An edited repost for what would have been Charlie's 36th birthday.

 

For my 8^th birthday, my father brought home a little black cat. We named her Familiar (we kids were all into witch craft then). Familiar was pretty, sweet, and very smart. Like most of our animals, she grew very attached to my mother.

 

Before we could get her spayed, she left the house. She stayed out overnight. A husky grey tiger-striped male cat walked her home (my mom nicknamed him Charles Atlas, after the body builder). We soon found out that Familiar was pregnant.

 

She gave birth in the middle of the night, next to my mom, who had fallen asleep on the couch. She had three kittens, the first of which was a grey tiger-striped boy with a pink nose. We named him Charles Atlas after his dad. The other two did not resemble Charles Atlas at all; one was sleek and black like their mom, the other was a brown tabby.

 

Of the three, we kept Charlie because he liked my father, and that was unusual (my dad loved animals, but they didn’t always return the feelings). We found good homes for the other two.

 

Later that year, my father killed himself. August 14^th, 1976.

 

My mother, my younger brother and I went directly from the police station to my grandmother’s house. We spent the night there.

 

I am sure I do not need to tell you how dazed we were, what kind of a mess we all were. When we got home the next morning, Familiar, Charlie, and our dog, Bullet met us at the door and they gave us some comfort, knowingly or not.

 

I began sleeping with my arm wrapped around Charlie.

 

As years went by, Familiar went to live with my oldest brother and his then-wife (a/k/a “That Whore”, “The Bitch”, and “The Woman He’ll Eventually Go To Prison for Killing”). Bullet ran away the day we moved in with Grandma; we never saw him again.

 

Charlie became an outdoor cat. My mother figured it was safe for him to go out and play, now that we did not live on a busy city street.

 

As it turned out, Charlie was the only male cat in our neighbourhood that was not neutered. As my mom put it, “he propagated the neighbourhood”. Female felines flocked to our yard.

 

This did not only result in hundreds of grey tiger-striped kittens with pink noses. It also ended up costing us a lot of money. Charlie was exhausted all of the time and had to be treated for scratches and bites, almost on a weekly basis. Once the vet extracted a female cat’s tooth from Charlie’s neck, my mom said, “Enough, already,” and had him neutered.

 

Charles the Neutered was basically the same cat as far as humans went. He was still playful with us, and as affectionate as ever.

 

But Charlie did something I had never seen or heard of a cat doing before: Charlie got married!

 

Someone new moved in up the hill, a young family. They had a sweet fluffy little all-white cat named Polly.

 

Polly would come by every afternoon and scratch at the storm door. My mom would get up and open the inside door, see Polly sitting on the front step, and call Charlie. He would pad out to the front door and he and Polly would exchange a few meows before my mom let him out. Sometimes we would watch them walk off together, side-by-side, kind of bumping into one another a little as they walked down the street.

 

We would hear from neighbours about how they saw the couple walking along the beach, pestering the fishermen on the pier (Charlie was known to steal from them), and hanging out at the golf course. There were certain houses they’d visit, sometimes just for a quick hello scratch behind the ears, sometimes to lay out and work on their tans.

 

Charlie began bringing Polly home with him and sharing his food with her: cats don’t typically share their food, especially male cats. So we all decided it must be love.

 

Other female cats still came around, but Charlie yawned, disinterested, while Polly ran them off.

 

Polly’s owner/”daddy” would often come to our house looking for her. If the two were out for the day, we’d tell him which direction they’d gone off to. Usually he’d just say, “Well, just send Polly home when they get back,” and we would.

 

When I was about 17, I had a boyfriend who wanted to go to the beach one summer afternoon. He drove over to my house and we walked down the road. We got to the beach and began looking for a good spot. I remember thinking it was kind of crowded for a weekday. We noticed a clump of people down closer to the water, like they were gathered, watching something. We walked down to see.

 

There was Charlie with his Polly, curled up together on someone’s towel. Everyone was “awww”ing and making silly little jokes about true love. My boyfriend said, “Hey, isn’t that your cat?”

 

And suddenly, I was popular. Everyone wanted to know his name, her name, were they BOTH mine… It was funny.

 

We put our towel down next to “theirs” and ended up on a double date.

 

Charlie had a reputation in our neighbourhood as a dog-butt-kicker. I never believed that until I saw it for myself, because I had only seen him around dogs that he liked, apparently.

 

One of our neighbours had a Siberian Husky named Nikki, a great big beautiful dog. Nikki was always ripping her chain out of the ground and taking off. One day she decided to walk onto our property. Charlie had been napping in the sun on our front walk. My mother and I sat watching from the picture window as Charlie got up, yawned, stretched. Walked up to Nikki with a kind of slow swagger, like he was going to give that dog a piece of his mind.

 

He didn’t make a sound as he hopped up onto his hind legs and laid the smack down on Nikki. She whimpered and backed away. From that day on, whenever that dog broke free, she would cross the road to go past our house.

 

Charlie was a thief. He stole large amounts of pot and hash from Brother #3. He didn’t sell it, though. Charlie liked to get high and give my brother a good workout, running from room to room. Whenever I heard Brother #3 yell, “Hey! Give that back to me!” I knew he was chasing the cat.

 

The fishermen at the pier wanted Charlie, dead or alive.

 

One day, I walked down to the beach with a friend. As we walked over the wooden slats onto the sand, we could hear one the men at the pier yelling. It sounded like gibberish at first (we even thought maybe a shark had been sighted), but as we got closer, we heard, “Stop that fucking caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat! Sumbitch took another fish, dammmmmmmit!!!”

 

And then I saw my Charlie, that big, brawny, grey tiger-striped cat, with a HUGE fish in his mouth, soaking wet, running like the devil was after him.

 

Two fishermen chased him while my friend and I yelled, “Run, Charlie! Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!” and blocked the two guys (I was really afraid they would hurt him).

 

Charlie was a member of our family. My younger brother and I often referred to him as our youngest brother. He loved to play with us, and he enjoyed conning us (at one point, we discovered that Charlie was having about three breakfasts a day). He was with me on nights when I cried myself to sleep (and there were TONS of those back then!). He knew all of my secrets. I suspect he knew every secret of my family.

 

I was at work the day he was euthanized. I had a feeling that something was wrong with him the last time I had seen him (I was no longer living at home at that point). His “new” fur hadn’t come in and it was already November.  He had feline leukemia (this was back when they knew next to nothing about it).

 

My brothers did not tell me they were taking him to the vet’s that day to have him put to sleep; they had not told me he had Leukemia. They (Brothers #1, #3 and #4… #2 was already living in Florida by then) brought him down together and they got to say good-bye. I did not get to say good-bye. They called me afterward. Part of me is still angry and sad about that.

 

Because he was Familiar’s son, and Familiar was the last birthday present I ever got from my father (and I never got to say good-bye to him, either), losing Charlie hit me harder than the loss of any other pet, before or since. Charlie had sort of been a last piece of something connecting me to my dad.

 

His ashes, along with those of Nappy and Puddin (the brother and sister kitty act that came to my mother’s house a few years later) are buried with my mother’s ashes, per her request.

 

Sometimes Sam does something Charlie-like; he steals something or sits in front of the fridge praying to the god of milk until someone opens the door… or sometimes, I see something Charlie-esque in the way he plays or the way he climbs into the crook of my arm when I go to sleep, or the way he gives me Eskimo kisses.

 

It makes me smile.

My first pictures with my "new" camera.

I have been nominated for some sort of stylish blogger award by @adventofreason, @storyslut and @doahsdeer. I am not sure what I've done to deserve these nominations. I think perhaps there's some kind of sickness going on. I'll have to send them some homemade chicken matzoh ball soup or something.

I'm supposed to tell you seven things about myself, and then nominate five lucky bloggers for this stylish blogger award. Hopefully, by the time I am done writing this, I can figure out five folks who haven't already posted their seven things and five nominations.

1. I want to be a real live published author when I grow up. I've started a bunch of novels, but haven't really finished any of them. I start to get scared at some point in writing. Afraid to finish. Working on that, though. I mean, you kind of have to finish writing the book in order to get the book published, so I am doing my best to face my fears. And grow up already.

2. I don't know if I am REALLY Obssessive Compulsive, but I have a certain way of doing little things, and if they aren't done "the right way" (um, MY way), I get a little unnerved. I won't say that I freak out or anything (not really),  but I will tell you that my husband now lets me put the groceries on the belt in the "right" order (MY order), to avoid conflict. I have to brush my teeth in a certain order (left top outside, right top outside, left bottom outside, right bottom outside, and then the insides, same order) and swish the Listerine in my mouth a certain number of times (thirty-three). When I put on my socks and shoes, it's right sock, right shoe, left sock, left shoe. Until recently, when I wrote a piece, it was notes, two drafts, re-write, proof, cigarette, re-read, re-proof, cigarette, reread, polish, post. My computer has been acting kind of weird lately, so I have been just using the Xanga editor and not writing my posts in Word and then copying and pasting... so I guess I'm breaking some kind of chain. Well, sort of. I'm still doing a LOT of rereading and re-writing.

3. Part of the reason that I stopped posting a lot for so long was that I officially converted to Catholocism this past Easter, and I don't write much on religion here. I may write about my journey someday (and they don't call it a "journey" for nothing), but I probably will not post it here.

4. Ken and I have been married for 8-1/2 years, living together for 13-1/2. There have been good times and bad times, mostly good. We are still in love and plan on doing it all over again, either on this next anniversary (May 10, 2012) or for our 10th anniversary. This time around, I think that The Sam will be Ken's best man.

5. I have a best friend. Aside from my marriage, my relationship with Jeanne has been the most important one in my life. We've known each other since 1983, we have been through a LOT together, and we have learned a lot from one another. Jeanne not only knows where all of the bodies are buried; she helped me put them there!

6. I have four brothers and no sisters. I used to wish for a sister, but you know what? My brothers may have driven me crazy (and still do!), but they protected me (and still do!), and taught me how to ride a bike, swim, play softball, bait a hook, defend myself... and, God bless them, they've given me a LOT of material for stories. I love them.

7. The Sam gets really spooked by thunder and lightning. One morning, a few months ago, there was a really loud bit of thunder. It woke me up, and I immediately called the kennel. I didn't expect anyone to be there, but the owner answered the phone. I told him I was worried about The Sam because of the thunder. He laughed and told me, "Oh, HE's alright. {two girls that work there} were scared. Sam's comforting them." I think he was just acting; he didn't want to look like a wuss in front of his women. But in that moment, I was jealous of those girls. I miss my cat very much, and cannot wait until we are all together again (It won't be TOO much longer now!).

Okay. Now to find five people to nominate...

I hereby nominate:

@flatpick46

@Grannys_Place

@starmanjones

@jessicafleur

@murisopsis

On Saturdays, the kennel closes to the public at 11AM, so we get there as early as possible. Today, we got there just before 9AM. There was only one car parked out front, and it belonged to one of the girls who works there (She is sort of new and I cannot remember her name). That was unusual. It's usually crazy-busy on Saturdays, with a lot of folks picking up and dropping off their pets.

We opened the door, and Newish Girl and the owner were chatting in the reception area.

"Good morning," I said.

Newish Girl giggled. "Oh, The Sam is already out and about."

"I think he's in his spot by the dryer," the owner added.

Ken and I smiled at one another. There is something in their voices when they talk about our cat; a softness. They like him a lot. It makes my husband and I extra happy that we chose this kennel. 

We walked into the next room, where the animals are bathed and otherwise groomed, and the laundry and dishes are done. The Sam likes to sit on the fuzzy little rug, right next to the dryer, whenever the dryer is running. It's kind of loud, and he doesn't like loud noises, but it is really warm, too, and The Sam is a kitty who likes a warm space. Also, the rug is underneath the grooming table, so it is a hideaway for The Sam. He especially likes that feature when there are dogs roaming back and forth.

"Hiya, Handsome," I half sang, happy to see his chubby little gray and white face peering up at me. He meowed back and stepped out from his warm-and-comfy hiding spot. After he gave my hand a headbutt, he lifted his front paws toward Ken: Pick me up, Daddy.

My husband picked him up. Loud purring ensued. We squished him and petted him until he had enough: The Sam squirms when he's done being squished. Ken let him down onto the floor. The Sam then led us to the back door and meowed to be let out into the doggy play yards. We looked outside first to make sure there were no loose dogs (most of them like The Sam, but there are some that only like cats for eating). Empty. Ken opened the door. Our little lion stepped out into the sunshine.

We spent the next half hour exploring every blade of grass, every fallen leaf, every patch of mud, every puddle, and every little rock in all of the back play yards. There are four separate yards in the back. The Sam's routine is to secure the perimeter of each one, and then gum his favourite patch of tall grass in each one. Each time he leaves one yard, he comes out and rubs against our legs before moving on to the next yard. We're his.

He took his time today, and explored each yard twice. It was sunny and not too cold, and none of the dogs were out, so it was quiet. Finally, The Sam stretched, yawned, and walked to the door to be let in. Ken opened the door. The Sam stepped inside, paused on the mat and wiped his paws. I had never seen him do that before, and it tickled me.

Newish girl was standing just inside and saw me chuckling. "Oh, yeah." She said. "He's always so neat. I wish the dogs did that!"

The Sam trotted past Newish Girl, into the reception area. A second later, I knew why: Katie had come in to work.

The Sam loves Katie. She brings him outside to play. She gives him a warm towel, fresh from the dryer. She brushes him on her breaks. Katie shares her tuna salad sandwiches.

"Sam-Sam!" she said, holding her arms out to him. Yeah. She calls him Sam-Sam. The Sam lifted his front paws to her. Pick me up, Katie.

Yup. He loves her. She picked him up and he headbutted her chin. Hard. She giggled. Loud purring ensued.

We stayed another hour and a half or so. The Sam went from my lap to Ken's and back, getting brushed and petted. Whenever Katie walked by, he'd run up to her for a quick cuddle or pat on the head.

They keep his kitty condo very clean, but I always do a quick cleanup before we leave. I get him fresh water, fresh dry food, clean off his towel, and clean out his litter box if necessary. It is something that I do more for me than anyone else; it keeps me feeling like The Sam's mommy. While Ken and The Sam went for one last nature walk, I did my little cleanup thing. Katie came in and we chatted for a while.

We talk about all sorts of things, but mostly, we talk about my cat. Today, Katie and I talked about how nice and sunny it was this morning, and how there were no dogs out and no other cats at the kennel because the business always slows down this time of year. We talked about The Sam, how Katie likes to take him out of his condo in the mornings when she comes in, and how he follows her around. How he sits out in the reception area and "helps" her sign other animals in. How he is good company.

I mentioned how I was excited. "It won't be too much longer now, and we'll be together again."

"Yeah", her voice changed. "You must be really psyched."

I felt a lump in my throat. Oh, my goodness. Is she going to cry? "Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm sorry," Katie said. "It's just... I'm going to miss him so much when he goes home!"

I promised to bring him for visits.

Gee, I thought on the way home, and she isn't even a cat person.
 
The power of The Sam knows no bounds.

Flying Burrito Brothers!