I don't deal too well with death, even if it comes in slow and waving and gentle the way it did with my cat. As someone who has decided firmly to be immortal, the obstinate and unrelenting insistence of death is highly disconcerting. I can't ever remember having a good time where death was concerned, except for pre-conception, when I was just a small void in the big void and none of this death anxiety ever concerned me.
Here's the thing. My mom died a few years back. I didn't really like my mom very much, but my dad did, and that was important. They gave her a choice before she died. 'You can hold to your present course and die soon, or let us saw off your foot and you might buy a few months, buy a few years, or still die soon.' She chose to die. At the time this song was big on the folk station that I use to put on when every one had left the bar I was managing at the time. Now it pops into my head whenever I face a loss.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Requiem for a Boney Old Cat.
I buried my cat illegaly in a conservation area today. Tough noogies, the kids need a special place. Maybe I do too.
I spent some time hugging the kids today, hugging my wife, wiping a lot of tears.
When everybody was rational again, when they hysterics had finished I said to Janet "I'm going out for a bit." and she said "...okay." and I said "I'm not a hugger, I'm a go-er away-er." by way of explanation, which she finally understands after 11 years.
11 years incidentally, is the time that I've known the Boney Old Cat of the title, Itchy. I suppose it would be more correct to say that was the time that I knew him, past tense. Funny how that changes so fast.
I drove for a bit and decided I didn't want to drive. Now I'm low profile incognito in a coffee shop. Surrounding me is that cacophony of sound, that fluid, rippling babble of background conversation that I find so calming in coffee shops. Much like the soothing influence of a stream, but with the option of dropping in and out of the flow. I'm having an Iced Vietnamese Coffee. First time I've ever had one. A slurpee would have been better.
Itchy was a majestic cat. He stomped on the terra. Eyes like etched jade, reminisces of his sabertooth bloodline glinting when ever he cracked open his jaws to yawn.
There are cats in this world that people are immediately drawn too, cats that are cute and fluffy and adorable. Itchy, despite the cutesy moniker, was not such a cat.
Itchy danced to an inner rhythm of violence and bloodlust. His glance held the cold indifference of a great white shark before the strike. One instantly feared Itchy. He approached with confidence, moves like a jaguar, pronounced with a South American accent yet, yeah, he was that Jaguar-y. All of this predatory presence, this animal antagonism, betrayed his true nature, which was that of a kitten before it learns to scratch.
My girls were crying tonight over the loss of the oldest cat in the house, the cat I was fond of referring to as "old man" and "old dog". I told them to remember him, and learn from him the things that they could. Like to take hugs when they need them, rather than wait for one to come along. Itchy didn't wait for affection. He seized it, and when denied he persisted, and when rejected he was undaunted. No one entered our home without eventually succumbing to having this cat, part Maine Coon, part stuffed animal, part Egyptian icon pin them to our couch and nuzzle under their chins.
A girl just sat down with her friends across from me. On the back of her t-shirt it says "Class of O8 Forever Young". Well...not forever sister.
Janet came by Itchy's acquaintance when an acquaintance of hers was planning to get rid of him. He was a foundling, a little kitten that was still being bottle fed, and the person Janet got him from discovered there were allergies in the house. So Janet took him in.
We used to take Itchy for walks in the park. He'd sprint from one bush to the next, displaying that healthy sort of 'just in case' paranoia that endeared us to one another instantly.
Itchy was the shit people. He rotated through the house throughout the night, sleeping at the heads of each of us, children included at different points. He could bite and he could scratch when he wanted to. When he bit it would leave a bruise for days. When he scratched, by God you had been scratched by a claw that Siegfried and Roy could appreciate.
But he never bit the kids, never scratched them. He had an appreciation for the delicacy and fragility of childhood.
I remember the worst I was ever scratched. I had a great white Lincoln, 1979, 2 doors, a machine as long and as quick as a torpedo boat. We were moving to Edmonton, and I drove the Lincoln, with Itchy in a box. Getting him into the box had been a test. It was amazing how strong he was. He pushed so hard against the lid that I had to use body weight to overcome him. In the car he slept, until about half an hour outside of Edmonton. It started with meowing, although the connotations of 'meow' really don't do the throaty 'rowr' of Itchy justice. The box started to jump and move on the seat beside me. I put my hand on the lid trying to keep it down, and he kept throwing his weight against it, with increasing fury. One would have thought it to be a muscular chimp, or an enraged zombie dwarf in the box, rather than just a simple housecat. Finally he escaped, tearing the box to shreds, part of my arms in the process. Itchy did not like cars, even luxurious pinnacles of 70s engineering. After that he didn't like boxes either.
This is part of why tonight was so disheartening. Over the course of his illness Itchy's condition deteriorated. He grew skinnier and skinnier, weaker and weaker. This morning he had trouble walking. I said goodbye to him this morning, got down on the floor with him and gave him a scratch behind the ears. He managed a quiet purr, but it started his chest heaving. At the door I told Janet that it felt like I might not see him again. He felt the breeze from the door, and came stumbling up. He used to make a break for it whenever the door opened. Today we were going to let him out, but he just flopped down at the doorsill, his head hanging over the step, and he watched me leave.
And that was the last time I saw him alive. Janet called me at work, sobbing, partially unintelligible, "can you come home please?" and I asked "Is he gone?" and she said "yes."
So tonight I took Itchy to a beautiful spot and I buried him. I asked the kids if they wanted to help me, or if they wanted to come to the spot after I'd covered up his grave, and they said after. I borrowed a spade from the neighbour, and threw it in the jeep. I put Itchy in a box, and there was no fight, no drama, I just laid him softly on his favorite blanket, and I picked up the box, closed the lid, and took it to the truck. Again there was no scratching, no yowling, no great and terrible beast trying to shred it's cage and any living thing in said cage's proximity. There was just this light lifeless weight sliding around inside, like a doll sliding around in the box you're allowed to guess at on the night before xmas.
We got out to the country and I dug a hole near some trees with the sun going down, in a place where rabbits and deer and birds and sunshine and long grasses breathe life and love and beauty and peace. And when the hole was dug, I took the cat out of the box, laid the blanket in the hole, tucked him in, and covered him up with dirt, and a few heavy stones to keep the wildlife away. Then I tore the box to shreds for Itchy's sake.
Here's a tip people. Don't write about burying the dead cat you were really close to when you're sitting in a coffee shop.
I spent some time hugging the kids today, hugging my wife, wiping a lot of tears.
When everybody was rational again, when they hysterics had finished I said to Janet "I'm going out for a bit." and she said "...okay." and I said "I'm not a hugger, I'm a go-er away-er." by way of explanation, which she finally understands after 11 years.
11 years incidentally, is the time that I've known the Boney Old Cat of the title, Itchy. I suppose it would be more correct to say that was the time that I knew him, past tense. Funny how that changes so fast.
I drove for a bit and decided I didn't want to drive. Now I'm low profile incognito in a coffee shop. Surrounding me is that cacophony of sound, that fluid, rippling babble of background conversation that I find so calming in coffee shops. Much like the soothing influence of a stream, but with the option of dropping in and out of the flow. I'm having an Iced Vietnamese Coffee. First time I've ever had one. A slurpee would have been better.
Itchy was a majestic cat. He stomped on the terra. Eyes like etched jade, reminisces of his sabertooth bloodline glinting when ever he cracked open his jaws to yawn.
There are cats in this world that people are immediately drawn too, cats that are cute and fluffy and adorable. Itchy, despite the cutesy moniker, was not such a cat.
Itchy danced to an inner rhythm of violence and bloodlust. His glance held the cold indifference of a great white shark before the strike. One instantly feared Itchy. He approached with confidence, moves like a jaguar, pronounced with a South American accent yet, yeah, he was that Jaguar-y. All of this predatory presence, this animal antagonism, betrayed his true nature, which was that of a kitten before it learns to scratch.
My girls were crying tonight over the loss of the oldest cat in the house, the cat I was fond of referring to as "old man" and "old dog". I told them to remember him, and learn from him the things that they could. Like to take hugs when they need them, rather than wait for one to come along. Itchy didn't wait for affection. He seized it, and when denied he persisted, and when rejected he was undaunted. No one entered our home without eventually succumbing to having this cat, part Maine Coon, part stuffed animal, part Egyptian icon pin them to our couch and nuzzle under their chins.
A girl just sat down with her friends across from me. On the back of her t-shirt it says "Class of O8 Forever Young". Well...not forever sister.
Janet came by Itchy's acquaintance when an acquaintance of hers was planning to get rid of him. He was a foundling, a little kitten that was still being bottle fed, and the person Janet got him from discovered there were allergies in the house. So Janet took him in.
We used to take Itchy for walks in the park. He'd sprint from one bush to the next, displaying that healthy sort of 'just in case' paranoia that endeared us to one another instantly.
Itchy was the shit people. He rotated through the house throughout the night, sleeping at the heads of each of us, children included at different points. He could bite and he could scratch when he wanted to. When he bit it would leave a bruise for days. When he scratched, by God you had been scratched by a claw that Siegfried and Roy could appreciate.
But he never bit the kids, never scratched them. He had an appreciation for the delicacy and fragility of childhood.
I remember the worst I was ever scratched. I had a great white Lincoln, 1979, 2 doors, a machine as long and as quick as a torpedo boat. We were moving to Edmonton, and I drove the Lincoln, with Itchy in a box. Getting him into the box had been a test. It was amazing how strong he was. He pushed so hard against the lid that I had to use body weight to overcome him. In the car he slept, until about half an hour outside of Edmonton. It started with meowing, although the connotations of 'meow' really don't do the throaty 'rowr' of Itchy justice. The box started to jump and move on the seat beside me. I put my hand on the lid trying to keep it down, and he kept throwing his weight against it, with increasing fury. One would have thought it to be a muscular chimp, or an enraged zombie dwarf in the box, rather than just a simple housecat. Finally he escaped, tearing the box to shreds, part of my arms in the process. Itchy did not like cars, even luxurious pinnacles of 70s engineering. After that he didn't like boxes either.
This is part of why tonight was so disheartening. Over the course of his illness Itchy's condition deteriorated. He grew skinnier and skinnier, weaker and weaker. This morning he had trouble walking. I said goodbye to him this morning, got down on the floor with him and gave him a scratch behind the ears. He managed a quiet purr, but it started his chest heaving. At the door I told Janet that it felt like I might not see him again. He felt the breeze from the door, and came stumbling up. He used to make a break for it whenever the door opened. Today we were going to let him out, but he just flopped down at the doorsill, his head hanging over the step, and he watched me leave.
And that was the last time I saw him alive. Janet called me at work, sobbing, partially unintelligible, "can you come home please?" and I asked "Is he gone?" and she said "yes."
So tonight I took Itchy to a beautiful spot and I buried him. I asked the kids if they wanted to help me, or if they wanted to come to the spot after I'd covered up his grave, and they said after. I borrowed a spade from the neighbour, and threw it in the jeep. I put Itchy in a box, and there was no fight, no drama, I just laid him softly on his favorite blanket, and I picked up the box, closed the lid, and took it to the truck. Again there was no scratching, no yowling, no great and terrible beast trying to shred it's cage and any living thing in said cage's proximity. There was just this light lifeless weight sliding around inside, like a doll sliding around in the box you're allowed to guess at on the night before xmas.
We got out to the country and I dug a hole near some trees with the sun going down, in a place where rabbits and deer and birds and sunshine and long grasses breathe life and love and beauty and peace. And when the hole was dug, I took the cat out of the box, laid the blanket in the hole, tucked him in, and covered him up with dirt, and a few heavy stones to keep the wildlife away. Then I tore the box to shreds for Itchy's sake.
Here's a tip people. Don't write about burying the dead cat you were really close to when you're sitting in a coffee shop.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Boney old cat.
I've got a boney old cat. He wasn't always old. When he was a kitten they bottlefed him, with the result that he has maintained a lot of kittenesque qualities for a long time now.
But he's old. About 20 to be exact. Over the past 6 months or so he's been getting skinnier and skinnier, slower and slower, sleepier and sleepier. He used to like sitting on the edge of the tub, but the other day he slipped and fell in. Today he tried to jump up on the counter and missed. His cat-like grace is gone. Given way to geriatric creaks and wobbles and stumbles. He sleeps more than anything else.
We took him to the vet, and they told us it's kidney trouble with him. He's not in any pain. He's just hungry and thirsty a lot of the time. Nothing we can do really, except feed him some more easily digested foods, keep him well watered. At this point he's getting less and less nutrition every day, because his kidneys are starting to fail.
Janet and I both want him to make it through the summer. All of our cats are inside cats, but he loves being outside. Like me he just wants to sit in the sun all day.
We're at the point though where it is a matter of hoping he makes it. We can't imagine him surviving until next winter. He may make it until fall... Summer isn't even a sure thing even.
At home we sit with him on our laps a lot, me and Mommy and the kids. We're giving him all the time we can, and he purrs when he sits with us still. Janet bought him a pillow to sleep on, and while the days and evenings are still cool, he sleeps there. Summer should be here soon, and then he can lay in the sun again.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Symbiote Rhythm (the Jedi paradigm)
I had a great conversation the other night with some friends from high school. One good friend in particular is in to yoga, and the conversation eventually turned to the metaphysical.
We talked about oneness, and from there she talked about being in the zone. That strange sensation where you're doing without thinking, when your moves seem almost guided. I told her that's one of the things that I love most about being the leader of a high volume culinary team. Our whole team can function like that at times, moving as one perfect machine in complete and perfect harmony. I also told her that when I meditate or run, I recreate that sensation by visualizing that symbiotic harmony, that symbiote rhythm, and before I know it, I'm in the zone. The more often that I do it, the easier it seems to fall into.
For me it goes beyond being in the zone. It becomes an affirmation that I'm more than just a man, or perhaps less, depending on your perspective. I'm definitely a part of something greater than myself, greater than my team, greater than my nation. Like a drop of water is a part of the Ocean, I'm part of the great cosmic 'is', an integral part of the universe. An ocean can't be an ocean without drops of water, the universe can't be the universe without lot of Andys. And I have the choice in life to live in harmony with that universe, as a symbiote, or I have the choice to rail and rally against it.
In harmony with whatever it might be that we're a part of, one has the sense of being in the zone more often than not. Some call it a state of grace. Others call it enlightenment. In one of my favorite films of all time, it's described as living in a state of constant total amazement. It's a state of mind beyond the traditional illusory views of good and evil, beyond the traditional views of happiness and success. I believe that this state of perfect harmony is really the utmost goal one can aspire to.
I also believe that railing against the universe is not only futile, but deadly. If one is in fact a part of this great magnificent thing, like a cell or a symbiote, then railing against it can have only one result really. This great thing will come to react to you the way any organism or delicate system would react. It will see you as a malignant cell and do its best to eradicate you. The same goes for acting against the greater interests of mankind, of nature, of the universe. Some people call it karma, or a belief that what goes around comes around. Others talk about attracting success. Buddha said that "With our thoughts we make the world." Whatever the case, people that recognize this seem to get more enjoyment out of life, and people that don't tend to spiral into their own bitterness and misery.
For me, I'm recognizing more and more everyday that I get out of life, out of relationships, out of work, exactly what I put into them. And I try to take a little time everyday to find a quiet spot, and just tune into that harmonious buzz of all things that's always going on. It reminds me that not only am I and my problems infinitely small in comparison to time and space and everything, but at the same time I'm a part of and therefore one with the infinity of time and space and everything.
Monday, April 6, 2009
20 years later.
I went out on Saturday night with some old friends from high school that I hadn't seen in about 20 years or so. They were terrific company by the way.
I was actually crashing a get together that they were having for their elementary school class, so a lot of the people didn't really know me, which was fine. There were really only a couple of people that I wanted to see anyway.
At one point one of the strangers asked me what grade I'd met the girls I knew in, and I explained that I was in a few grades simultaneously. This elicited the usual laughter, which I'm fine with, and then someone asked what year did I graduate and I had to explain that I was expelled from school before I could graduate.
One of my friends said "It wasn't because of intelligence, it was because of attitude." to which I heartily agreed that the School Board did indeed have a terrible attitude problem back then.
Another girl that I didn't really know to well started asking about the group of friends that I hung out with in high school. A lot of my friends committed suicide or wound up dead in high school, a situation that led people outside of our circle to speculate as to whether or not the suicides were part of a pact or an agreement. While it would be a lot more romantic or sensational if they had, there was no such agreement. It was just a bunch of kids with substance abuse problems and some chemical imbalances combined with a whole lot of hopelessness that caused a higher than average rate of attrition. I thought it was kind of funny that even 20 years later, the rumors still persist. She seemed a little disappointed in my answer. People did 20 years ago today. Doesn't make for a good story that way I guess.
I was actually crashing a get together that they were having for their elementary school class, so a lot of the people didn't really know me, which was fine. There were really only a couple of people that I wanted to see anyway.
At one point one of the strangers asked me what grade I'd met the girls I knew in, and I explained that I was in a few grades simultaneously. This elicited the usual laughter, which I'm fine with, and then someone asked what year did I graduate and I had to explain that I was expelled from school before I could graduate.
One of my friends said "It wasn't because of intelligence, it was because of attitude." to which I heartily agreed that the School Board did indeed have a terrible attitude problem back then.
Another girl that I didn't really know to well started asking about the group of friends that I hung out with in high school. A lot of my friends committed suicide or wound up dead in high school, a situation that led people outside of our circle to speculate as to whether or not the suicides were part of a pact or an agreement. While it would be a lot more romantic or sensational if they had, there was no such agreement. It was just a bunch of kids with substance abuse problems and some chemical imbalances combined with a whole lot of hopelessness that caused a higher than average rate of attrition. I thought it was kind of funny that even 20 years later, the rumors still persist. She seemed a little disappointed in my answer. People did 20 years ago today. Doesn't make for a good story that way I guess.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Reality Check
I've been pretty good about my running program. For the first 3 months of this year I've only missed 1 run, thanks to the purchase of a treadmill at Christmas.
With the weather improving the way that it has been however, I've had the opportunity to get out on to the road for some real running. What I've found is that I can only push about half of what I can do on the treadmill when I'm outside. I found the toll is much harder on my body as well, as it seems that the treadmill has been completely missing my quads. The other day I pushed a modest (read: embarrassing) 4 km, and it was cause for some moments of reflection. My quads were burning afterwards, and even with controlled breathing I was struggling for oxygen.
Rather than allow this setback to get me down however, I've decided to rearrange my life so that I can get some real running in. I'm going to do what tens of thousands of other people,(though generally not chefs) do, and I'm going to start running on my breaks at work.
So far I've had 2 outside runs, and the newfound challenge of them has me fired up all anew. This year I'm pretty optimistic about the progress I'll make. In Saskatchewan winters past I've atrophied to the point that I found myself sidelined with injuries on my first few spring runs. This year the treadmill seems to have helped keep my bones and my calves strong if nothing else, and I think I should be up to half marathon distance again by Autumn.
Thanks for listening all :)
With the weather improving the way that it has been however, I've had the opportunity to get out on to the road for some real running. What I've found is that I can only push about half of what I can do on the treadmill when I'm outside. I found the toll is much harder on my body as well, as it seems that the treadmill has been completely missing my quads. The other day I pushed a modest (read: embarrassing) 4 km, and it was cause for some moments of reflection. My quads were burning afterwards, and even with controlled breathing I was struggling for oxygen.
Rather than allow this setback to get me down however, I've decided to rearrange my life so that I can get some real running in. I'm going to do what tens of thousands of other people,(though generally not chefs) do, and I'm going to start running on my breaks at work.
So far I've had 2 outside runs, and the newfound challenge of them has me fired up all anew. This year I'm pretty optimistic about the progress I'll make. In Saskatchewan winters past I've atrophied to the point that I found myself sidelined with injuries on my first few spring runs. This year the treadmill seems to have helped keep my bones and my calves strong if nothing else, and I think I should be up to half marathon distance again by Autumn.
Thanks for listening all :)
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