Week 571: Andy Fought the Law, and, Well, Andy Won

Since late 2017 I have been feeding a Feral Cat named Andy Hisster (his image above, circa 2019). Simple math tells me that Andy, full-sized upon my meeting him, must be close to ten years old, which is a good age for a housecat and flat out Methuselah for a wild boy. And make no mistake, Andy is a wild wild wild one.

A couple weeks ago I realized that I hadn’t seen Andy in person for at least a month. At first I didn’t worry because Andy has often gone “missing” over the years. And that is actually unlikely because I have always been able to tell when he has been by the food dish. I have two Ferals, Andy and Alfie (five years for the latter, who has been adopted by the building in general due to his affable personality). Alfie is a neat and precise eater, Andy is a slob who pulls everything out of the bowl and leaves a Cat chow debris field. Even during the frequent patches of not seeing him for as long as three weeks, I could tell he had been by, leaving me yet another clean up chore (aided by the Finches during nesting season, who appear to enjoy Friskie’s Seaside Supper, dry not canned).

Now, unlike the rest of the U.S. we have had a very average winter in the American Northwest. Highs of 45-50 and lows of 40-45 degrees, Fahrenheit, not much variance. Wind and rain, and the usual gloom. Hardly ideal for sledders but good news for Feral Cats. And although I hadn’t noted the usual sloppy pattern I conned myself into believing that the Raccoons had been by, they do not leave as much as an atom unclaimed. But something also rose in my mind, like a sad oboe high above the staff. I did my best to ignore the feeling, but it persisted.

But once in a great while, maybe just enough to keep the concept of hope alive in the human heart, something lucky, a something that should be a million to one against, will happen. The upshot is that Andy is very much alive and well, even though his long standing wild wild wild rule over six downtown blocks has been retired.

“The PAWS people picked him up–saw it happen a long time ago.” I was smoking with two fellow sinners near the dumpster one morning. Aflie had become the topic of conversation (for three years he was a mean little creep, then, like Scrooge, he turned on the charm one day and is getting fat even though he has yet to accept many invitations to come indoors–I would but my two would FREAK OUT). The third person mentioned not seeing Andy around for a while. And by hell and buy low, the guy in apartment three had seen it happen.

Now, my mother taught me not to believe anything a guy tells me, especially guys like the guy in apartment three, whose name I can never remember. But this was such great news that I went to PAWS later that week and inquired into the possibility.

Armed with the picture and my description of Andy’s one “munched” ear, I found out that he had been picked up and transferred to PAWS’ Bainbridge Island location. They showed me a picture they had taken of him (same old Andy, but cleaner looking). I also learned that a younger wild wild wild boy would have been given his shots and released back into his habitat, under the designation of “Neighborhood Cat.” But after conking his ass out with something called Gabapentin, an examination told of his great age and although he had against all odds good health they decided to keep him and transfer him to…

“Oh, no,” I said, “Don’t tell me–the Farm! There is no such place!”

But there really is. Well, in a way.

I donate money to PAWS every month. But looking at the delightfully evil faces of the current PAWS’ residence, those villains who face the same uphill struggle as Andy, I extracted the hundred dollar bill I keep in my pocket book for emergencies and donated it. (Used to be a twenty, then a fifty, thank God a c-note is as high as they print anymore.)

Well, there you have it, a feel good true story. Sometimes the gods don’t look the other way, although we all know that they should try a hell of a lot harder.

Still, fare thee well, Sir Andy.

The Week That Was certainly fared well. It, for me, began Sunday with the latest Auld Author feature written by not such an auld author, Michael Bloor. The subject was the great Robert Lewis Stevenson’s The Master of Ballantrae. Mick should be a teacher because he has a wonderful way with language and he truly engages the reader, which is a fine way to educate.

The work week began (Ha! For you wage-slaves, not us retirees out in the pasture) with The God Game by Gerald Coleman. Like a blessed handful of others, Gerry is a site friend and it is a rare day when he doesn’t encourage a site writer. So it is always refreshing to see a bit of his work. I consider myself the owner of a good memory, but Gerald has a damn good one. He is able to recreate events many decades after they had come and gone. And not partially hidden by wispy purple clouds of nostalgia either, but clear minded and honest. It’s always a pleasure to read his work.

Tuesday saw the return of Kayla Cain, whose The Cost of Dying underscores a terrible situation faced by many of us today. A lot of people (myself included) do not want a funeral, which is great, but what ain’t so hot is there are folks who would like to remember loved ones but cannot afford to do so. That, my friends, is bullshit and I wish something could be done about it. I understand that morticians need to male a living too, but something like ten grand a burial feels awfully excessive. Kayla hit the trouble dead on; where it causes people to skip grief and worry about a new cost. That should not be.

Edward Ahern marked the middle of the week with The House Across the Street. This is an excellent story that is tough to describe. But when it comes to magic, some people actually have the gift, and quite often time going by adds to the wonder of it all. It is both wry and poignant, a rare mix.

Christopher J Ananias has been on one of the hottest publication streaks we’ve ever had on the site. And things were no different on Thursday with the appearance of his fifteenth story, On the Edge of Gas Stations. No other writer today is able to capture the downside of life better than Christopher (some are equal to the task, but none better). And yet there is something within casting a light on hopelessness that gives hope. That wouldn’t happen if no one cared.

Antony Osgood has been busy writing books, but we were lucky enough to win a couple of stories he wrote, which, sometimes, are caused by the leftover energy fields created by long compositions. So seems to be the case with Antony’s Second Reading closed the business of the week. As always with this writer, the prose is lyrical and it sweeps you in and along. We are also pleased that Antony has another one coming up soon.

Our gratitude to our writers one and all. It was an odd week only that there were no newcomers, which is also a great thing because it shows that we have more to show than the occasional one off story writer. Moreover, thank you for your comments, all of which are extremely thoughtful and helpful. That sort of thing helps maybe even more than you might think.

This week, in honor of Andy, who has retired to the Cush Life, U.S. of A., I present my list of my ten most beloved pets of the past. Current fiends, Dudley, Izzy and Feral Alfie will not stand for any list in which they are not number one–nor will any settle for a tie, so that is why “of the past” is necessary. And since Andy will somehow know about it he is omitted as well, all four get their own list in which they are numero uno and the rest of the word is a sucky last place. Such is the Cat code of philosophy, ethics and immorality.

These are not ranked in order (a circumstance alien to the feline mind). Moreover not everyone on it is a Cat, which is also way the hell outside the Feline acceptance level.

• Fang (Weenie Dog-Chihuahua mix, 1969-1986. Christmas Tree assassin and all around brave fellow.)
• Rags (aka, Ra-goo. He was one of those indefinable small white mop-heads of a Dog. A runt who no one saw a seventeen year run–he too from 1969-1986. Life long cohort of Fangs; both died due to natural causes the same black week in 1986 (they also arrived at those the same month in 1969). A good boy though occasionally an instigator.)
• Miss Bee Cee (??-2010. She was one of many Cats I have found and brought in. She had a weird tale, only half the usual length–the vet opined it was natural. She also had extra toes on her front paws and remarkably long front fangs. Greatly missed, but she was ready when I took her to the clinic that final time.)
• Rosie (A Red Tabby I remember from my earliest childhood. Had a thing for catching and releasing garter snakes in the house.)
• Tupper (A fine fine Dog who was a mix of an Aussie and a Lab. Life tragically cut short due to cancer. Odd name due to my grandmother)
• Tweety (Another early childhood memory. A Parakeet who had a limited but enthusiastically performed tune selection. Never behaved as troubled by Cats.)
• Sam (Hard to remember. He was a sweet Cat murdered by a reckless driver.)
• Fred (Actually a neighbor’s Dog who preferred life at our house. Smartest Dog I ever met–and I have known some bright ones; far more on the ball than his owner. A Border Collie, a dead ringer for the Dogs in Babe.)
• Angus (and his brother Rex): Angus was a Cat and so determined to live that he repeatedly cheated the scythe nineteen times instead of the standard nine. Named by my brother to the disgruntlement of the family. But Angus didn’t care. Bother Rex ran off to join another family, much like Fred the Dog came to us)
• All yours

And…

Today is Valentine’s Day. Almost all “special days” have their fans and haters.

Personally speaking, I associate red with the day–as in blood; as in violence over violins; as in the feckless Law of the Jungle.

Therefore I have outsourced my feelings for the day to the trio of Marv Newland, Disney and Mr Oh No There Goes Tokyo. And they returned the following expression of affection:

And a poem by Dorothy Parker, which has accurately described romance, then and now, for one-hundred years

Unfortunate Coincidence by Dorothy Parker

“By the time you swear you’re his,

Shivering and sighing,

And he vows his passion is,

Infinite, undying,

Lady, make a note of this,

One of you is lying.”

(Parting shot: The inventor of the Ferris wheel was born on this day in 1859. So if you ever feel “round and round and up in the air” blame George Washington Gale Ferris)

Leila

And congratulations to the Seattle Seahawks for winning their second Superbowl. Even though it made my part of the world (ten miles to the left of Seattle) far noisier than usual, it put smiles on faces I thought incapable of such an activity, and certainly boosted beer sales to heights even far more insane than normal.