Penis the Dog and the Ghost Cat

Who would name they’re dog ‘Penis”?
I’ll tell ya who- my neighbor. They live just above me, through the trees, so normally I hear more than I see. I know this…they have two dogs. One is named Jake-a dogley sorta name. You know the other one.
Later mid-life has changed my habits a lot, especially my sleeping schedule. I used to sleep like a normal person, going to bed at 10 or 11pm and awake at 6 or 7am. Not anymore. Now it’s asleep at 10pm and up at 2am…then sleep again until 4am.
I like going out on my front porch in the early, quiet morning, listening to nothing in particular while having my first cup of morning Joe. It was this very scenario that I found myself in when I first heard that name.
The couple next door always let the dogs out at night to run and ramble, not an unusual thing in this very rural setting. Since there isn’t much traffic on the roads around here the animals are relatively safe from human harm. And they don’t cause any damage in the hood as everyone locks down the trash cans to keep the raccoons at bay.
The male half of the neighbors would usually be out around 5:30, calling the dogs back in for the morning meal before the couple left for work. I had gotten familiar with the sudden sound of the front door of their small trailer opening, followed by the man yelling at the top of his lungs “Jake…P…come on boys”. Although it always shattered my early morning serenity, I dealt with the short intrusion with no ill effects. Then came the morning that rocked my world.
I’m sitting in my porch chair, a cushioned Adirondack chair that my butt really sits well in, wearing only my wooly robe. There’s a chill in the air as autumn is finally upon us and football is in full swing. I take my first sip of delicious, hot coffee and I hear the neighbor’s door swing open. Expecting the usual, I brace myself for the air-splitting sound of a male voice. Instead I hear a shrill, almost siren-like yell – “Jake!” “Penis!”
The dogs didn’t respond fast enough for her so again - “Jake!” “Penis!”
I didn’t really know what to think. Checking my robe to make sure I wasn’t accidentally ‘open’, I sat dumbfounded. I listened carefully to make sure I didn’t imagine what I had just heard. She screams again, this time calling for dog number two – “PENIS!!!”
I had to yell back – “Jeez lady…keep it in the bedroom!”
Well, what would you do?
While we’re on the subject of animals in a rural setting, we have been cursed with a ghost cat. Back in the heat of the summer I discovered a white Siamese cat about 40 feet up a tree in my yard. For five days this poor feline braved 105 degree weather with no food or water while perched on this lofty branch. I tried everything I could think of to get the poor thing to come down from the tree. I sat out food near the tree…the neighbor’s dogs loved it. I moved the pickup truck to the tree, placed a 16 ft. ladder in the bed and tried, to no avail, to reach the cat. This setup left me about 15 ft. under the cat. I then rounded up a couple of 8 ft. poles, taped them together to form a 15 ft. pole and tried to prod the cat from her perch. She hung on for dear life to the limb, leaving me out of ideas. I called the fire department – (didn’t I read a story somewhere called “Fireman-Save My Cat”?) only to be transferred to the animal control office. “She’ll come down when she gets hungry” was the reply from this office. By then, my brother had stopped by, so I enlisted his help with my quest. I attached a bucket to the long pole that I had fashioned and moved it up the tree while Brother Gary secured the ladder. Gary’s observation was “what the hell do you think the cat is going to do with the bucket?” “Hopefully, she’ll crawl into the bucket and I can then lower her down”, I replied. “Well, maybe you should put a note in the bucket so the cat will know what to do”, says the brother.
Of course, this brought me to the realization that this was a futile attempt which depended on the cat’s knowledge of engineering and escape opportunities. Our final attempt was to hopefully scare the cat down. I setup my pressure washer, turned it to low and directed the spray at the poor thing. She lapped away at the water that was pelting her, but stayed in the tree. It was decided to take the advice of the animal control guy and just let her make her way down on her own.
Two days later, I heard no more ‘meowing’ coming from the tree, but instead the sound emanated from beneath the deck. The poor cat was emaciated from not eating for days, so I fed her a hearty helping of cat food courtesy of Gomez. Bad move – now she thinks that she lives here. Not having room for another cat, I took her to the animal shelter – knowing these guys could find a good home for this lovely cat. Problem solved, right?
A week later, late one night Laura looks out the glass door and sees a ghostly figure shaped like a cat. “She’s back”, Laura says…”the white cat is back”. “Impossible”, I mutter, since I had personally escorted her to the shelter. She is back. I’m not really sure how this happened…did she stage and execute the great escape? Did another cat slip her a file in a cat cake? Did she morph into a mouse, slide between the bars and re-animate as a cat again? All I really know is that she is now on the deck again, purring and meowing that she now resides here, has formally announced her change of address to her feline friends and stares at us through the window, her eyes somehow saying to us “you’re mine now…you’re both mine”!

September 18, 1976

September 18, 1976.
I am nervous as a whore in church. Matter of fact, I'm in a church. I'm standing at the front of said church with my dad. He is known affectionately as a 'best man' and the years have proven this true. Just minutes before, I was standing in a small room adjacent to the front of the church with my 'best man' and a minister. I was hearing the best man make an offer: "Son, if you don't get married now, I'll buy you a car...any car you want". Thoughts of a flashy new Corvette crossed my mind. I saw myself sitting in the sleek, leather seat. The wheel in my leather-gloved hands, I was driving very fast - driving away from the church. Next to me in the other leather seat was my beloved almost - bride. She was wearing her bridal gown, her veil blowing in the wind. She was crying.
"That's our cue...we need to go out now". The minister's words snapped me out of my daydream and I said to my father "I love her dad...I want to marry her". He wrapped those steel arms around me and said "okay son, I had to be sure. I love you boy".
Standing at the front of the church, I'm looking out over a sea of faces, some I had known for a few months, some I had known all my life. There were uncles and aunts, friends and co-workers, band mates - stoned off their asses on acid, old school mates - stoned off their asses on marijuana. I looked to the familiar faces of some of my closest cronies for a hint of support, the return look was one of stoned acceptance, as if they were thinking "I can't wait for the reception...I'm munching!".
I see my grandmothers sitting in the second row. Just a few years ago I was in awe of these women, their faces wrinkled, their eyes smiling. I wonder what they're thinking. Are they proud of me?
To my left I see my mom. She is sitting on the front row, dressed to kill - a suspicious look in her eye. She was never in favor of this - I was too young and it would never last, she had told me over and over again. I wondered if she might be right.
To my right I see my new in-laws to be. Laura's mom is wearing a big, floppy hat, as was the custom in the seventies. Two of three of Laura's younger siblings sit next to her, clearly wishing that they were anywhere else.
The music changes and down the aisle comes the bridesmaids. Laura's friends are lovely in their long dresses made especially for the occasion. Followed quickly by the groomsmen, my brothers, brother in law and an old friend (and co-author of this blog). They look as bleary-eyed as me, after a long night of bachelor-partying.
Everyone takes their place as the door to the vestibule closes - then reopens. And there she stands on the arm of her father. As the music changes once again, she starts down the aisle, hesitates, starts again...'what the fuck?" I think as she finally moves toward me. I later learned that she was so nervous that her dad had to drag her down the aisle. Thoughts of a new 'vette faded as she took her place beside me and the preacher asked everyone to be seated.
That was 34 years ago today.
Through the years we have survived parenthood, indiscretions, arguments, fights, separation, loss of friends and parents, and the heart-wrenching loss of our beloved daughter.
Through the years we have also shared the joys of friends and family, the great times at reunions and partys, the pride of seeing our children grow and become wonderful adults, and along the way we've shared a laugh or two.
Now, we are grandparents, watching little Fiona grow, take her first steps and share her first words.
Was my mom right? Will this marriage last?
We'll check in again in another 34 years and see, shall we?

Gomez

Gomez

A little about Gomez, the family cat.
Gomez was born with a silver ball of catnip in his mouth. The runt of the litter, Mr Go struggled at first to find the hind tit. A little encouragement, and interference from Laura, and Mr Go was happily suckling said hind tit and began to develop, growing almost as fast as the rest, but not quite evolving as he should. You see - Gomez has no hind claws, a real disadvantage in a fight or flight situation. He doesn't have all his teeth either, another disadvantage in a full blown- scratch, claw and bite altercation with man or beast. Okay, the silver ball of catnip may have been a bit tarnished but he was lucky all the same.
Gomez came into our lives while we were building the cabin. As with any rural area, Go's mom was dropped off, great with kitties, by someone who couldn't care for her (or didn't care for her). Since we were in the habit of sitting on my mom's porch during breaks in construction it was only fitting for our newly-adopted cat slut to reside in a box on the porch, a safe place to do the spitting out of the litter, when time came for that. But cat slut wanted no part of the box. When nature took it's course, cat slut spat those kitties out on Laura's foot. Gracious Laura, Mama Laura, caregiver Laura just sat there and was awed by it (growing up on a farm, first hand accounts of animal birthings were no stranger to her). Me - I nearly puked.
So Gomez, Taz, Calpernia 2 and the other cat (who shall remain nameless) came into this world and were universally loved and cared for. Lucky them!
We chose Gomez, or he chose us because of two things- I have always been one for the underdog, and Gomez, clearly behind in the race, was already my favorite. The second thing was an incident which squarely put Gomez in the lead as far as I was concerned. The incident went as follows:
We were working in the cabin framing the interior walls, all the kittens had been moved here by their slut mom, and they were all sleeping peacefully amidst the noise of construction, all laying at the foot of the air compressor. The air compressor kicks on (and it made a hell of a noise) - slut mama cat and all the kittens scattered to the winds in a flash...except for one. Mr Gomez lazily lifted his tiny head, yawned and lay back down for some well-deserved shuteye. As soon as the compressor cycled off I told Gary and Laura that Go was our new pet. Mr Go...Meesa Go...Mr Gomezio! My buddy!!
Time goosesteps on and Gomez made his new home our new home. After we moved in with him in late 2006, he was a bouncing kitty, playing with Laura's yarn, chasing imaginary critters through the yard, and training us to be good stewards of the cat. He liked the way we talked, we liked the way he mewed, we got along pretty well, I reckon. Mmm hmm.
As he grew, he became more and more adventurous, despite his not-so-obvious birth defects. He chased real varmints, small though they were, across the yard and ended the chase by scurrying up the nearest small tree, looking like a wildcat. Unfortunately, because of the missing hind claws Mr Go couldn't stay up the tree for long...except for one morning...(dreamy flashback sequence here).
Go is scared shitless of lightning. One cloudy morning, as the storm clouds blew in, a sudden crack of thunder and flash of lightning upset the Go's world. Why he headed for the cedar tree I'll never know. Take a picture of this:
6:30am. I'm on a 16 ft. ladder in a 30 ft. cedar tree, shirtless, no belt on my pants, trying to rescue poor Mr Gomez. If he could come down to the limb below then I could reach him, but he seems to like it just fine right where he sits.
Another crack of thunder and I'm just about ready to let him sit in the tree, if that's truly where he wanted to be.
Then the rain starts. Heavy rain. Hard rain! Bad for me, but worse for Gomez as he begins slipping on the now wet limb. As he falls towards me, I let go of my pants (yes... holding them up because of the no-belt thing).
As I grab Gomez, my pants fall to my ankles, he's pissed and scared by the whole turn of events and starts clawing away at my bare chest. Lucky for me I only received half the agony because of the missing claws.
Gomez securely in hand, I pulled up my pants as best I could, scampered down the ladder, looked around to make sure no one saw the whole thing, or part of the thing, and ran to the house.

He was named after Gomez Adams, after the Adams Family TV show patriarch. His most recent moniker is "Meesa Go", spoken with an oriental flavor. I was on the phone with a bill collector, who was trying to convince me that I had missed a mortgage payment of which I had proof that I had made, and the conversation went on and on. Meanwhile, Gomez was darting in and out and around my feet, making it difficult to walk. The oriental lady was getting on my last nerve, Gomez was busy trying to trip me- I don't know what came over me but in my best oriental voice I shouted out "Meesa Go". The lady on the phone replies "No Meesa Go...meesa payment!" From that moment on...

The missing teeth and hind claws were brought to our attention by our vet, who assured us that he would be a great house cat, but not so great at security detail. And by security I mean the annual blue jays nesting in the tree right in front of the porch and the protection of pedestrians as they wander under or near the tree. Do not count on Mr Go to to come to your rescue. Blue Jays are notorious for protecting their area, and they dive on and peck the heads of anyone who comes too near the nest. Mr Gomez had a curious, but painful fascination with the jays. He got too near, they dove in and pecked his little head, he hit the ground as if someone had just yelled "grenade!", and they laid in on him like the peckerhead he can sometimes be. The first couple of years saw him blindly making his way into the house, head all scarred and bleeding from the vicious attacks, to find a place in the corner to 'sleep it off'.
By the third year, Gomez had grown into a handsome young fellow. Laid back, reasonably undemanding, he took to his neutering like he had been born nutless. I remember the day he got his balls back. Spring morning, Gomez is chilling on the back deck, I'm there in my chair having my morning cup of joe, the birds are singing and flying onto the deck bannister for a seed breakfast. A small bird takes a wrong turn, swoops a little low as he corrects his heading, and in one fell swoop Gomez leaps and comes down on that poor bird like Shaq making a mighty dunk. In a story as old as prostitution, down comes Gomez with bird in paw, slams it to the deck and claims it as 'his kill'. Yes son...you're a man now!
After that incident, he learned how to deal with the blue jay situation. Now, instead of hitting the dirt when they attack, he runs as fast as his little paws will carry him...across the yard to the porch...where he lies, looking up at the jays as if to say...'one day, my friend...one day!'

So, it's back in with the old. I wrote this last year as the new year dawned. Hope you enjoy the music from Casting Crowns.

It's out with the old and in with the new. Yeah you're gonna lose that 20 pounds this year. You gonna start that novel that 's been rattling around your head all of your adult life . You gonna start looking forward and stop looking backward. Pray more. Laugh more; frown less. You're going to...change. And not a phony baloney Obamassiah kind of change, but instead, the real McCoy. An actual brunette to blond, fat to muscle metamorphosis. You've given up on Poe and you've adopted Sam Clements. Or maybe the other way around. In any event, another year has flown by. With the new year you sense something big on the horizon. Something life altering. For you? For all of us? You pray that we'll all still be here healthy, happy and making the same tired and unfulfilled resolutions this time next year. You take inventory of your life and realize with profound reverence that life is good and that, despite your moments of doubt, the mercy and grace of God is enough to sustain you. Regardless of kings, queens or tyrants.



Happy New Year Blogosphere!