Tag Archives: cats

Postcards

Hail to a prince …

Couple Saturdays ago I had to scuttle breakfast plans with my brother to take our cat Roman to the vet. 

Karry was working, which meant a solo mission. 

Which meant I was outnumbered. 

Cat transport is really a two-person affair. 

Once the boys see the cat carriers, it’s all over. 

If not first sequestered, they go full Jason Bourne. 

Could be days before we see them again. 

Between him and his brother, Roman’s the tougher customer. 

A lifelong anarchist, Roman rejects all systems of centralized authority in favor of personal freedom and self-governance. 

Which makes getting him in the carrier in direct conflict with his repudiation of involuntary hierarchies. 

Over the years, we’ve perfected the process. 

Not that the process ever works perfectly. 

Step one: solitary confinement. 

By which I mean locking Roman in the middle bathroom. 

I’d never been responsible for this step by myself before. 

I’m not good at holding cats. 

In my experience, they don’t want to be held. 

At least the way I hold them. 

I found him lounging by the window in the dining room. 

Scooped him up by his sides and held him out in front of me like a ticking bomb as I carried him down the hallway. 

I think I caught him by surprise. 

The look on his face was like, “What the f*ck?”

I made it to the bathroom, plopped him down on the floor and shut the door behind me. 

This allowed me to retrieve the cat carrier from the garage. 

I’ve never been solely responsible for getting Romain in the carrier by myself. 

I began by an overt show of respect for his superior intellect, appealing to his core anarchist sensibilities. 

Given his distaste for coercive states, I tried cooperation based on consent. 

By which I mean I put some treats inside the carrier and politely invited him in for snacks. 

He didn’t flinch.

I then initiated casual conversation, like they do in hostage negotiation scenes in the movies. 

By which I mean I essentially talked to myself for five minutes. 

Then I grabbed him by his sides and just sort of shoved him inside. 

Mercifully, he didn’t go down swinging.

I think he felt sorry for me and my inferior intellect. 

Carried him downstairs to the garage, and put him in my car’s backseat. 

I turned the carrier so he could see me and I could see him. 

He whined the whole car ride. I acknowledged each and every one of his whines to let him know I heard and understood. 

Checked him in at Banfield, where they put us in a room to wait. 

It was the most time Roman and I ever spent alone together. 

Karry is, by far — and understandably — his favorite. 

I’m much closer with his brother, Viktor. We chat downstairs pretty much every morning after Viktor finishes meditating. 

My relationship with Roman is much more transactional.

He comes in my room every morning to register his extreme displeasure for me being late with breakfast.

Doesn’t leave until he confirms my feet on the carpet, then he exits to the hallway, squawking in disgust the entire time. 

He gets about halfway down the hall and checks over his shoulder to make sure I don’t stop to pee along the way. 

“Oh for Chrissakes,” he whines every time I do. If he had hands he’d throw ‘em in the air in disbelief. 

He always beats me to the kitchen, and hops up on the counter because he doesn’t trust me to remember where we keep the food. 

Once on the counter, closer to eye level, he formally airs all of his grievances, pacing back and forth while giving me sauce for (a.) how long he’s been waiting, (b.) what a goddamn travesty it is, (c.) what a lazy buffoon I am for sleeping so late, and (d.) reminding me for the umpteenth time that if he’d only been born with opposable thumbs, he’d have no use for me and would have killed me in my sleep a long time ago. 

Et cetera. 

He does this every morning. 

Big fella gets hangry.  

Meanwhile, I fish two bowls from the cabinet, and pick out a selection from the rotation.  

I split a packet between the two of ‘em, making sure to give Viktor a little bit more in vain hope that he will decide to help Roman on his weight loss journey.  

If I take more than a minute, they get chippy with each other. Roman tends to instigate, and I try to break them apart before Viktor escalates and bites his brother on the ear. 

I put Viktor’s bowl down first on the little rug by the cabinet, and Roman’s by his water bowl, wishing them each a “Bon Appetite” by name as I do so. 

Viktor, a gentleman who savors, takes his time and patiently chews his food.

Meanwhile, Roman attacks his bowl like Joey Chestnut in front of a bin of hot dogs and a ticking clock. Finishes minutes before Viktor, then death stares at his brother until Viktor decides he’s had enough and walks away from his bowl. He never cleans his plate.

Whereupon Roman avails himself of second breakfast, hobbit-style.

Other than that, I’m pretty irrelevant to Roman’s days and nights. 

When I get home from work, sometimes he’ll hop on the dining room table to let me pet him a couple times, just to tie him over until Karry’s return. After about three pets, he tries to nip my hand to let me know we’re done here. 

All of which to say, I considered it a blessing to be able to keep Roman company while we waited for the vet to see him. 

While he whined I told him how much I appreciated what a good boy he was being, and how proud I was of him, and that we’ll be home soon. 

He was better for me than I deserved. 

When the doctor finally came and took him back for an X-ray, I prayed he’d be as good for them as he had been for me. 

Over the years he’s cultivated a reputation for being, um, feisty during vet visits.

It’s where he’s most forcefully expressed his disgust for oppressive forms of government. 

Rarely goes down without a fight, or a sedative. 

He took it easy on them this time, though.

When they brought him back to me in the waiting room, Roman immediately walked into the carrier of his own volition. 

He knew that was the shortest distance to home. 

Such a smart boy. 

The vet at Banfield gave us medicine to curb his vomiting, a liquid bandage to hopefully let his stomach lining heal, and a steroid for inflammation. Said the vomiting should stop within 24 hours. Didn’t seem overly concerned. 

On Monday morning I flew to Milwaukee for an all-week work function. 

Karry texted me when she got home from work that day that she found dark vomit on the carpet again. Said she was going to take Romain to the ER. 

Couple hours later she texted that they saw something troubling on the X-Ray from Banfield and wanted to do an MRI the next day. She said it broke her heart to leave Roman overnight, but that he was purring when she left him. 

The next morning the doctor called with the results. 

After listening to the options, Karry made the impossibly hard and right decision. 

He’d lived a good life without suffering, and she was determined to make sure it remained that way.

So she chose the shortest distance to … home. 

She said that Peter would go with her to say her goodbyes that afternoon. 

He’s a good boy, too. 

My heart broke for all of us.  

Karry texted me that afternoon when they got to the hospital. Asked me if I was available for a FaceTime. 

I wasn’t … but I stepped out from the meeting I was in. 

Got to see Roman one last time. 

Got to tell him I loved him. 

Got to tell him what a good boy he was. 

Got to tell Karry and Peter how proud I was of them … and how grateful I was to them both for calling me. 

After we hung up, I took a minute for a few deep breaths and then went back in and presented to our company’s leadership team with salty cheeks.

__  

That was 12 days ago. 

It all happened so fast. 

By which I mean the 72 hours between Roman being better for me than I deserved and me FaceTiming him goodbye. 

By which I mean the past 10 years. 

Got home from my work trip on a Thursday night, then left that Saturday for a few getaway days with Karry to celebrate our 30th anniversary. Got home late this past Thursday night. 

Been playing catch-up ever since. 

I was the first one up this morning. 

Out of habit I fished two bowls from the cabinet, and started to divvy up a packet of food, giving Viktor a little more. 

Started crying when I didn’t know what to do with the leftovers.

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Excursions

The 12 Days of T-Shirts / Day 12: CATSA

My friend Stephen designed this badass logo for his badass wife Sam’s badass business, whose mission is to “create the coolest, space-themed, design objects for cat lovers.” 

Mission accomplished.

Proceeds from their refined, feline designs fund cat rescue and advocacy projects for community cats and their caregivers, which me and Viktor the Cat (my sensei) agree is righteous.

I could pick this logo as Stephen’s out of a police lineup. He’s had his own singular sinister aesthetic since I met him when I was a clueless intern in the mid-90’s. I owe my professional career to Stephen’s brilliance.

Check ‘em out at catsa.co. Their merch is next level and their wearables so soft they’ll make your torso purr. 

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Fathers and Sons

Talking Cats ….

For the first 95% of my time to date wandering, mostly lost, around my very teensy patch of this planet, I’ve abided an unwavering animosity towards cats. 

For the most recent 5%, which I’ve spent in a complicated reexamination of my lifelong animosity, I’ve exercised a monk-like restraint to not be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats … at least while I’m in, you know, complicated reexamination mode. 

While I can’t say I’m on the other side of that process, I am here, this day, to be The Guy Who Talks About His Cats. 

This is Viktor. 

This is Viktor in the act of practicing mind control on weaker species.

Viktor is my dude. 

Even though he can be a major a-hole. Even though I’m not entirely convinced he’s not secretly plotting my demise, although I can’t technically prove it in a court of law … yet. (Sorry for all the negatives there … an unfortunate side effect of the complicated reexamination process). 

And by “my Dude,” I, of course, mean that he deems me his dim-witted, servile underling barely worthy of the honor of catering to his every whim.

Viktor along with his brother Roman are the ‘cats who live in our house.’ While I’ve done almost a complete 180 on my cat stance (let’s call it a ‘178’), I still stop short of calling them ‘my cats,’ … since I was not involved, or, technically speaking, consulted, in the circumstances that resulted in them taking up residency in my house. And since my own residency here is, shall we say, vaguely tenuous, I abide a general strategy of not rocking the boat wherever possible. 

I’ve come to appreciate Viktor over the course of our cohabitation because he’s the only member of the household who will indulge me in long conversation. 

Everyone else seems to be, you know, pretty busy. 

But Viktor and I … we are kindred spirts. Cut from the same cloth.  We’re what the historians call ’deep thinkers.’ We feel the weight of the world, sense the shifting of the cosmic sands. We know what the Powers That Be are up to. We call out the bullshit when we see it. We know when the forecast calls for melancholy. We like it when human beings scratch our heads. 

I’ll often find Viktor sitting in the dining room, staring out into the backyard, and can sense his mood.

A typical exchange: 

Me: How’s it going, Viktor? 

Viktor: (continuing to look straight ahead) Reeeeuhhhhrrrr! (“The universe is a meaningless void.”) 

Me: Yeah, I know. Things are f*cked. 

Viktor: (turning to address me directly) Reeeeeeeeeahhhhhrrrrrrrr! (“We must find those responsible and make them pay.”)

Me: Yeah, what can you do, though? 

Viktor: Reeauh! (“Exercise my plan for world domination and reign in power with The Queen Who Gives Me The Special Snacks.”)

Me: Oh, there is that, I suppose. 

Viktor: (turning back to the window) Urrrrrreeeeeeuhhh! (“Make no mistake, you will be the first to be eliminated, Sparkle Fart. Leave my sight for now Viktor must scratch things and nap.” 

Me:  OK, sounds like a plan. Good talk. 

I’m the only one he talks to like this. We chat all the time.  Actually makes Karry jealous.  

That said, our relationship is not all unicorns and world domination.

Viktor can be a real a-hole.

Case in point. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he shows zero interest in physical exertion. 

Until I’m working from home and he knows I’m on a call. 

Then, he’ll bat the tinkly ball down the steps and work on his ball handling. Smacks it off the walls, chases it down, launches it back across the room, whacks it into the corner. Whines incessantly when it goes under the shelves just out of his reach. Until I hit the mute button, and be like, “Viktor, what the f*ck?”

He pretends he doesn’t hear me.

And when he knows I’m on a video call? It’s like he’s training for the goddamn Tinkly Ball Olympics. Speed drills and sh*t. 

Oh, and there’s this other thing. Despite the fact that Karry has placed multiple cat accommodations of every type (blankets, pillows, beds, etc.) in front of virtually every window in every room in the house, Viktor insists on sleeping in my chair. 

Because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker. 

When I call him out on it, sometimes he’ll open only one eye for a couple seconds, then close it again while I’m still yelling. I’m convinced that sometimes he hops in the chair when he hears me coming, and only pretends to sleep. I swear I can see him chuckling to himself. Karry tells me, oh no, he’s just ‘dreaming’ and to leave him be.

Despite the fact that dozens of blankets and pillows have been allocated
for his comfort in practically every room in the house,
he insists on sleeping in my chair because he is a passive aggressive motherf*cker.

VikTurd.

Eventually, though, his conscience gets to him, and he’ll apologize later … bowing his head and rubbing it against my shoulder.  (translation: he gets hungry and knows he needs my opposable thumbs to open his adorably tiny can of cat food).

Of course, I forgive him, which is probably due to his mind control over inferior beings, but in my head is due to my unwavering support of his career aspirations. It’s Viktor’s dream (right after the World Domination thing) to become a calendar model. He puts in the work, has logged the 1,000 hours, practices his poses all the time. He’s a natural. Like the all-time greats, when he’s on his game, the captions just write themselves.

You think this is impressive? He knitted the goddamn scarf himself.

All he needs is representation. But in the cutthroat, big business world of cat calendars, it’s all who you know, evidently.

And Viktor’s not one to kiss anyone’s ass to climb the ladder of success. Not interested in playing The Game. He does not truck with The Machine. He is a master of the long game. I think he knows that once he subjects the universe to his will and reigns supreme over time, space and dimension, he can, you know, get some head shots taken … shop ‘em around, etc.

That’s probably the biggest thing that I’ve learned from him. 

Never give up on your dreams. 

Sincerely, 



T.G.W.T.A.H.C.

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