This is the light of my life
Here's a better picture.
His name is Solomon. I haven't lived with him for nearly two years. My best friend Robyn - hold on, here's a picture of the two of us a couple years back
Anyway, she was approached by him at a party back in '99, and his owners at the time (crazy people) were trying to get rid of him, and she brought him home. Robyn and I were living together at the time, and I reluctantly agreed that he was technically her cat.
That being said, Robyn and I were sleeping in the same bed at the time, and he would almost always sleep on my side. When we got a bigger place with separate bedrooms, he still slept with me. He'd sit in my lap when I was in the living room working on the computer or watching tv, and he'd come out and smoke with me when I was still smoking. I don't mean to imply that he doesn't love Robyn, because he does, just that our relationship is pretty serious. Robyn gets that, and since we got our own apartments I still have visitation rights, which I use fairly regularly, and I take care of him when she's out of town, and I had him over the holidays, as well, because Robyn works retail and can't pay enough attention to him he's pretty high-maintenance, for a cat. Spoiled little goth-boy, frankly, but I love him anyway.
On the night of May 15th, he went out around ten and didn't come home. He didn't come home the next day, either. That was when Robyn told me. And he didn't come home the day after that.
I worried, at first, of course. But I kept it under control, figuring (or rather hoping) he was probably out having adventures or something. But I gave up worrying on the third day, when I burst into uncontrollable sobbing while doing the freakin' dishes. I cried every day after that. I'd think about how much he'd liked to be held, how he'd climb up your leg if he were impatient about it. He liked to have me chase him around the house and then spank him when I caught him (I used to joke that if he were a woman it'd be my ideal relationship). I remembered all the nicknames I'd had for him, like "Stinkachu" and "Rocket-butt."
And I wept.
A lot.
I put up about two hundred posters in a four square block area over the next few days. Both Robyn and I called the Pound hotline and went down there regularly looking for him. I even sacrificed to my gods, whom I never pray to if I can avoid it. But I had, of course, no hope. I don't have much truck with hope. I regard it as spiritual junk food. You can survive on it, but I wouldn't call it living.
I thought a lot about death. I mean, I don't so much mind death as a concept. Ending, and turning into meat. Whatever. But it bugs me that the last few moments we spend existing are usually associated with pain, humiliation, and terror. Its seems somehow inefficient to me. I mean, I understand the adaptive aspects and all, but I think pain and fear would be unnecessary if the world were properly organized. That's why I'm an atheist (which, in turn, is why I avoid my gods when I can). You can call the state of nature one of "dynamic equilibrium," if you like, but what it is is a condition of perpetually oscillating maladjustment, where nothing ever works quite right, and the solutions that are developed simply cause different problems.
And I wept a lot more.
It was the most I'd cried since childhood, which scarcely counts anyway. I mean, I was sad when my grandma died, but she was old, and happy to go, and we weren't all that close. An ex-girlfriend of mine had OD'd on heroin back in the late eighties, and I was pretty broken up about that, but still. I love animals, and I'm a total fool for cats in particular. There's a kind of purity to the love I have for cats that isn't usually the case with humans - there's no self-interest or emotional demands or conflicting egos to deal with. I think it's because we don't share a language. Anyway.
The night of May 24th, around midnight, Robyn was out in her living room when she heard a familiar meowing at the door. She opened it up, and Solomon strolled in, happy to be home. He'd lost a lot of weight, had a badly skinned toe, and for some reason he smelled like a dog, but was otherwise perfectly fine. Nine days he was gone. It took me the next three days just to take down all the flyers I'd put up.
Robyn had to go out of town that very weekend, so I stayed with him. I was happier than I can remember being in a long time. Maybe happier than I've ever been.
Anyway.
I've spent the last week taking very bad pictures of him. His toe's looking better, too.
Here's a better picture.
His name is Solomon. I haven't lived with him for nearly two years. My best friend Robyn - hold on, here's a picture of the two of us a couple years back
Anyway, she was approached by him at a party back in '99, and his owners at the time (crazy people) were trying to get rid of him, and she brought him home. Robyn and I were living together at the time, and I reluctantly agreed that he was technically her cat.
That being said, Robyn and I were sleeping in the same bed at the time, and he would almost always sleep on my side. When we got a bigger place with separate bedrooms, he still slept with me. He'd sit in my lap when I was in the living room working on the computer or watching tv, and he'd come out and smoke with me when I was still smoking. I don't mean to imply that he doesn't love Robyn, because he does, just that our relationship is pretty serious. Robyn gets that, and since we got our own apartments I still have visitation rights, which I use fairly regularly, and I take care of him when she's out of town, and I had him over the holidays, as well, because Robyn works retail and can't pay enough attention to him he's pretty high-maintenance, for a cat. Spoiled little goth-boy, frankly, but I love him anyway.
On the night of May 15th, he went out around ten and didn't come home. He didn't come home the next day, either. That was when Robyn told me. And he didn't come home the day after that.
I worried, at first, of course. But I kept it under control, figuring (or rather hoping) he was probably out having adventures or something. But I gave up worrying on the third day, when I burst into uncontrollable sobbing while doing the freakin' dishes. I cried every day after that. I'd think about how much he'd liked to be held, how he'd climb up your leg if he were impatient about it. He liked to have me chase him around the house and then spank him when I caught him (I used to joke that if he were a woman it'd be my ideal relationship). I remembered all the nicknames I'd had for him, like "Stinkachu" and "Rocket-butt."
And I wept.
A lot.
I put up about two hundred posters in a four square block area over the next few days. Both Robyn and I called the Pound hotline and went down there regularly looking for him. I even sacrificed to my gods, whom I never pray to if I can avoid it. But I had, of course, no hope. I don't have much truck with hope. I regard it as spiritual junk food. You can survive on it, but I wouldn't call it living.
I thought a lot about death. I mean, I don't so much mind death as a concept. Ending, and turning into meat. Whatever. But it bugs me that the last few moments we spend existing are usually associated with pain, humiliation, and terror. Its seems somehow inefficient to me. I mean, I understand the adaptive aspects and all, but I think pain and fear would be unnecessary if the world were properly organized. That's why I'm an atheist (which, in turn, is why I avoid my gods when I can). You can call the state of nature one of "dynamic equilibrium," if you like, but what it is is a condition of perpetually oscillating maladjustment, where nothing ever works quite right, and the solutions that are developed simply cause different problems.
And I wept a lot more.
It was the most I'd cried since childhood, which scarcely counts anyway. I mean, I was sad when my grandma died, but she was old, and happy to go, and we weren't all that close. An ex-girlfriend of mine had OD'd on heroin back in the late eighties, and I was pretty broken up about that, but still. I love animals, and I'm a total fool for cats in particular. There's a kind of purity to the love I have for cats that isn't usually the case with humans - there's no self-interest or emotional demands or conflicting egos to deal with. I think it's because we don't share a language. Anyway.
The night of May 24th, around midnight, Robyn was out in her living room when she heard a familiar meowing at the door. She opened it up, and Solomon strolled in, happy to be home. He'd lost a lot of weight, had a badly skinned toe, and for some reason he smelled like a dog, but was otherwise perfectly fine. Nine days he was gone. It took me the next three days just to take down all the flyers I'd put up.
Robyn had to go out of town that very weekend, so I stayed with him. I was happier than I can remember being in a long time. Maybe happier than I've ever been.
Anyway.
I've spent the last week taking very bad pictures of him. His toe's looking better, too.