Hello, Old Friend

This is a really long post. If you get to the end, let me know – too long? Not worth your time? Like it? Hate it? Please let me know if these long ramblings aren’t worth your time.

You’ve been warned.


Hello, old friend. It sure has been a long time, hasn’t it?

18 years and change, to be exact.

Flash back to April 1987. I’m a young, strapping TV news cameraman, coming from Nevada via Montana to work in a top 50 market. Everything I own is in the back of my pickup. I’m going to be the best TV news cameraman Channel 3 has ever had. I roll into town, find an apartment, hit the ground running. Broad shoulders, blue eyes, brand new job…I’m on top of the world.

And you?

You’re an eight-week old Siamese kitten.

Chocolate face, paws and tail. Creamy white everywhere else. You’re just like the cat our family had growing up. It took me awhile to find you, and I finally did.

Yes, I admit it, I like cats. Not very manly, some would say. Too bad. I had a dog when I was a kid growing up. He’d follow me around on my paper route every morning. I loved that dog like crazy, and I cried when he died. But we also had cats, and I like them. And my first pet, in an apartment, is going to be a cat. So there.

I take you home to my little one-bedroom apartment. After much internal debate I choose a name for you. It fits. You like it, or at least you respond to it. And off we go.

That first year was rough for me. For all my bluster and bravado, I struggle on the job. Some doubt creeps in. The other news shooters at Channel 3 news are good. Damn good. But at least they’re on my team. It’s the guys from 6 and 8 that are eating my lunch on a regular basis. After one particularly discouraging day I come home and write two short works on the viewfinder of my news camera. A defiant statement put right our front, for all the world to see. Now I’m going to make it or go down in flames. One or the other. Eat or be eaten – no middle ground for me.

And who was there, right with me, the whole time? You were.

You ask for nothing, some occasional petting and some one-way conversation. Maybe some tuna now and then. You’re sleeping on the ratty couch when I come home. You sit there, night after night, watch the news with me. You notice my work is getting better. I’m holding my own each evening. We flip stations back and forth, see how my coverage of any given story compares to the other two stations. Often it’s better.

Life gets a bit more complicated. Now, occasionally, a girl joins us on the couch. Never the same one for very long. Some of them think you are cute, others don’t care. You see them come and go, pay them no mind. They are no threat.

You’ve become quite the comfort cat. You sleep at the foot of the bed each night. In the winter you’ll curl up as close as you can to get some warmth. Now, instead of sitting next to me on the couch, you’re in my lap. Perhaps a bit territorial? Or are you prescient, looking into the future?

I rise to the top of the news photography crew at my station, start getting the plum assignments. I’m traveling more. The summer of 1988 I was on the road all the time. The Republican National Convention in New Orleans, the wildfire in Yellowstone National Park, a dozen other stories. When I’m home I can tell you are stressed. You’re lonely, left alone at times for up to a week. You miss me.

I tried something that I thought would help – but I was wrong.

I brought in another cat.

It might as well have been a dog. You hated her. After a few months the two of you agreed to an uneasy truce – she stayed away from me when I was home, and in exchange, you let her eat. Honestly, I wanted to help you. I had no idea it would make you feel worse. I’ve told you this a hundred times, maybe more – I’m sorry I did that. I thought it was the right thing to do, and I was wrong. But you were the bigger cat, kept a stiff upper lip, and muddled through. You forgave me.

In 1991 things began to change. I bought a townhouse. The move was traumatic for you. The first two days you did not come out from behind the entertainment center. It took you a few weeks to really get comfortable. After awhile, though, I think you approved. The place had a small, fenced backyard, so you could actually go outside, chase butterflies, eat grass. In the upstairs window I widened the ledge so you could sit and look outside, or just sit in the sun.

A new girl began to come by. It became more and more often. Sometimes she’d stay overnight, occasionally the weekend. She was a cat person and you liked her. Sort of. But it became clear to you that when she was around, you were second banana. No room for you on my lap when she was there. And you found yourself booted off the bed on those nights. You sulked a bit, but you could deal with it. She would talk nicely to you, in that high-pitched baby voice, and would pet you when I was around. In retrospect, it was probably mostly for show, but you’d take what you could get.

But you must have known it was going nowhere, and your strategy was just to wait it out. Sure enough, you were right. One day she left and never came back. She says it was her call, I say it was mine. You knew who was telling the truth.

Life returned to normal, but in the back of your mind you must have known it would happen again. It was just a matter of time. You were expecting another season, a winter of female discontent. You were right, sort of.

Except it was more than a winter of discontent.

It was an Ice Age.

She was a whirlwind, a hurricane, and she swept into our lives. And it was awesome. She stayed over more and more often, and after a while she just sort of never left. I thought it was great.

You knew better.

Once the closet started filling up with her stuff, you’d had enough. You took matters into your own paws. You started pissing and shitting in her clothes and shoes. Virtually every day you’ve leave your mark on something of hers. Her brand new patent leather pumps? Full of piss. A brand new leather jacket I bought for her? She left it on the sofa and you took a dump on it. One of her favorite party dresses, left laying at the foot of the bed one night? You pissed on that as well.

Thank you, though, for not messing with her lingerie.

You were trying to tell me something, but I didn’t want to listen. Somehow you knew this was not a good thing for me, never mind you. Looking back it was clear that you knew this was a disaster, and since I didn’t do anything about it, you did. I thought you’d outgrow it, get over it, but you didn’t. She got really upset, at one point telling me it was you or her. I actually took you to the vet to see if you had a medical problem. The vet said you were fine, we should just give it time.

But you saw the cycle of fighting and making up. You knew that beyond the physical attraction there was nothing beneath the surface. We were so right for each other, but we were absolutely wrong for each other. You saw it after about three months.

It took me three years.

Oh, she moved out after you ruined half her wardrobe, but we continued to see each other. When it finally ended, it was sort of a relief for both of us. But the day she moved the last of her things out of the townhouse was the last day you ‘forgot’ to use the litter box.

Thank you, old friend. Thank you.

You and I grew close again. For a year there were few visitors. It was you and I, and the other cat. Then one day she was gone as well. I never knew what happened. She must have found a way out of the backyard. But she never came back. You didn’t seem to miss her.

A year later I met the woman who would become my wife. We dated. She stayed over far less frequently than the last one, and when she did, you never messed with her stuff. She liked you, petted you, but didn’t suck up to you as others had. She knew she didn’t need to play those games. When she was there, we all got along. It was very comfortable.

When we got married things began to move fast. Life changed again for you. We bought a house, twice the size of the townhouse. A large backyard, still fenced, but ways for you to sneak out. Lots of new furniture, some of which you aren’t allowed to jump on. It took you some time to explore, to learn your way around, and to find a couple of new secret places where you could hide.

But you’ve been absolutely been bumped down one rung on the ladder. You had the direct line to my attention. Now you take second place to my wife. And by and large, you’re okay with that. You don’t hold it against me. There’s plenty of time to find me for some lap time. And we do have some of that…just not as much as we used to.

Fourteen months after we’re married, Chris is born. This is something new. Suddenly I have much less time for you, and my wife has virtually none. Chris takes all of our time and gets all of our attention. He cries in the middle of the day, the middle of the night, and lots of other times in between – very unsettling for you. Now there’s a room in the house you are not allowed to go into.

When you do find my lap I’m often asleep. Not good company. But you don’t complain.

As Chris gets older he begins to notice you. He’s fascinated by you. He wants to grab you, play with you. He surprised you one day by crawling over to you, yanks your tail. Justifiably, you swat him with your paw and he cries. Unjustifiably, you get punished. You’re sad, but you don’t complain.

You now realize you’ve been bumped down one more rung on the ladder.

Just as Chris begins to learn how to pet you nicely, Tommy is born. Here we go again. As Tommy learns to crawl, then toddle, he pursues you with a greater vengeance that Chris ever did. He throws things at you. He’ll stroke you nicely, then yank your ear. It’s just not fair.

One more rung down the ladder. Always the lowest rung. The ladder gets bigger, but just increases the separation between us.

Maybe one day, lying in a small patch of sunlight streaming through the basement window, you contemplate how your life has changed. After all we’ve been through together, is this all you have left? You hardly ever see me anymore. You can’t remember the last time you sat in my lap to watch the news. You haven’t slept on my bed in years. You can’t sit on half the furniture in the house, can’t go into the two sunniest bedrooms, and have to constantly keep your eye out for the two crazy mini-me’s who’d just as soon step on your tail as pet you.

And you’re getting older. Did you know you’re 18 human years old? That’s about 126 in dog years, give or take, and who knows how many in cat years. You’re a couple of steps slower. You take the stairs more slowly, one at a time. Your fur is not as glossy as it once was. You’ve lost some weight.

Sleep on the bed? You can no longer jump high enough to get on it.

Yet still you come. Late at night, in my office, when the rest of the house is dark. My wife and kids are sleeping. I’m on the computer, working late. You pad silently into my office, asking for just a few minutes on my lap. ‘Please,’ you think, ‘can I have a minute or two? How about a couple of scratches under the chin? Just for old times sake?’

Too many times I’ve said no. “I’m busy,” I’d say. “Got to get this done, get some sleep. I don’t get much sleep anymore, you know. Gotta pay these bills, get to bed. Maybe tomorrow.”

You’d turn away sadly, walk slowly to the corner, curl up with your chin on your paws. Watch me work. If you can’t have my lap, you’ll settle for being in the same room, without any kids chasing you out. It’s better than nothing. But nothing like it was.

My mom died about six weeks ago. I used to talk to her on the phone every week, every Sunday night. Did you know that she asked about you every single time? “How are the boys?” she’d ask. “How’s your kitty?” She saw you two days after I first brought you home. She was a cat person. She got it.

I miss those calls.

You know, old friend, I miss the old days. I do. Life was simpler then. We had some great times. But life has a way of moving on, and even if we could go back, I wouldn’t. I love my wife, love my kids, and love the life we’ve built together.

But you’re a big part of that life. You have to know that. This house just wouldn’t be the same without you padding around. My wife, despite the restrictions she’s placed on you, loves you. The boys love you, too, as best they can. Chris even took you to his pre-school show and tell, with my help. He was so proud to show you off to all his pre-school buddies on ‘pet day.’ And you know you were best damn looking cat in the room.

I think back to 1987. Other than you, there’s almost nothing still with us from those early days. All the furniture is gone, clothes gone, everything. Our house today looks nothing like our first apartment. Oh, wait, there is one thing. Those two words I wrote on my news camera? They’ve become my personal motto. Those words are still with us today on my license plate.

Sadly, though, our time together is running out. I can see it. Last time we went to the vet she about said as much. “You’ll need to be thinking,’ she said, ‘about how you want to handle it when he starts to decline.” It may be your kidneys, she said, or some other organs start to fail. You’re at the high end of your life expectancy You’ve used up most of your 9 lives. It’s a matter of time.

And I sense that you can feel it as well. Something about the way you look at me. It’s almost as if you’re trying to tell me. “Pet me now. There aren’t so many chances left.”

So I promise you two things.

First, I’ll never let you suffer.

And starting right now, I’ll make time for lap time. We’ll make the best of whatever weeks, months, maybe years we have left. Jump up here, old friend. Sit on my lap while I finish this post. Then I’ll shut this machine off and we’ll turn on the news. Just for old time’s sake. No, it won’t be what it was. But we’ll make it the best it can be.

Look, you see that? You know, these new TV news guys, they couldn’t hold a candle to me when I was in my prime.

See that? What was that guy thinking? How could he shoot it that way?

Rookie.

But you – you’re a veteran. A survivor. Through the good times and bad, you’ve hung in. Given everything, asked for nothing. Nothing, that is, except love. Loyalty. Friendship.

One of the best friends a guy could have.

Hello, old friend.

Come sit with me awhile.

It’s great to be The Family Man.