.  In the 1982 Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan, they called it the Kobayashi Maru, the unbeatable situation.  I cannot imagine what I would do, faced with the inevitable and unchangeable fact of my own death.  To this day, it frightens me to my core. Like most of us, I know I'm going to die in the abstract but inside I know I haven't really accepted it as a fact.  It's always going to be "someday" and someday is never going to come.  Except it is.

The book has really drove home to me the imperative of living with a purpose, of living each day as if it were your last (as cliche as that is by now).  Because it definitely could be.  Most of the deaths in my life were not out of the blue type deaths.  My mother and my brother suffered illnesses of varying lengths and severity, but they had both been undeniably sick for many years.  My father's death was a bit more jarring, having had a stroke in March then passing just a month later.  But Dad had been on hypertension medication for about 13 years, he had smoked for probably 40 years before quitting, and he'd had other health issues, too.  Nobody died in a car wreck or was murdered.

This is not to say that this diminished the impact of their deaths at all.  Far from it. But I just use these examples to show that I don't have much experience with the "your day is here" type of passing.  But I know it happens.  Young people die in car accidents, in war, of diseases.  A co-worker of the relatively young age of 55 find out she had colon cancer in July and was dead in November.  A young man who was related through friendship links developed a terminal brain tumor and died at 22.

I get it.  It's coming for us all.  And Morrie, while certainly not welcoming it, acknowledged its part in the life cycle and was not broken by it philosophically or spiritually.  Sometimes I feel I would be.  I worry that if I got that type of diagnosis I'd just start shaking uncontrollably and crying and never, ever stop.  Or at some point I'd stop and just get white hot mad and stay that way.  I worry that the grace and peace with which Morrie and those like him faced the end would NEVER be something I'd experience, because I'm too unsettled with my life to reconcile myself to death.

I haven't done what I have wanted to with my life, in  many ways.  I have wasted a great deal of it on frivolous things, like many people.  I haven't done harm, in the main, but I have pursued and concentrated on escapism and navel gazing to the extent that I've buried a lot of opportunity to do good, to fulfill myself and build up my community like Morrie says.

And no, I'm not holding up Morrie as some sort of oracle, dispensing unblemished truth from on high.  I aspire to some of the goals he talks about because I KNOW them to be worthwhile and honorable ones, even before I read his book.  I just was very good at burying those impulses under mounds of self-justification and excuses, if not outright laziness.  Morrie's word strike chords that were already within me; it's just wonderful to hear them echoed so eloquently and passionately.  And the man is speaking from the hardest and truest experience possible; he's dying and he knows it.

I'm in my 50's now.  I never, never, never thought I would say those words.  And while part of me is amazed that I've made it this far, and yes, a bit proud, there's another part that understands I'm still afraid of all the things that Morrie talks about.  Societal expectations, failure, rejection, loneliness.  Those are powerful motivators, or more accurately, de-motivators.  And really, if you had a much longer lifetime, say a millenia, maybe we could all get away with frittering away so many years on silly and unimportant things.  But less than 80 years, give or take, goes so very fast.  Morrie, at age 78, did not think of death often, I imagine, before he was given the news.

The book tasks its readers to really dig deep and consider how they want to leave this world and what they want to leave behind.  Money, power, position, fame, material goods?  Or love, friendship, good works, and fulfillment?  And of course, nobody leaves either the first or the second group entirely. We're all a mix, more or less.  But I think it's a question of what we focus on.  And even more than that, it's about keeping in mind the limitations of our  time here and how that has to inform our actions.  We really can't afford to spend years on internet message boards arguing politics or movies or whatever because that's time that we won't likely look back on with pride and satisfaction.

If I think of the things and times in my life where I truly felt happy, there were never times I was being self-indulgent and escaping.  Or if I was, it was with other people that I love.  Washing dishes with my mom, while she sang some old 1940's tune, or we talked about the day.  Sitting in the McDonald's parking lot eating lunch with Mom, talking about our lives, the people we knew, the things we thought.  Watching TV with Mom, again sharing ideas about what we were seeing.  Helping my dad coach Little League, one of the few times we were able to work together fairly tension free, doing something we both liked.  Playing games with them both, laughing in that kitchen, long ago and far away.  All of this was important and fulfilling in ways that no selfish activity can ever be.  While it's impossible to be totally in the moment, totally fulfilled each second of your life, it's great to be reminded that we should always keep that as a goal, as a way of life. Time wasting can become a habit that snowballs into an addiction.

I don't know what I'm going to do differently after reading this book.  But like Morrie, and his voice, and the voice of my lost loved ones, it's going to stay with me.  I won't be equal to Morrie's challenges all the time, but his memory and the memory of his message aren't going anywhere.  Their importance and clarity are born of a true experience and forged in situation that is all too real.  Morrie is one of those people (I won't call him a "character", though that's an apt description, too, I suppose) who really humbles you, and makes you consider the choices you have made (and continue to make).
His gentle aphorisms ring so true because of the sincerity and experience of the messenger, and the inarguable evidence that our society provides each day that it is ill and getting worse. He's given us a wonderful blueprint of how to die and more importantly, how to live, keeping in mind that we all WILL die.  He was a brave, groundbreaking soul and I'm happy that he chose to share his love and wisdom with us. 

I only hope that my death is as serene, and as meaningful, as his.

(insert sound file of ancient, rusty hinged door slowly, painfully, creaking open, the noise growing in intensity as the seconds pass until it's almost unbearable to hear...at least it stops)

*coughing* is heard, then slow, uncertain footsteps

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?  While I am almost certain not a single soul is going to read this, I'll write as if someone here actually remembers when this blog was kinda, sorta updated on a semi-regular basis, years ago (eleven now, to be exact).

I miss it.  I miss writing and doing something that used to come naturally to me.  All of the standard and insufficient excuses/explanations can be trotted out, but the truth is I just lost touch with myself, or at least this part of myself.  I've explored other parts to good effect, but as I grow older I begin to realize that this is the thing that I can do in life, perhaps better than other things.  This is the thing that, while painful and yes, occasionally boring, can make me sit back afterwards and really feel as if I've accomplished something, that makes me feel as if I've communicated just a bit of "me" to the world and maybe reached out to it and created an echo somewhere.  I don't know for sure; but I hope so.

The world has changed a lot since I last did this.  Now Facebook and Twitter are functioning as kind of "minute blogs" where everyone is able to share photos, stories, thoughts, jokes, etc. about themselves and their daily lives.  The vast majority of it isn't very interesting or original or deep, but then again, that's not what those venues are there for.  They are there to promote clicking and advertising, not to promote deep and reasoned discussion or provide complicated insight into someone's character.

I won't presume that I will (or ever have) do that here, either.  But I hope to; I will try to.  I honestly am not and never have been interested in just doing a daily diary or sharing recipes or love advice.  I have always hoped that my writing could really connect with an audience and make them feel that someone else in the world had felt or thought the way they did, that someone else's experiences somehow were mirrored in their own, and that they would feel less alone and more empowered as a result.

I have a lot of time on my hands right now, and it's terrible to admit that whenever I have less time I seem to automatically abandon something I just said made me feel good and that I was good at.  That's me; I'm often just not a very motivated person.  But I'm always hopeful that one of these times when I start doing this again it will become a habit that I do just as automatically as brushing my teeth or taking my daily medicine.  It's not as simple as that, of course; you don't have to do any creative thinking to brush your teeth, and you don't worry that you aren't taking your medicine in an original way.  But the basic idea is there; do it, just as if you were breathing and at some point (hopefully!) it gets easier and easier and pretty soon you are doing it without even thinking about it or giving yourself time to put it off once again.

So, let's get on with it, shall we?  I don't know how creaky my writing skills are, though I would suspect they are on par with the door I used in my opening metaphor.  I write freelance for an area paper now, and have done so for eight and a half years.  It's basic reporting; city council and school board meetings, the opening of a new shop, maybe covering a visiting politician or summer festival of some kind. It's marginally fun but there's not much imagination required, that's for sure.  I hunger for that kind of wonderful inspiration I used to have as a boy when I watched science fiction television and read fantasy/sci fi books and dreamed of worlds beyond my own.  Truth to tell, like most young authors, I used a lot of elements of those stories but at least they provided me with some kind of groundwork for my flights of fantasy.  Tropes, archetypes and ideas are not infinite but they can and are expressed in infinite ways; there are only so many colors on a palette, but they can create myriad combinations of light, dark and all the spectrums in between.

Wish me luck, Internet.  I sure hope I'm up to this challenge.  I've got a wonderful lady friend now who encourages my creativity and knows there is more to me than meets the eye (and more than I allow the world to see).  She's my rudder in rough seas and has kept me from crashing on the rocks more than once.   But in the end, it's up to me to "be" me and do the things I need to do to feel fulfilled and useful and whole.

And here goes another attempt to do so.

Fuzz and Static

It's depressing to think how few people know what I am talking about when I say "snow on the TV".  Obviously I'm not talking about the recent Winter Olympics or a rebroadcast of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (well, obvious to me, anyway).

I'm talking about the days when for whatever reason the reception on your TV would go kaput and you'd be left with a screen full of black and white static flashes, i.e. 'fuzz and static', AKA "snow".

The frustrating thing was you knew there was programming going on, going out, but you were unable to receive and perceive it.  Maybe it was good stuff, maybe not, but you'd never know as long as that darned snow was filling up the screen.

I think my OCD is like snow on TV.  There's so much stuff i WANT to think about and concentrate on, but it can't get through a lot of times because the darned reception in my brain is so bad, all I can see in my mind's eye is the 'snow' of obsessions and worries and fears, repeated over and over.  Sometimes I can 'tune' things just right so that programming shines through clearly, but a lot of the time, particularly in the last year or so, I just can't seem to banish that snow and find my programming.  It's really frustrating.

I've got a mental lineup that rivals the ABC Friday Night schedule of the early 70's.  For every Brady Bunch, I've got a story idea; for every Partridge Family, there's a new creative avenue I have not explored, for every Odd Couple, there's a new facet of life that I'd like to explore, and for every Love, American Style, there's an old passion that I'd love to revisit.

All of that depends on actually being able to 'see' well enough to carry through on my ideas, though.  And with OCD, the din of negativity can be deafening.  This last year has been well beyond any level of stress that I had thought possible;  It's rivaling the year that my mom died, and that's saying something.  In some ways, it's been even more stressful because of the multiple sources of stress all hitting me at once; physical, emotional, financial, personal and other.  It just doesn't seem to stop.

But the only way to get past the din is to focus and live within the worry and fear.  I know this; it does not make it so, but I do know this and I suppose that  is some portion, at least, of the battle won.

The pitter patter of little feet

I've always loved cats.

People often comment that I'm good with cats and I almost always reply that I was "born with a cat in bed with me."  That's an exaggeration, but not by much.  My family always had at least one and usually two cats at a time, so being around them was natural to me and I grew up understanding cats at least as well, and probably more, than I did people.  They were always a presence in my life and if I have anything to say about it, always will be.

I've been wracking my brain for a subject to write about lately, and thought today that I have never really written much about my pets, for whatever reason.  Here's a huge part of my life that I've never explored on paper.  Maybe they're kind of a stealth constant, such an ever present element of my existence I almost forget that they are there.  Whatever the reason, it's hardly from a lack of passion.  I've thought at different times of devoting my life to animals, whether through veterinary science (not enough stomach for it) or just pure volunteer work (not nearly enough time or money...yet at least).

There's a saying that "there is one best dog in the world, and every boy has it."  I think the same could easily be said about and for cats.   We all love our respective pets so much; just the mere mention of their name or a treasured memory of their interactions with us is enough to make us smile.  Try it; you can't do it without smiling.

So in  honor of all those felines that have been in my life, I create this list to remember and reflect on the love and happiness they gave me.  I only hope that I was able to return some of that to them, and that when I cross to the other side, they are all there to greet me.

1) Smokey - Smokey was the first cat that was around after I was born. I'm not sure where he was found, though I'm positive it wasn't from a humane society because we really didn't have any at the time, at least not in my area.  I honestly don't have memories of him, aside from stories my mom and dad used to tell.  I know my dad was very close to him, and it's easy to understand why.  He was big, masculine, hunted mice and got into fights.  I'm sure he was quite a "tomcat" as well.  He was affectionate, from what I've heard, but that, of course, did not detract from his overall macho appeal.  Like almost all of our cats, Smokey was an "outside" cat; this was in the days before there was so much public information about the health detriments of allowing a cat to roam.  And also in keeping with the tenor of the times, Smokey was not neutered.

I believe that Smokey was killed by a car up in Craig Manor in about 1966, though I'm not sure how old he was at the time. My guess is less than five years old.

2)  Sandy was the cat we had right after Smokey. I have dim memories of him, and given their similar colorings I often got him confused with the cat we had right after him, Pete.  I know that Sandy was an outside cat, too, and that he got hit and killed by a car, though I'm not sure where he was hit.  I vaguely remember him being in the house and what he looked like, most likely from pictures as well.  He was a gentle and affectionate cat indoors, but I think he spent a lot of time hunting and 'romancing' and fighting outside so I wasn't as close to him as I was to later cats, at least my memory of him isn't as strong.  I think he was killed in or about 1970.

3) Pete - Pete was named after the famous basketball star, "Pistol" Pete Maravich, a personal favorite of mine.  Maravich was a flashy, nonconformist who did all kind of incredible feats on the court, dribbling and passing behind his back, between his legs, etc.  He was an excellent shot as well.  Pete's name was actually "Pistol" Pete, too, but everyone just shortened it to "Pete".  He was a light orange colored male cat, again, un neutered, who roamed outside and came inside as well.  I'm not a hundred percent positive on the dates, but my guess is that we had Pete from around 1970 to 1976.  Pete developed cancer, I think of the bowel, and we had him put to sleep humanely.  He was a gentle and sweet cat who would allow petting but didn't often sit with someone, though he did on occasion. 

Pete was around for several years after we adopted "Nuisance" or "Little Kitty", and sadly and ironically enough, they both contracted cancer at just about the same time.  My memory is that they both passed away the same year (were put to sleep).  I think that Pete died first, though I'm not completely sure.

Pete was 'famous' in our family for a very odd reason.  He was around during the time that portable tape recorders came into vogue, and of course as young boy in the early to mid 70's I had to have one (I think I had two, really, as the first one wore out!)  I would typically tape myself doing amateur broadcasts of sporting events, family conversations while playing games, etc. (often without them knowing about it!), maybe even the dialogue of a favorite TV show.

On one particular occasion, I was taping my family (Mom, Dad, brother and his wife) and myself talking in my parent's living room, when all of a sudden my mother can be heard frantically saying, "Pete's puking, he's puking, he's puking...!" several times, while if you listen closely in the background I believe you can hear the poor guy doing just that.  We played that tape several times through the years, just because it was funny to hear my mom's increasingly urgent news broadcast about poor Pete and his upset stomach!

Bandit -  Bandit was adopted from a farm family my father knew, I believe their name was "Beyer" and they were from Scales Mound, Il.  I remember my dad driving himself, my mom and I out to their farmhouse in May of 1976 (I remember the year because it was the year the "Let Your Love Flow" by the Bellamy Brothers was a hit single and it was on the radio during our trip out).  I also remember that it was the night of a middle school dance, and if my math and memory are correct, it must have been my seventh grade year.  That makes some sense because I think that Pete had passed away just a couple of months previously, and the "little kitty" as well, and my dad wanted me to have a cat.  Of course, that cat had to be a male, since he didn't want to run the risk of having unwanted kittens running around the house (almost no one ever spayed or neutered their cats back then) and to be honest, I think he just loved the idea of the "big rugged male" cat who get into fights and was a "tough guy".

We couldn't have chosen a better cat than Bandit.

Bandit was a black and white kitten when we got him, with no hint of the adult cat he'd soon grow to be.  We kept him inside for approximately a year, I think out of fear that if he got out he might try to go back to his former home on the farm.  I can't recall exactly how old he was when we got him, but he was a kitten, maybe six to seven weeks old.  I had to climb up inside a barn loft in order to access him, and when the wife of the man who owned the farm pulled me up onto the loft, I smacked my forehead very hard against a board, and it stunned me for a moment.  The woman was very worried that I was hurt, but I said I was OK and didn't want anything to interfere with getting my cat that day.  Later, I developed a big old 'goose egg' on my head from the bruise and swelling, but it was worth it.  Bandit was a Miller.

He was a very playful and energetic cat, often loving to rough house with me.  We decided to try to keep him inside for a while (I think my dad was worried that he might try to go back home if we let him out right away), but we realized finally that this just wasn't going to work.  Bandit (named by me after his facial markings which reminded me of the dog from "Jonny Quest") just wanted out so badly; he was full of energy and would run around the house madly, crying loudly at the door.  He was overly aggressive in his 'playing' with me, often drawing blood and biting deeply.  He wasn't neutered (still in the dark ages as far as that was concerned) and obviously wanted to hunt, roam, fight and mate.  So after a full year inside we let the poor guy out and he loved it.  If Clint Eastwood had been a cat, he would have looked and acted a lot like Bandit.  He was a typical Alpha male, roaming for hours or days at a time, fighting with everything that breathed, and presumably, usually winning.  I remember numerous occasions when we'd let Bandit in and he'd pause on the carpet and then vigorously shake his body, with the blood from his many wounds flying off of him in all directions. He had many bite and scratch wounds on his head and body, but always seemed to recover. I remember feeling his rock solid muscles when I would pick him up; he really was a "man's" cat.

Bandit wasn't a typical "lover" when to came to personal relationships with people, but he did enjoy sleeping in my lap at times, and also in bed when the mood struck him.  There's a hilarious picture of him around here somewhere where he is caught sleeping, yes, SLEEPING, in the undecorated pine tree we used for Christmas one year. 

Bandit became quite jealous of Fuzzy, a cat we adopted near the end of Bandit's life.  Fuzzy was more affectionate and when Bandit would see him sitting with one of us, he would often jump down from whatever piece of furniture he was sitting on at the time and ask to be let out.  He almost had a disgusted demeanor as he surveyed the younger smaller cat. 

He contracted mites about six months or so before he disappeared, and we took him to the vet.  The vet treated the mites, and to do so he had to shave Bandits' hair around the ears, giving him a "mohawk" look.  This was at the heighth of Mr. T's popularity on the A-Team and the third Rocky movie, so we obviously took to calling him "Mr. T".  One of our elderly neighbors commented that there was a very strange looking cat in the neighborhood, not realizing that it was the same cat she'd seen and known for years, just disguised because of the treatment.

I had a good relationship with Bandit, as did my whole family.  He didn't seem to prefer one of us over the other.  When he was a kitten and we kept him inside, he and I would often rough house a lot, and sometimes it got a bit out of hand.  He'd chomp down too hard on my hand, and I'd have to swap him hard to get him to disengage.  On one such occasion, the bite actually became infected and my hand swelled up like a balloon.  The whole back of my right hand was bright red and puffy and any touch to it hurt terribly.  After a doctor trip, it was discovered that either a piece of Bandit's tooth or a chip of my bone (yes, he bit deep) had gotten lodged in my skin, and the doctor removed it and gave me meds.  Bandit was just doing what instinct told him to do, so it was hard to be mad at him, but that incident was one of the alarm bells we had that told us he really needed and wanted to go outside.

After his mite treatment, he had to stay overnight at the vet's in a cage.  We went up the next day to pick him up and the vet told us Bandit had actually bitten him and wouldn't let him pick him up.  He suggested that one of us do it, and I volunteered.  The vet offered me a pair of long rubber gloves to wear just in case, and I accepted.  I called Bandit's name and he seemed to know me, and calm down a little.  The vet opened the door and I reached inside to grab him.  He did attempt to bite the gloves, but it wasn't viciously.  Everyone was surprised that I was able to even get him that far.  We took him home and things returned to normal.

Bandit just went outside one day and never returned.  We were never sure what happened to him.  He hadn't seemed the same since his mite episode, and also we theorized he was jealous of Fuzzy and might just have wanted to leave.  We theorized he may have known he was ill and wanted to die in peace.  He didn't seem terribly ill beforehand, though; just a bit different.  Whatever happened, we never saw him again after that day but we thought of and talked about him often.  Bandit left us in 1984, making him about eight years old, the oldest cat I'd had to date.

That would soon change.

Fuzzy - Fuzzy was one of four kittens born to a cat named only "Mama Cat", who was adopted by my dad around 1982 or so.  Typically, my dad didn't really fancy the idea of keeping more cats in the house (we already had Bandit) so he placed a box outside on our front porch to house the pregnant black female cat, and she eventually had kittens.  I can't recall the names of the others...I think I named one of them "Blackie", though.  That mama cat would follow my dad and our dog, Princess, around on his morning walks (and a pigeon as well...long story).  He really grew to love her, and when she had babies he tried to provide for the kittens, with food and a crude cardboard box on the front porch.  As time went on and the kittens grew, my dad found a farmer who was interested in some good "mousers" for his farm, so he took the mama and three of the kittens.  He kept Fuzzy, AKA "Ol' Fuzz", because of the four, he was the weakest and least likely to be able to survive on his own.  He was frail and always a bit sickly and sometimes acted a little...strange, as if all the bolts in his head weren't securely tightened.  He would make a very strange little trilling sound whenever he was startled or alarmed, he had a lot of nasal congestion, and he was very passive.  He was the 'runt' of the litter and if anybody needed protecting, he did.

Fuzzy stayed inside when he wanted and went out when he wanted.  He got along fairly well with Bandit, i.e. there were no real fights but Bandit was jealous of him.  He enjoyed sleeping in bed with whoever he chose, sometimes me, sometimes my mom and dad, or brother, who also lived with us at this point.

Looking back, I think we weren't as proactive on Fuzzy's health as we could or should have been.  He was always sick with the flu or something similar and we really didn't take him to the vet that much.  At that point my dad was still kind of in charge of the animals and while that's not a good enough excuse, it explains a little.  He liked Fuzzy well enough, but he wasn't as close to him as he was Bandit, partly because he wasn't a 'macho' kitty and partly because he was kind of an adopted orphan.  Not that I shouldn't have pushed a bit harder to get him to the vet...I shared whatever blame there was.  And it wasn't that Fuzzy was terribly ill, he was just always kind of semi-fluish and if we'd had him today I'm sure we would have been more assertive.  That's just the way things were back then.

Fuzzy did have a fairly long life, living with us until 1990, when he, like Bandit before him, just went outside one day and never came back.  Also like Bandit Fuzzy was just about eight years old when he (apparently) died.

Tyler -  After we lost Fuzzy, which I believe was in the fall of 1990, my dad decided that for Christmas he'd give me a cat.  It was a great idea, and since it was his house he had the authority to decide when and what cat we'd be getting, though he did leave a lot of that decision up to me.  We called a local Humane Society and found that a woman who lived in a neighboring town was sheltering several kittens in her "breezeway" between her garage and home, and was looking to adopt them out.  We visited her one Saturday (this time no banging my head, thankfully) and she showed us the kittens.  They were all about 7 months old, and she did not have the mama, for reasons I can't recall.  One cat stood out in particular; a black and white "holstein" colored cat, who would eventually come to be known as "Tyler".

On that first day I picked him up and put him in (I believe) a cat carrier.  The requirements for adopting him from the society was that we get him checked out by a vet and that we get him de fleaed, administer a heartworm medication, and get him spayed.  We took him to a the humane society rep for the first two that day and he was very nervous, trying to get away from me as I held him.  When we got him home, he ran upstairs and hid in the deepest corner underneath my brother's bed.  He was very scared and wouldn't come out for anything or anyone.  Finally I placed a small dish of food at the edge of the floor by the bed and gradually brought it backwards into the open as Tyler became interested in it.  At last he emerged from hiding, but was very timid for a couple days afterward.

We tried to keep Tyler inside, as with Bandit, and for about a year it worked.  If by "worked' you mean we tolerated his incredibly loud howls and cried to go outside.  The vet assured us that after he was neutered, this would subside, but it did not.  This cat REALLY wanted out and even though we were worried he might get lost or run off, we needed sleep so we decided to let him go.  And he loved it.  Tyler began to 'rule' the neighborhood, patrolling our large backyard and river bank, as well as the blocks that surrounded and bordered our home.

No two cats have the same personality, but Tyler was special even within this framework.  He was, by turns, adventurous, extremely curious, playful, loving, mischievous, and deeply, deeply intelligent.  I am pretty sure that he was the cat that actually tried to use his paws to turn the doorknob in order to let himself out.  He didn't do a great deal of indoor playing, as he seemed to expend his energy outdoors, but he did have a peculiar fondness for the color red; he used to particularly love a red rubber crab that was a toy of mine as a child.

It's hard to put into words what the connection between Tyler and I was like.  It was definitely owner/pet, but it was so much more.  I could see elements of a brother/brother relationship, as well as a father/son, and best friend situation.   Several family members would often express frustration at how Tyler had bonded with me and only me, seeming to just tolerate everyone else.  I usually said it was probably because I was the first one who picked him up and carried him out of the breezeway, and was also the first to coax him out from under the bed.  Whatever the reason, the cat did definitely favor me.  He would come inside at night after a hard day of patrolling the neighborhood, seek me out on the couch, where I was generally lying in repose after a tiring day at work, and jump up to settle in between my knees.  He never slept on my chest, as many other cats have done, but he did love his special position.  He would lie there sleeping for hours.  He didn't even really like other people to pick him up, but he would allow me to do so, and kind of drape his head and shoulders over my shoulders, so that he was being held 'baby' like.  Once in that position, you could just feel his body relax completely, and go limp with ease.  "Oh you and that cat!" I remember my mom saying in exasperation.  Actually, Tyler was fond of mom as well, though not as demonstrative, because when I worked second shift she was almost always the one who would feed him in the morning, as that was his time to come in and refuel.

But she was right.  I'd never had or seen a bond between a cat and a person like Tyler and I had.   He had such an expressive face, I swear I could read what he was thinking just by looking at him.  I remember him following me with his eyes, watching for my reactions to things and waiting for my response when he did something.  One of my favorite (and yes, infuriating!) memories of ol' Ty-Ty was his morning ritual of coming into my room when I was asleep and meowing loudly to be let out.  The frustrating part was that my mom was already up and downstairs, and it would have been so much easier for him to simply stay down there and cry by the door, which would have alerted her and prompted her to let him out.  But for some reason (I maintain pure spite or playfulness) he insisted upon climbing up the stairs and making sure that I was the one who let him out, and of course, the one he woke up to do so.  I remember being hot with rage as I heard those unmistakable 'thumps' on the stairs that signaled his approach, and waited with my heart pounding for his inevitable "rrrooaww!" once he entered my room.  I also remember springing angrily out of bed and actually chasing him down the hallway, as he pulled his ears back, eyes ablaze, knowing full well how severe my reaction to his 'crowing' would be.  We'd rumble down the stairs, with me swearing horrendously at him all the while.  It was like a small child who purposefully did something "naughty" in order to get the attention (and the goat) of his parents.  As infuriating as it was, there was something endearing about it, too.  The fact that he KNEW that what he was doing would provoke me that way speaks of Tyler's overall playful nature; he was a devil at times, but his devilishness revealed a deep emotional connection to me and it was stunningly, at times unbelievably, rewarding in its beauty.

Tyler was also the most fearless animal I've ever known, at times so much so that it threatened his very life. He was curious to a fault.  He simply HAD to investigate new doors and windows and openings of any kind.  One very hot summer spell had seen him go missing for a day or so.  It wasn't unusual for him to be gone all day, but at some point he always returned for food and sleep.  But his absence this time was notable, and as usual we were a bit worried.  Finally, my mom heard what sounded like a cat crying when she was walking our dog, Princess, in a neighbor's yard.  She discovered that the neighbor's son had actually trapped him in a raccoon trap that his father had set up.  There was meat of some kind inside and it lured him in with the smell.  Tyler was crying loudly to get out, obviously tortured from the heat and confinement.  Angrily, my mom insisted that the boy let him free, and he did.  Why he trapped him is still a mystery, though he was a strange kid and at the time that was all the explanation I needed.  I didn't wave at that kid anymore when I saw him.  I believe his mother was there, too, and told him to release the cat, but my guess is that he wasn't punished.  What more could we really do at that point?  We had Tyler back and that was what was important.

Another time Tyler was missing for what must have been a couple days.  That was a LONG time for him to be gone and I feared for his safety.  There was indeed raccoons in the neighborhood and I doubt he would have been shy about confronting them, as crazy as that sounds.  It was the dead of winter, around January, I believe, and that fact made the worry worse, because he didn't have readily available water or food sources in the bitter cold like he might have had it have been summer.  At any rate, I was in our bathroom on the second or third day he was missing and I heard what I knew to be his very particular 'I'm in jeopardy' howl.  I looked on the back porch, which was near the bathroom, but found nothing.  Then I thought he must be somewhere near that I couldn't see, so I checked the basement, also nearby.  Nothing.  I went outside and started calling for him loudly so that he knew I could hear him.  I heard his yowl again, closer this time.  Finally I zeroed in on it, and realized that it was coming from a window well that had been boarded up outside our house...somehow, he had managed to fit himself inside the well and now couldn't extricate himself, and the whole structure, wooden covering and all, had been frozen over with a thick glaze of ice.  He was trapped good.  I tried to break the ice with whatever I could find, a shovel, a rake, etc.  Finally my brother heard the commotion and came out to help.  Between the two of us, we finally got him out...we made a big enough hole in the ice so that I could reach in and pull him out.  He was very cold and scared but otherwise unharmed (I'm sure he was quite hungry and thirsty as well!).  And like many cats, his scary experiences never really seemed to deter him or change his character at all.  He'd usually just sleep them off for a bit, maybe act a bit hesitant and/or shy for a few days, then dive headfirst into some new adventure soon afterward.

Tyler's bravery (or foolhardiness) wasn't limited to places, either.  He wasn't afraid of other animals, either, even those he may have been well advised to be fearful of.  One very cold winter night I looked out of my upstairs bedroom window in the wee hours (definitely after midnight) and saw a large dog, most likely a German Sheperd, making his way through the plow created snow tunnels of the city sidewalk in front of our street.  There was an access point from the plowed street to the sidewalk, and this pooch was just wandering around, purpose unknown.  Suddenly, I saw movement come from underneath me, near our house.  It was Tyler, running quickly to confront the dog!  He ran straight up to the startled dog, his ears back and no doubt, his hair puffed out in a gesture of confrontation and power.  I was very nervous; when cats fight there is often blood and hair, but little permanent injury.   When dogs fight, things die.  And yet here was Tyler, brazenly 'defending his turf' against this much bigger and presumably more powerful, intruder.  And to my amazement, the dog stopped for a second, stunned as I was...and then proceeded to run in the opposite direction!  I had never seen anything like it before, and never have since.  A cat was chasing a dog!  The poor  guy headed back out into the street and continued on his way, back where he came from.  Unbelievable.  I let Tyler in shortly thereafter, amazed at him once again.

Sometimes, however, Tyler didn't escape such confrontations unscathed.  There were many times when he came home bloodied, and others, even more disturbingly, where he had been bitten and suffered an abscess, which is a bite wound that seals up and is infected, whereupon it grows outward, creating a large, hard boil like protuberance at the wound site, which creates problems for the cat.  The infection can get into the cat's bloodstream, making him nauseous and weak.  Left untreated, I would imagine it could even threaten his life.  So what usually happens is that the cat, realizing on some instinctive level that this thing is threatening him and needs to go, will actually rub the wounded area against something hard, in an attempt to "pop" the abscess and allow the infection to open up and pour out.  If the cat can't do this, it is necessary for the owner to help him along, massaging the abscess until it does pop, volcano like.  Yuck.  Not something they put in the cat owner's manual, nor anything you'd read about in any cat owner's manual, I'd wager.  I performed this task for Tyler several times, and the resulting pus filled explosion (and it's horrible odor) was something I'm not likely to forget.

Tyler lived to be very, very old, particularly for an outside cat.  He was born in the spring of 1990 and he died in February of 2006, making him darned near 16 years old.  I've been told the lifespan of an outside cat is around 5 years, generally, so he did quite well.  It seemed like he'd been in my life forever, being present for so many pivotal family events (the deaths of my father and mother, and pets Princess (our Belgian sheepdog), Peeper and Sheba.  He met Punky, was friendly with Slick, knew my niece and nephew and brother, too.

In his final days, I knew in my heart he wasn't doing well.  He would come into my room and cry sometimes, and he started to lose body mass, too.  Looking back, maybe I should have gotten him to the vet a bit quicker.  I did take him for yearly physicals and shots, and to be honest, his decline came on rather quickly, a matter of weeks, really.  Tyler was a very specific cat; a cat who had grown old being accustomed to an incredible amount of freedom with little or no limitations or intrusions.  On the few times I had to give him medication, he was horrible with it...usually I was only able to squirt a portion of the liquid medicine into his mouth, and even then I was lucky if he didn't spit it out.  At one point two of our neighbors' cats contracted feline leukemia and died, and she hinted that Tyler, being a cat that went outside, could have given it to them (they went outside but stayed in their yard).  In order to ward off any suspicion and to check to make sure Tyler was OK, I took him to the vet for a series of blood tests, and waited nervously for the results.

I knew that if he tested positive, there was a good chance that he'd never be able to go outside again, for fear of infecting more cats (the neighbor was a cop, and I was fairly certain she'd enforce that law).  That was a devastating possibility for me, and for Tyler.  He was over ten, probably twelve or so at the time, and at that point any hope of making him an "inside" cat were pretty much dashed.  His whole life had been spent coming and going as he pleased, and to expect him to do an about face at this late hour was not only unreasonable, but cruel.  I knew that a life spent inside, without being able to hunt, or roam, or just be himself, would be miserable for Tyler, really worse than death in many ways.  So, as hard as it was, I knew if he tested positive, I would be bound by honor to do the right thing by him and have him euthanized.  It ripped me apart inside to even think about it, but to keep him alive at that point would have been selfish and cruel.

The tests came back negative, thank God.  Tyler and I had weathered yet another potential catastrophe, and we had done it together.

There's probably a thousand other stories about Tyler that I could include, from his 'chasing' me in the backyard, his love of the color red, his food dish with his nickname ("Pookie") taped over it,  The way he would run at me like a dog in the backyard and jump up at me as if to attack me...and on and on.  Honestly, I think I might be able to coax out an entire book just on this crazy, one in a billion cat that for some reason bonded so strongly with me, if I wanted to. Suffice it to say that he and I accepted each other in all our imperfection, and trusted each other implicitly from the beginning.  He made me feel special, wanted and loved, and I daresay I think I did the same for him.  When he died at age 16, I was taking him to the vet; I knew things were bad because I had found him panting in the bathtub when I got up that morning, and he had begun to have a haggard look, like his skin was hanging off of him.  About five miles into the seventeen mile trip, he began to fidget a lot in his cage.  Finally he laid down and put his paw out of the cage, hoping, as he often did, that I would touch it and make him feel like he wasn't alone, and comforted.  I touched him, as I always did.  But just a minute or so later I  noticed he wasn't moving around, at all.  I called his name, and there was no response.  I reached my finger inside the cage to touch him, and knew instantly that he had died.  There was no give, just a stiffness.  It was over; my friend had passed on.  But even to the last, he had acknowledged the wonderful bond between us.

Peeper -  Around October of 1991, a very large grey striped cat started appearing in our backyard, near our back door.  He would meow loudly, obviously wanting food and probably had been abandoned.  We had Tyler at the time and my dad, logically, looking back on it, was worried that letting a new cat in might disturb  Tyler to the point where he might run away.   We also had no idea where Peeper came from or what type his health was like (though that could have been remedied by a simple trip to the vet).  So Dad and I were at odds over the big guy (and I do mean BIG...Peeper was later weighed and tipped the scales to the tune of 19 pounds), but we did leave food and water out for him.

As winter approached, though, Peeper's pleas to come inside became more than more insistent.  Finally, during a snowstorm on the night before Thanksgiving, I couldn't bear to leave him outside any longer.  I lured him around to the cellar doors, and opened them.  He was curious and quieted down, then descended the cement steps.  It wasn't very plush or comfortable, but it was shelter and had to be better than the below freezing temps and falling snow outside.  We set up a litter box for him (though we had no idea if he'd ever used one before), and every morning my dad would feed him.  It's been a long time but I think I fed him later in the day.  We'd let him out in the day time and then when he came in, we'd let him run around the washroom for a little bit (with the door to the rest of the house closed off), then put him in the basement, usually with him protesting very loudly.  He must have been an "inside" cat before, and was used to being in the house.

This continued for a few months, and then, after my dad died, I just started letting Peeper in the house proper.  I understood my dad's reasons and fears, but I disagreed with them.  I felt a little guilty about "going against his wishes" after he'd passed, but I like to think that wherever he was, he understood now.  There were a few clashes with Tyler, but they got along pretty well for the most part.  Despite being outweighed by about eight pounds, Tyler was the dominant kitty here (remember the German Shepard?) and there were some skirmishes now and then, but basically, they found their balance and worked it out.

Peeper, was, to say the least, an odd cat.  He was huge and I don't mean "fat".  He did put on a bit of fat after we brought him in, but he was mostly very solid and very tall.  A trip to the vet resulted in the doctor wondering if he might be some kind of lynx.  Yes, that's how big he was.

And his oddness wasn't limited to his size, either. Peeper was just a strange duck, personality wise.  He was irascible, growling HORRIBLY when you picked him up and held him for a long period of time, emitting frustrated "puffs" when he was upset (such as when he wanted to go out but was met by a blast of cold winter air), and in general just never seeming like he was as secure as he wanted to be in his surroundings.  My guess was always that he had been abandoned by someone, and was still feeling the separation anxiety of that experience, as well as the insecurity of not being sure if it would happen again.  I don't think Peeper ever felt like he had anything that was purely "his" at our place, and there wasn't much we could do about it.  Tyler was already there, and had staked his various claims, but to be fair Peeper was inside much more than Ty, going out only for brief periods of time to relieve himself, then usually coming right back in for rest and food and companionship.  He loved to sleep with people, usually right on their chest.  And let me tell you, nineteen pounds of cat right on your chest makes for an interesting sleeping experience.  Add a Tyler at my feet to that matrix and you've got a human that's pretty much trapped in bed.  Not what you want at about 4 in the AM when you need to use the restroom.  On the bright side, you never have to worry about being cold.

Peeper was a favorite of my nephew's, because unlike Tyler, who pretty much ignored everyone but me, he paid attention to him, and acknowledged his affection.  He wasn't "cuddly" per se, but he did seem to respond to others more than Tyler did.  He wasn't "picky" about people and really didn't play favorites.  Like a lot of strays that have been abandoned, he always just seemed grateful for the attention.  When he wasn't growling and puffing in frustration, that is.

Peeper passed away on April 6, 1996.  One night I opened the door to look outside (maybe looking for him, I can't remember at this point) and found him lying near the door, motionless.  It was a fairly warm night, but it was obvious something was wrong.  As I approached him, I saw a small amount of vomit near him and feared the worst.  I examined him and realized right away he was gone.  We never knew for sure what had happened.  Peeper's age was always just a guess, but he could easily have been over ten years old at that point, perhaps much older.  The ominous theory of possible poisoning was raised by someone, but I chose not to believe it.  If it had been true, there was no way to find out who did it, and I didn't think anyone in our neighborhood, as imperfect as they were, would have sunk to that level, anyway.

I buried him in our backyard.  He was the first cat we had that I ever buried; for that matter, the first pet.  It was very difficult, physically and emotionally.  I did it all myself, and was worried about burying him deep enough so as not to interfere with water, etc.  And it was so hard to move his lifeless body around, and put it in the ground, with blankets covering him.  All the memories of him alive flooded over me and the reality of the situation hit me hard.  Peeper was gone, in an instant and would never come back.  All that was left was this shell, and the contrast was so awful. 

I missed a day of work that day.  I consoled myself with the knowledge that we had given him a much better life that he would have had without us.  He was warm, fed, well treated and loved, and that's about as much as you can do for an animal.  It still hurt like Hell, but it was something to cling to, at least.

Sheba - Sheba was a small sandy, long haired female cat that belonged to an elderly cousin of my mother's (and mine, for that matter, but the cousin was on my mom's side).  After the cousin became too old and frail to care for herself, she was put in a nursing home. Sheba needed a home, so my mom accepted the request to house her with us.  I admit I wasn't too crazy about the idea at first, for the same rather stubborn reason my dad hadn't wanted Peeper to stay inside with us.  I worried that Tyler might become jealous and potentially run away.   As I look back it was a silly, selfish and unnecessarily cautious attitude.  The likelihood that Tyler, at age 10, was going to just up and head out because one more cat was in the house was pretty remote and I should have realized that.

Sheba had some adjustment problems, like Peeper had.  She had a few accidents in my mom's bedroom before settling down to her new litter box.  But her most peculiar trait was her habit of grabbing a stray sock or an occasional pair of underwear (usually white) and taking it to some secluded location and crying loudly.  We never really learned what exactly this behavior was about, but we both assumed it had something to do with her having lost several sets of kittens, and that perhaps the clothes served as some kind of surrogate children.  In some kind of maternal instinct reflex she probably didn't even understand, Sheba was doing what she would have done with real kittens had they not died in birth (i.e. picking them up by the scruff and moving them around).  Was her howling some kind of mourning for her lost children?  I guess we'll never know, but honestly, it was a creepy thing to behold.

Otherwise, Sheba was an affectionate cat who loved to sit in your lap.  She liked my mom a lot but like Tyler she also seemed to take quite a shine to me.  I have heard that some cats tend to lean toward males more, and from my experience it seems to be true.  I remember my mom remarking that it was odd that she was the one who advocated for Sheba to come into our home, and yet I was the one that she seemed most drawn to.

In general, Sheba was a quiet and passive kitty, who never seemed to have any desire to go outside.  She had a thick fluffy coat that was very soothing to pet, and she would softly purr as you did so.  Like Peeper, we never really knew how old she was, but we assumed she was at least "middle aged" by the time she came to us, in January of 1997.

Unlike Peeper, Sheba's passing in January of 2001 wasn't a quick one.  She obviously hadn't been taken to the vet much, if at all, and when we took her the vet told us she had some teeth that had to be removed because of severe infection around the gums.  If she didn't have them removed, she said, she'd likely die because she would no longer be able to eat.  We hated to put her through the painful surgery, but at last we decided it was own only real option.  She had eight of her teeth removed, but unfortunately, the results weren't what we'd hoped for.  Whether it was from the shock of the surgery or the pain that came afterwards, Sheba almost immediately stopped eating solid food.  We tried various ways to get her to eat, but she just retreated into a closet in my upstairs bedroom and hid.  My mom had some success with feeding her tuna out of her hand, but for the most part she just began to starve herself.  It was heartbreaking to stand by helplessly and see her just waste away, and finally we made the very difficult decision to have her euthanized.  I remember the car ride up to the vet's, about 17 miles away.  We asked my aunt to drive my mom and I up, because I was worried about being able to drive back afterwards, and ultimately, it was a good decision.  My mom and I were both quite broken up, and I was in no shape to worry about driving.  I told my mom that we had indeed given Sheba  a much better life than she would have had without us, just as with Peeper.

She was a sweet, obviously somewhat troubled, kitty who really had had a somewhat neglectful past, but she found love with us.

And as so often was the case, it wasn't long before another lonely soul showed up on or near our doorstep.

Punky -  It was the summer of 2001, and time marched on.  Tyler was now 10 years old, but showed no signs of aging or slowing down, really.  I was still living at home with my mom and brother.  My mom's health had begun to be a real issue, as she had a lot of mostly unidentified pain and her mobility had been severely curtailed.  She was becoming more and more of a shut in, and it caused her a lot of depression.  She tried to keep her spirits up, but it was increasingly difficult as time wore on and the doctors didn't seem to be able to offer much relief.  She had a lot of abdominal pain, and the best the doctors could offer was that she had 'adhesions' which amounted to scar tissue from multiple surgeries.  The only way to be certain of this diagnosis was to do a laproscopic procedure, which entailed opening up the body cavity and physically examining the patient's organs, a major surgery.  And even if it were adhesions, removing them might actually make the problem worse.  She was a lifetime smoker and that was taking its toll as well, and we were all soon to learn just how big a toll.

Into this setting came a tiny little scrap of a kitten, all ears and voice, called Punky.  My mom named her that because she was so very tiny, a "little punk".  One day my brother motioned to me in the washroom to come outside and look at something.  There, in my dad's shed, underneath our riding lawn mower, was a miniscule kitten who was meowing at a volume she had no business being able to muster.  Apparently abandoned at a very young age (i.e. dumped) this little girl had somehow found her way to our shed and was obviously very hungry.  We gave her some wet cat food and she wolfed it down.  As with most strays, we never really knew where Punky came from or who might have dumped her, so her medical history was impossible to relate to the vet we took her to.  It was estimated that she was about four weeks old when we found her, and in fairly good health except for a very bad eye infection.  In fact, the infection was so severe that her entire right eye was obscured by mucus, to the extent that we honestly thought she might only have one eye.  We found out later that she had an virus in her tear duct, and after a lot of medication it cleared up, mostly, but it's something that has recurred, but never as severely, throughout her life.

Punky stayed with my brother in his room for the first six months we had her.  We were afraid that Tyler would become jealous and attack her (not an unfounded fear) so we decided she'd be better off there.  In hindsight, it was a logical idea but it ultimately might have been a negative for her.  My brother was by that time deep in the throes of alcoholism, and really did not create a good environment for Punky to grow up in.  He did love cats, and he did enjoy her company, but when drinking he could be verbally abusive and angry, often yelling at her for crying at the door to get out.  She had her litterbox in the hallway between our rooms and needed to be let out to get to it...and when he was loaded, he wasn't thinking logically.  He also played too rough with her; she was a high strung and aggressive cat to begin with, and his rough playing (using his hands as toys, etc.) certainly didn't help matters any.  She became a very hyper and aggressive cat not only with him but others, often going straight from purring to sharply biting in a matter of seconds.  Finally, after a particularly  egregious drunken episode, I went over to his room, opened the door, picked up Punky and brought her into my room and shut the door.  That was that.  She was in my charge.  Not long afterwards, we decided to just let her downstairs to see what happened and something odd but good happened.  She tried to pick on Tyler, jumping at him and on him, biting him, generally rough housing and trying to dominate him.

He tolerated it.  For a while.

Tyler at that point was getting older.  He was 11 years old by the time we found Punky and while I rather doubt he would have tolerated it long even at a young age, his advanced age no doubt sped up his "I'm sick of this" response.  Tyler had always gotten along quite well with other cats, rarely fighting much with Peeper (once Peeper acknowledged him as the alpha) or "Slick" (more on him later) or even Princess.   So he took Punky's youthful exuberance and energy in stride...for a while.  Usually, he'd just kind of ignore her while she lunged at him, made incisive little bites on him, or "stalked" him.  But after enduring a few weeks of this, one day Tyler finally had had enough.  I'm not sure what happened; whether he was just tired of it, whether he'd had a bad day, whether he wasn't feeling well or whether she did something just a bit more irritating and provocative, but I remember seeing him slowly back her into a corner, ears drawn back severely, like two black horns, his eyes ablaze with anger and menace.  Then came the teeth.  Lunging, "I'm not kidding anymore" biting that didn't break skin but had to have hurt because I heard Punky crying out in terror as he jabbed at her neck, again and again.  He was on top of her, pinning her down, and always with the look and the frightening gestures.  It may sound a bit cruel, but I was happy to see it.  Punky was, to be frank, a bully, or at least would have been if she'd been given the chance.  She needed to learn submission, and that she wasn't the only living thing in the world, that others mattered and at some point they weren't going to take her crap anymore.  She found out that day.

After that, their relationship changed completely.  There was no more lunging when he came in, no more biting or hissing.  She would often go up to him happily, licking him and making a fuss over his entrance, like a handmaiden asking her master if she required anything when he'd returned from the hunt.  Tyler never treated Punky like that again, either.  He didn't need to.  He'd made his point and all was well.  Their relationship was established for the rest of their lives.  He would tolerate the "adoration" and she would knock off the nonsense.  And he was in charge of that house.

Punky has been with me for a long time now.  She made the move from my mom's house when I purchased a home 13 miles away.  It was a difficult but necessary decision.  I know in his heart my brother did love her and she was a companion for her but he was in no shape at all to care for himself, let alone an animal.  He was deeply, deeply ill with alcoholism, usually barely able to move around and fend for himself, and to expect someone who was nearly always inebriated to be responsible enough to feed a cat regularly, keep her home clean, provide fresh water, etc, was insane.  I might just as well have signed her death warrant.  So it was with a very heavy heart but a resolve that what I was doing wasn't desirable, but it was necessary, that I finally took Punky from my mom's home and moved her into mine.  My brother now had no one and nothing to live with, and he commented to me on different occasions about how lonely he was.  While I wished to Heaven this situation was different, his increasing deterioration confirmed that my decision was the right one.
Punky was a bit frightened of her new digs at first, but after a couple days of shyness, she quickly took to her new surroundings.  It was also a new experience for her to not have someone around all day; I was gone for over eight hours when I went to work, I walked at night, I went to school, ran errands, etc.  But gradually she adjusted to this, as well.

Punky changed, a little, during this time.  Honestly, her time with my brother, with his unknowingly improper training (too rough playing, making his hands into toys, etc) coupled with her tortoise shell calico genes (usually quite a feisty personality), made her a fairly irascible kitty, hard to get close to, and impossible to get to relax.  She did mellow a bit once we moved, and unfortunately, had to get used to an empty house for most of the day.  Previously she had my mom and my brother home most of the day, while I was at work.  Now it was just me and her, and I'm sure she didn't like it much.

Punky's still ruling the living room, kitchen and basement, while my other kitty, Misty, has the run of my bedroom and the bathroom.  I sometimes feel guilty because I know I am in Misty's presence more than Punky's but it's somewhat unavoidable in that Punky bullies and harasses Misty so much there's really no other choice, except to let one cat be frightened all the time and that's not an option for me.   I think that Punky is happy for the most part.  Or at least as happy as she will allow herself to be!

Charlie - Charlie was a beautiful long haired orange cat that I had for a very brief time before he tragically passes away.  He was a shelter kitty and always warmed to me when I came over to volunteer, but he had been having temperament issues and was 'ready' to be adopted, or continue to become more and more morose.  I was happy to have him, thinking he'd prove a nice counterpoint and companion for Punky.  And, I was right.  After a couple days of adjustment, Charlie seemed to get along fine with Punky and really seemed to love living in a home of his own.  He was friendly, quiet and docile.  Unfortunately, a couple weeks after I got him, he started acting strangely when eating...having difficulty and cocking his head when he did so.  I also noticed that one of his eyes had a clear spot on it, like he was blind.  I took him to the vet, and he wasn't sure what was up but hoped it was a virus of some kind.  Meds didn't help, and as time wore on, and Charlie ate less and less, it looked more and more like it might be Option B, which was a head injury of some kind.  Charlie continued to lose weight and get weaker, even having trouble walking.  He wanted to eat but he just couldn't.  I took him to a different vet, and she was more convinced it was a head injury, though he presented with no visible cuts or bruises or scars.  With no improvement, Charlie was very thin and very weak.  On my last trip to the vet, it was suggested we put him to sleep, since we could have taken him for a brain scan but by that point it seemed very likely he would never be able to be cured...he was just too weak and his quality of life had been seriously compromised.  Tearfully, I called the shelter folks who were still helping me with his treatment and told them what I intended to do.  They agreed it was best, and though it was hard, we followed through.  We never learned for certain what happened with Charlie.  I will remember him as a wonderful kitty who warmed my life for a very brief period of time, and I sure hope I'll see him again when my time comes.  I really miss him.

Misty -  My next (and last, so far) kitty is Misty, a tortoise shell calico, like Punky.  That's where the comparison ends, however.  Misty is a very gentle and shy girl, loving and playful and a terrific eater.  This girl will eat just about anything; cat food, pasta, whipped cream, peanut butter, chicken, cookies (she really has quite the sweet tooth).  I'm sure there's many more foods she'd sample were I to offer them.  Because of the situation with Punky, Misty is unfortunately confined to my bedroom and bathroom, but she really doesn't seem to mind.  She has a very deep and soulful purr that rumbles forth from her when she's in a loving mood (which is often).  Like Charlie, whom she knew at the shelter, she always seems grateful just to be in a home of her own, in a room of her own, with a human who pays attention to her on a regular basis.  She look at me often with what I swear is a look of absolute beatification.  It's so odd to have two cats who are so incredibly dissimilar.  Misty has given me uncounted hours of peace and happiness.  When I look at her, no matter how horrible and soul destroying my day has been, I feel like I've done something completely 'right'.  This cat absolutely loves me, and appreciates whatever I have done for her, and what she has taken she has returned tenfold in her companionship and love.  I hit the feline jackpot when I adopted this little lady.  She loves to play, sometimes bursting with energy and exploding around the room like a confined rhinoceros.  She especially likes hiding her little play cube and swatting at pens, combs, or whatever I use as a toy.   She likes toy mice and the like as well.  She does NOT like sudden motions or loud, abrasive noises and will usually hide underneath the bed when presented with them.  Like Punky, she is an exclusively indoor cat; at this point I will not risk any chance of her getting hit by a car as I live very near a well traveled street.  She enjoys looking out the window in her, I mean, MY room, and gazing at the birds and leaves and bugs that float, fly or drift by.  She seems to enjoy her quiet and secluded life, and personally, I couldn't be happier with her.


Not "My" Cats but Ones I Knew and Remember

For a cat lover, there are always cats you remember, and not all of them were specifically "your" cats.  They are the cats of friends, relatives, and neighbors.  They might be strays or shelter kitties.  If you love cats, you love ALL cats; you don't pick and choose.  Cats will be drawn to you, and you to them.  I don't really know if it's a genetic thing, or just a 'trust' issue, wherein cats gravitate towards those who don't emanate the scent of fear when around them, or even a psychic bond, but I truly believe there are "cat people" and "dog people", etc.  At any rate...

Byron, Peep, Chadow, and "Little Kitty"  - These were my brothers' and sister-in-laws' cats from around 1972 to about 1983.  The first two were very large black cats, full of personality and love.  I sometimes get them mixed up.  I remember Byron (I think) chasing me through my brothers' first apartment in town, peeking around corners at me, and me reciprocating.  He was an awesome cat, fun and loving.  Peep was great, too, a real lover, huge and muscular, who unfortunately got lost or misplaced somehow when my brother moved closer to us in about 1974.  Everyone searched for weeks and finally gave up, sadly.   However, one day while I was in my backyard (just a few houses down from my brothers' new home) hitting a whiffleball around, I heard a cat meowing in the weeds that rimmed the riverbank behind the yard.  I approached to investigate, and saw a very large black cat just inside the weeds.  He seemed to know me, and I called to him.  There was recognition, but he didn't come my way, just paused a moment and moved on.  To this day I swear that was the poor lost Peep.  Whatever happened to him, I hope it wasn't unpleasant.

Chadow was a chubby, tall gray cat that my brother got from a friend who was moving, I believe.  He was a very nice cat, too, but unfortunately was hit by a car and killed just a few months after my brother received him.  Byron, too, died this way.

Little Kitty was a willowy, light boned light gray cat that my brother had in the late 70's to about 1983.  He was a lover, sweet and quiet and he kept my brother company, after a fashion, after his wife left him in 1982 and subsequently divorced him.  This little guy no doubt saw a lot of things at that house, particularly after my sister in law left with my nephew and niece.  I remember how his fur felt when I pet him; soft, almost impossibly so, like an open feather pillow underneath your hands.  He died when a friend of mine hit him with his car (and incredibly, just kept on going without going back to help him) and my brother, sadly, witnessed the whole thing walking home from town one day.

Taffy - Taffy was our next door neighbor's cat for many years.  She was a cream colored orange kitty, very light boned and with hair like "Little Kitty's, very soft and soothing to the touch.  She was a very gentle girl and I would often pet her when she would come over into our backyard from their adjoining backyard.  I was a young and was usually hitting the whiffleball around by myself, and welcomed the company.  I used call to her "Come here, Taffy Waffy!".  And she would anxiously trot over to me, knowing she'd get a full ten minutes or so of happy petting.  Nice memory.

Slick - Slick was another neighbor's cat who would often kind of bum around our place, for whatever reason.  I always assumed Slick was not allowed in the neighbor's house, though they did apparently feed him, because he would often sleep in the cardboard box we had on the porch, which was insulated with blankets.  The box was there for Mama Kitty and her kitten, originally, but when they all left we kept the box there for Tyler, and Slick would often adopt it.  He was a strange cat, who would make an odd 'chirp' when he was surprised.  With long black hair and a light frame, Slick was not exactly the most "macho" cat on the block, but he was lovable and brought out the 'mothering' instinct in us.  I know of at least one occasion where he came inside our house on a very cold winter day and ended up sleeping in my mom's bed when she took her afternoon nap.

I really don't know whatever happened to poor old Slicky.  My memory is that at some point he just kind of quit showing up, and I assumed that he'd met with an unfortunate fate at the hands of an enemy like a raccoon or coyote (or dog) or just become ill and went away to die.  He was a nice if offbeat cat who wasn't treated particularly well by his "real" owner.  I think he was around from about 1992 to 1994 or so.

And so ends my cat countdown.  I have to say I have loved every cat I have ever met, but my old Ty Ty holds a special place in my heart, as does Misty.

Cats are on of the constants of my life.  They've just always been there.  I cannot imagine living without at least one, at this point, partly because I think I have something to bring them, partly because there are so many of them in need of a good home, and partly, perhaps most importantly, because of the wonderful effect that have upon me.  Cats are us, in so many ways.  They need food, water, air and shelter to live.  They also need love (though they seek constantly to deny this) and companionship.  Yes, they are independent in ways dogs are not (the odds of dogs surviving on their own seem much lower than cats, who have a ready supply of food in the form of mice, etc., and don't present such large targets to cars and other mechanical and living predators), but I will go to my grave swearing that cats value the contact humans give them, and not just for food and warmth.  I've seen their faces brighten when I enter a room, the way they come alive when presented with the opportunity for play, and the way their bodies seem to melt into comfort when you put them. 

I also admire and cherish their absolute lack of guile.    Unlike people, most of whom have frustrated desires, unspoken motives and secrets in general, cats like all animals, are just who they are and have no reservations about displaying it.    With cats, you get what you see, and you see what you get.  Of course this is not to say they aren't complex animals, only that their complexity lies in their occasional inscrutable nature, not in any intentional misleading by them. 

I fully intend on having cats in my life until the day I die, or am no longer able to do so.  And even then, I will visit them in shelters or feed strays.  They are a constant source of joy and fascination form me, and my history will forever be intermingled with theirs. 

Old Doors

Like an old door with rusted hinges, weathered wood and cracked paint, a life used to routine is difficult to move.  It resists, it protests, it's stiff and it complains.  It likes, or at least, is used to it's present position and the barnacles of age make any real movement a strain.  No one likes strain, particularly old doors and old(er) folks.

Sometimes just a little bit of grease will help. You can usually buy it at the store for a couple bucks and it only takes a moment to apply.  The key is having the ambition to get up off of the couch, walk or drive to the hardware store, look around, find the stuff and take it up to the counter.  Oh, and having the money to pay for it.  Without any one of these elements, the remedy cannot be affected.  In that case you stay on the couch and the door remains closed.

Obligations

I need to apologize for not making the most of the gifts I have.

I can't do a lot of things that other people can do proficiently. I can't paint, I don't know anything about cars, I'm not mechanical in general, I could burn water as far as cooking goes. I'm not that confident a driver and I'm not physically very strong. But I am able to compose and organize thoughts and ideas. I'm a good communicator (thanks, Mom).

Problem is, I've let those skills atrophy. For a number of reasons, laziness, depression, fatalism, fatigue, I've let years go by with just the barest connection to my real abilities and that's my fault. There's no one to blame but me. I theorize that I often can't think of anything to write ABOUT and yet just as you can't ever expect to start a fire without at least trying to rub two sticks together, you have little or no hope of creating a written work without 'rubbing the creative sticks together', sitting down and getting at least something typed out that may or may not spark something great.

I will try to do better. Half the time I'm not going to be motivated or have any idea what to write about, but I'm going to try. I'm getting old and there's no denying that. 47 going on 48 and very little published, and writing still an occasional thing and not a way of life; that's not the formula for self-actualization. It's the formula for depression and lethargy. It's not what I was put on this earth for, and I do believe that all of us have something we are supposed to do. Whether or not we actually do it is another question.

I love being alive. It's a gift that should never be wasted. And I apologize to everyone I love and the world in general, as well as myself, that I've done such a poor job of not wasting it.

I need to do better. I must. I will.