The Whimsical, Continuing Adventures of Murder Cat

It has been awhile since I mentioned Murder Cat. For those who haven't read, Murder Cat is a feral cat that was holding me captive in my house. Every time I walked outside my house, Murder Cat would attack my feet and try to eat me. Over time, his routine became tedious to me and I was tired of cowering behind the couch.. so I decided to feed him. He became much more pleasant to be around after that and I didn't have to budget near as much money for band-aids.

Last night I heard some strange sounds outside so I got up to see what was going on. I was specifically wondering if Murder Cat, was indeed, back to murdering something. After looking around for a few seconds, I spotted him across the street in the cemetery. He saw me too and came running to me across the busy four lane avenue. He then came to a dead stop in the middle of said street, sat down and proceeded to lick himself. When he sauntered up to me I told him that grooming simply wasn't that important and that whatever he was doing over in the cemetery wasn't any of my business but to leave my Mother alone.



The above picture is of Murder Cat attacking a menacing brick that was apparently taunting him. Murder Cat does not suffer fools, bricks, blades of grass, gust of wind, or any other objects tangible or intangible..lightly.

When Your Dad Starts to Spoil

I think my 83 year old dad is starting to spoil. I can smell him from 5 foot away. I do all the cooking and cleaning for him, well..I cook. I gotta admit I stink at cleaning, but I've never had to clean HIM up.. yet. I'm sure that day is coming but I'm pretty convinced that he would rather drop dead than have me bathe him.. No offense to him but I think I might prefer that too. It's a guy thing. Anywhoo... I'm smellin some stale tail goin on. Now the strange part. I've never known my dad to take a shower or bath during my lifetime...ever. He has always taken spit baths at the bathroom sink. I have never asked him why he does that and I have a sneaking suspicion that if I tried to put him in the tub now it would be akin to doing the same to a wild alley cat. Anyway, point is.. he smells.

I asked him if he had any clean clothes and he replied "Yup, I was gonna change-em a couple weeks ago but haven't had time". Yeah.. ha ha dad. Short of getting him to go out in the back yard and ambushing him with a bucket of bleach and a water hose, I'm not sure what to do. I suppose I could stick a can of Fabreeze in his pants, pull the trigger and run but he might think he's done pooped himself. I'd also rather not have to sleep with one eye open for the next few years. I say years because trust me, he wouldn't forget it. Memory like an Elephant, that one.

He did take a shower once. He was in the hospital after a stoke and the nurse was in the shower with him to help. She was dressed in some sort of getup that I'm sure was
to keep her dry but looked more like they had called Haz-mat in to control the toxic run-off.

Oh well. Its a bridge we will cross when we come to it, trouble is, after I cross that bridge I may have to keep running.

Feral Cats Are Trying To Kill Me.

So.. I go outside the other night and one of the feral cats that my dear sweet neighbor feeds is on my front porch. She starts looking straight at my toes like she is about to perform a science experiment... her almond shaped pupils fixed, reminding me of a corpse on a TV crime show. I decide to wiggle them a bit.. my mistake. She pounces and starts gnawing like a teething infant with 'roid rage.

I let out a tiny little yelp that startles the cat and brings the next door neighbors running outside with boxes of food and water. They scream at me they heard the siren and I should follow them to the storm shelter. I gently reassured them that it was only me and informed them of the cat attack and to go back inside. The mother pulled her children closer to them and looked at me with disdain and an arched eyebrow. The cats have run away, no doubt to gather the troops and plan another reconnaissance mission.

Anyway, I go back outside to get the morning paper for my elderly dad and TWO of the assailants start to attack. One tries to trip me up while the original culprit starts to attack my toes again. She is out for blood like a jilted at the alter, never married before middle aged woman. I am able to safely get back inside but not before the miniature assassin got in a few good bites to get to the chewy nougat center of my big toe.

I'm not sure what to do at this point. It's illegal to feed stray animals in my city yet, I'd rather not be the subject of a documentary on Animal Planet. Should I go ahead and feed them? Should I call the city to come pick them up and break the next door neighbors heart? Should I go with carpet or tile in my living room?

Starting a Diet

Today, I shall start a diet, oops, I mean a lifestyle change. We mustn't call it a diet. The word diet has bad connotations connected with it. Why? Well, I for one remember when Weight Watchers first came on the scene. It was extremely limited in what you could eat. Most of the menus had hay and tree bark as a staple. Now I don't have anything against WW at all. I'd be on it if I could afford the extra money and will no doubt use some of the recipes. However, when my mother first started the meetings I recollect a few of the recipes she used. One particular memory was when she made hamburgers.. only instead of hers being nestled in the confines of a lovely toasted bun..she had it wrapped in lettuce leaves with a sliced tomato and a bit of mustard inside. She actually was ahead of her time because these day you pay MORE for lettuce wrapped food.
I don't know if you've ever tried this concoction but tomato pulp is kinda slippery, combined with the mustard, the meat patty kept slipping out of the lettuce "bun" and falling on the floor with every bite. Sorta like the patty knew this was a grievous error in hamburger etiquette and was making an escape attempt in a culinary equivalent of a child's slip-n-slide. My father, brother and me, being the supportive family that we were, laughed our heads off every time it happened. After a few more bites and picking the meat off the floor for the umpteenth time. She burst into tears and fled the room. I realize now that the Weight Watchers recipe was PLANNED that way and was really going for the exercise aspect people would get while bending over multiple times to pick up the patty and then running away. The tears were extra.

Another recipe she would force us to eat was cheese toast with low fat cheddar cheese. This had to be the most ungodly food creation ever invented next to powdered milk but if SHE was on the diet, WE would be too. She wasn't going to suffer alone by golly and I'm sure she was thinking that if we were eating the same meals, we couldn't make fun of her. She severely underestimated the cruelty quotient of young boys. You see, we were the kind of children who invented ways to irritate her. Like the time we declared medieval war on our father and made our spoons into tiny trebuchets to launch green peas on him while he was sleeping on the couch. Our true goal was not to exasperate our mother but to get our dog to jump up on top of our father in order to eat the tiny green treats. We figured we could be gone by the time he woke up, realized what was going on and that the evidence would already be disposed of by way the dogs digestive tract. The only problem was that the dog was a bit pickier than we anticipated and came to the conclusion that she could live without green peas... but not until after she made that first fateful leap onto his face. We spent the first 5 minutes trying to out run my fathers swinging belt and the next hour picking up our little projectiles.

But back to the cheese toast.. thank God it didn't last long. The final straw was when Weight Watchers apparently conspired with the Hemlock Society to enhance the toast recipe into individual pizzas made with tomato paste and more of that low fat cheddar cheese on white bread. Tomato paste is ok in its own right. Any number of recipes can be made into a delectable feast with it. Smeared on white bread by itself is like eating concentrated ketchup. It's evil. With every bite you could hear Satan chuckle for he knew the diet would soon be over and you'd die of a heart attack sooner. The joke is on him because if the future included cheese toast you'd welcome that death with open arms.

I shall leap into my new lifestyle change with glee... but there sure as heck ain't gonna be any cheese toast anywhere near me.

Should I Invite Her to Dinner?

Lynette "Squeeky" Fromm has been released from prison. The prison is only about 15 minutes from my house. Should I invite her to dinner to be neighborly?

Now if you all remember your history, You'd know that Miz Fromme was one of Charles Mansons girlfriends way back a long time ago. What is the proper way to interact with someone who tried to assassinate a president? Just ain't all that easy to answer.

Now I'm sure Miz Lynette is just about starved for some homecookin. After all, the stuff they serve in the joint ain't about to make 'Bon Appetit' any time soon. I just wanna be real dang careful not to upset the woman. I mean.. If I serve mashed potatoes is she gonna start digging through it with her fingers lookin for ground up glass? If I use real cutlery, will she commence to start carvin' another X into her forehead at the dining room table?

Should I serve Wine with dinner? Should I do like prisoners do and make the wine in the toilet to make her feel at home? Lord knows the girl is gonna feel out of place for awhile. Maybe I'll just fill the toilet with ice and chill the bottle in there.. yup.. that'll have to do.

Well, we will see if she will come by, She's gonna be in the neighborhood I'm sure and it would be downright rude if I don't at least ask her. I'll let you know how it goes.

P.S. I'll just be sure to leave some Murphys oil soap in the cabinet above the wall oven just in case she tries to write "Helter Skelter" on the walls with the pickled beets.. or something...

Letting go of your childhood. In Memory Of Gary.

I went to see Gary today. I went to tell him I loved him and.. to tell him goodbye. Gary has been my neighbor for 47 years. We have known each other from birth. Our parents moved next to each other before we were born, our houses shared a backyard fence. When Gary's parents were coming out of the hospital from giving birth to him, my parents were going into the same hospital to have me, they met on the elevator.

I have no childhood memories that do not include Gary. We were almost always together. Our own little Rat Pack. We played almost everyday and then began kindergarten when we were old enough. We got in our share of arguments and fights, but always made up. We got in trouble together on many occasions. We did some really stupid things which I won't get into because I'm still not sure the statute of limitations are over. We had some mischievous times too. Like throwing water balloons at cars from the cemetery at night. It had many trees that blocked the moons rays, purposing it to be the perfect hideout when the owners of those cars stopped, the goal of ripping our sweet little innocent heads off foremost on their minds.

His parents almost sold their house once. I saw the "for sale" sign in the front yard and I panicked. I went home and prayed it would not sell so Gary would not move away. He was my only friend at the time. It didn't sell and he stayed. Things that could have torn other young friendships apart, didn't. Gary's German Shepherd, Sam, jumped our fence and bit a huge hunk of skin out of our Dachshund, Fritzi, and at my 6th birthday party, one of our fellow classmates decided to pretend he was a kamikaze pilot but didn't release the battle plans to Gary until after he had flown a rather large plastic jetliner into Gary's eye. Sam was very protective of Gary and looked after him like any good dog should. Gary would sometimes climb.. or should I say TRY to climb the fence into my yard. Sam, intuitively knowing that Gary was doing something terribly, horribly wrong, would run up and hook his teeth into the back of Gary's pants and start pulling, naturally to save Gary from impending doom. Gary would scream "MAMAAAAAA" knowing one of our mothers would eventually come to the rescue when there was a commercial break during their soap operas.

As what happens with a lot of childhood friends, we grew older and grew apart. Gary was into sports, I wasn't. That alone was enough to create a cavern between us. The things we had in common seemed to slip away, things that teenagers for some reason, don't realize they should hold onto. Instead, they battle the much bigger questions of wondering who they are and where they fit in, superseding everything else.

Life went on of course and years quickly flew by. Gary's mother passed away after high school as did mine later on. We felt the loss of both since they co-opted in raising us. Gary inherited his mothers house and I eventually moved back to take care of my Dad after a stroke. We were neighbors once again. We did not talk much but were always friendly towards one another when we did. Surprisingly to me, there was still a twinge of regret in my heart for the friend I lost so long ago.

In November of last year, Gary had a heart attack and was taken to the hospital. During his bypass, something went wrong and he was put on a respirator to help him breathe. I drove to the hospital to see him and was slightly taken aback by all the tubes encircling his body and bed. There were tubes in his throat, allowing him to breathe, but not talk. When he saw me, he grabbed me and pulled me close, there were tears flowing from both of us. He released my body only to grab my hand as hard as he could. He looked straight at me as if to say, "I remember".

Gary left the hospital only to go into a nursing home for rehab. Complications almost involved the installation of a revolving door as he traveled back and forth between the two. At this point he had not been home for 8 months. We talked several times over the phone. His voice, gravely and sometimes weak, made it hard to understand what he was saying at times but I chalked it up to the tiny speakers of a cell phone. Visiting him in person taught me that the cell phone was indeed working quite well and it was his consistent coughing that was the larger culprit. His thirst for a sympathetic ear was underscored by his need to be noticed, to know he had not been forgotten. I tried to make sure he wasn't.

Not only was Gary suffering from his heart procedure, He was on Dialysis for his kidneys and battled diabetes that wasn't discovered until his hospitalization. His toes had turned black from the complications. He contacted me Tuesday night. He was going to find out if he would be losing his toes or perhaps even more of his foot. He wanted prayer, he said he didn't understand why this was happening. we talked a bit longer then he told me he had to get off the phone because he was having one of his "spells". I assumed he was going to have one of the many coughing fits that filled his days. I said goodbye, not knowing it would be the last time we would ever speak.

He was found unresponsive on Wednesday morning. He never woke up. They turned off his life support at 3pm today. He passed away shortly after. I am supposing I was the last person to talk to him.

He is with Jesus now. He is resting from a difficult life and a particularly rough 8 months. I'm happy he is out of pain. Free from all the tubes and equipment that had taken over his life. I'm thankful I had the chance to be there at the end since I was there in the beginning.

Goodbye Gary. I'll see you again someday.

Memories Of Grandpa and JimTom the Soldier Dog.

My grandfather lived with my dad for the last few years of his life. On the day it was decided that "PopPop" would make the transition from his home of 40 years, he'd had the space heater going in his den on a hot summers day and the temperature inside had risen to over 100 degrees. He was found passed out on the floor. We don't know why he had the space heater running on such a hot day. Maybe Grandpa had taken up making pottery and decided to use the den as a kiln but since we didn't see any clay we decided he needed a bit of supervision. The only problem with taking grandpa home with us to live is that we had to take his 20 year old Chihuahua from hell known as "JimTom".

In dog years, JimTom was older than his owner. Those two "old men" were a lot alike. Neither could walk very well or see worth a darn but they understood each other with a type of knowing relationship war veterans might find at the local VFW. JimTom didn't do much but sit in PopPop's lap and stare at anyone who came within his line of vision. He was obviously checking to see if you were a spy.
Lord help if you decided to pet JimTom, for you would draw back a bloody nub from his one good tooth which he was amazingly accurate with. Perhaps it was a targeting skill he finely honed while storming the beach at Normandy or perhaps he was simply lucky. PopPop would call JimTom "his only friend" yet he was not immune from the "tooth of doom". I guess to JimTom, everyone was a Nazi spy. If touched in the wrong spot, which was apparently anywhere on his body, JimTom would carry out his snipers assignment to silently make the kill. Although crippled with arthritis, JimTom would draw on the memory of Pattons rousing 3rd army speech and find the inspiration to leap up and destroy the enemy hand that naively traversed his airspace.

After PopPop and JimTom came to live with us, JimToms body weakened a little more and he was unable to walk more than a few steps. Even though JimTom was in pain, it would have killed my grandfather if he were to lose his only friend so we just let him live out his days as comfortably as possible. JimTom had to be carried outside to use the restroom, a duty that required skill and if you were smart, heavy leather gloves.
The latrine call could come at anytime of day or night. He owned a high pitched siren that would sound from his bunker on the LazyBoy in the living room. You had to respond or the siren would continue and no amount of cotton placed in the ears would soften it's shrill tone. Most of the time, JimTom would have mercy on the enemy hands assisting him in his business but in reality he was lulling them into a false sense of security, gaining trust and biding his time till he could do the most damage.
PopPop passed away on a February day and we could tell JimTom immensely felt the loss. Not sure if he missed Grandpa or just the taste of blood. He slowed down even more and the decision was made to let him spend eternity with his only friend.

I couldn't watch it being done. I had to leave him alone at the vets office. I felt as though my cowardice and betrayal would eventually be punished by superior officers but JimTom would be far happier. He could go on reconnaissance missions and bite all the Nazi's his one tooth could reach. He could hoist all the Ale he wanted at the Moulin Rouge and if no one was watching, enjoy a playful moment chasing squirrels through the meadow, the constant pain gone from his legs at last. It felt as though I was losing part of my past but I knew in my heart that it was the right thing to do. He was a soldier and his dignity was gone. He needed to go out like a man.