A Cat's Angst

(Stanford ---above photo)

Pet Guy grabbed Stanford, lifted him high, smiled, but hugged him so hard he slightly "yelped!" They were hugging in the doorway. Pet Guy had one foot in and one foot out, still, it seemed it was going to be some time before they separated.

But it was actually Pet Guy who first dropped his arms and separated from Stanford. Both of them needed ‘a moment’. Then: “Good-Bye!” was said to each other.

Stanford had finally graduated school and ---he had his dreams to attend to. Pet Guy knew this; of course, nonetheless, just as Stanford turned to leave, he grabbed his shirt sleeve and stared deep into his eyes, “don’t let an apposable thumb stop you from your dreams.” Stanford started running. Pet Guy jogged after him, “Hey! Stanford! –Paws just might be good enough. You’ll know Stanford ---You’ll know. You’ll know when. I love you!”

He watched Stanford leave. How did it happen? He asked ---It was only a few months ago when Stanford was little. His eyes were still on Stanford. He sat down as Stanford first hid under a shrub, stood motionless, and then another shrub ---and another, until he could no longer be seen. Pet Guy stood up and screamed, “You’ll know When! I love you!”

Stanford’s dream was to be a painter. Stanford had been painting since he started school, probably, because he had such a difficult childhood. It was always difficult for Stanford. Those first few years at school, sure he could run faster than anybody else, but as his classmates grew and he stopped growing: He was humiliated constantly.

So when they all joined together and played dodge-ball, Stanford would release all his angst. As the dodge ball came his way, with one swipe, he’d shred the ball, and then he’d really pounce on it and shred it to pieces, all while his classmates screamed objections. It got really ugly, sometimes ---because he’d go after his classmates. The children sometimes limped away with an injury requiring stitches.

To Stanford, they spoke a completely different language. So the moment the bell rang echoing the end of another school day, he’d sprint home to his cure, to his passion, his love: Painting!

But the letters from school?! The letters the teachers wrote about Stanford’s ‘strange behavior’ seemed constant ---“Extremely inappropriate behavior,” seemed included in every letter. And also, “About twenty percent of the day he’s completely ‘unreachable’, as he stares out the window.” Almost every week the both of them seemed to end up in the principal’s office.

Stanford seemed constantly angry, like he had been cheated out of something. If painting had come easy to him ---who knows? He wasn’t a ‘natural’ painter. The first week, which can be easily explained away, he broke his paint brush and almost gouged-out his eye. Why he’d attempt to paint perplexed even Pet Guy.

So Stanford finally left ‘the nest’---to be a cat/man. Pet Guy will always remember that day. But, as the years past, they became nothing to Pet Guy without Stanford: Mere numbers. Soon, it was now the ‘zeroes’ (2000), and now, the new century was about to become a teenager, he thought.

But Stanford never came home, again! Not even to visit. Now Friday wasn’t a day of celebration for Pet Guy, it was a day of waiting. Tomorrow in the mail-box would be Stanford’s letter. He sent a letter home every week, but one letter rarely varied from the next:

“Hi! –Having the time of my life. Tomorrow I’ll be in the beautiful country of Turkey, and then to Argentina, to China, I’m going everywhere to learn from the masters, and I have no idea where I’ll be tomorrow. Love ‘ya!

Sincerely, Stanford

Every day, and then year to year, the loneliness Pet Guy felt became unbearable. He had to see about his boy.

He went looking for Stanford and found him in the ‘tenderloin’ district of San Francisco California U.S.A. Some would say this was, especially at night, a very dangerous area of the city. Pet Guy opened the door of Stanford’s ‘flop-house’ and he was sitting on his bed ---smoking Crack-Cocaine!

He was unshaven, looked unhealthy, and when he saw Pet Guy he just nodded and loaded his Crack pipe, inhaled ---exhaled and roared ---“I’m the one. I did it.”

“You did what?”

Stanford got up and fell back down on his bed. His head fell into his paws. “I’m just not good enough. I’m no good. Now ---I know. No good!” He got up, held both his arms out, like an agile-less cat? ---and leaned against his dresser. He smiled, pointed to the dresser, while his thumb-less paw-hand trembled, “It’s in the top-drawer!”

Pet Guy ‘fell to pieces’ ---but quickly came to Stanford’s defense, “I can't look up there Stanford! I can't! It’s because you don’t have an apposable thumb. It's tough to paint without one. That's all!”

“That's all? -No, there’s plenty more, like a dozen or so. Now ---it’s just the beginning. I plan to confess to the authorities ---today. Today!”

“You’re going to confess for what! –For what Stanford?!!”

Stanford opened the very top drawer. “Look inside,” he said.

“No ---I can’t, what have you done?” Pet Guy reached out to hug Stanford. He was rejected.

“If you can’t look there look at my neck.” Stanford said.

Pet guy looked at his neck ---looked down ---began to cry: Stanford had cut off an apposable thumb from some human, painted a marijuana leaf on the thumb’s nail, and swung it on his neck --- like a trophy!

The End

A Conversation with a Cat

Pet guy was on his bed, horribly sick, near death ---but pulled away from the end as he heard a voice.

“You’ve been in bed, sick, for seven days. Pet Guy, are you feeling better?” The voice said.

“Who’s talking to me? I’ve been hearing the most soothing, understanding, sensitive ‘being’. Where is that ‘being’. Where is that voice?” Pet Guy sat up to a vertical position. He was recovering ---because of a conversation with his cat?

He then heard the shuffling of papers, as if the voice was readying for a speech. Soon it was absolutely silent. It was, the moment! ---The defying moment Pet Guy had been waiting for ...all his life: To talk with a different species, especially his cat! Pet Guy heard a voice ask, “I need an interlocutor.”

“Who needs an interlocutor?” The voice made Pet Guy suddenly feel weak. In his confusion he was sure the sickness was back. But in his panic he screamed, “Who’s talking to me!”

“Pet Guy, it’s me, Stanford, your cat. You don’t need to scream.” Stanford was no less than three inches from Pet Guy’s face.

Stanford’s voice was the voice of a child’s, yet between the tiny vocal cords vibrating Pet Guy could heard incredible maturity. He looked up at the symmetry, Stanford’s face, beautiful, ruggedly handsome. And then the contrast: a little gray whisker completely different from his others!

“You need a what?” Pet Guy said, now calmer.

“I need an interlocutor.”

“I’m sorry, just one more time. You need a what?”

“You know, a ‘being’, a friend, a buddy to speak with. I need somebody to talk with. I want somebody on my side no matter what.”

“Stanford, those are big words, perfect words, such beautiful words. I want what you want. Why did you wait so long to speak them?” Pet Guy was now sure ‘the voice’ was Stanford, his cat. The color in his face came back, “I’ve been waiting almost a decade to speak with you. I needed you countless times.” Stanford’s thin black lips were opening and closing …oozing profundity! “But who uses the word ---interlocutor?”

“I do. Is the usage improper?”

“No it isn’t Stanford. I love that word. I can’t get enough of that word. My conversationalist, it feels so good to say that.” Stanford stretched his body to reach Pet Guy. Their noses touched like in a kiss. Stanford’s nose was wet.

“I thought this was the right time. That was a close one buddy.” His thin black lips parted, and he smiled, while Pet Guy smiled right back at him. “It was awfully close!” Stanford repeated

“What was a close one?”

“Your fever got extremely high. I wasn’t sure if you’d pull through. I wasn’t sure if we’d ever become interlocutors. I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I feared I had waited too long to speak. Two days ago you’re fever peaked at one-hundred and five.” He put his paw on Pet Guy’s forehead. “You’re fever is gone, what a relief!” Stanford almost crumbled with that realization. He took a huge breath and exhaled slowly. “No fever.”

“Can I say something that might embarrass you?” Pet Guy turned at an angle, making his face unobservable for Stanford.

“You couldn’t say anything that would embarrass me.”

“Can I say, only death will separate us?” Stanford jumped on the bed where Pet guy was lying. He put his paw on his forehead.

“Of course you can Pet Guy. Everything takes a lot of time, its tough work to be happy, but Pet Guy, together, we’ll have this!”

“Yes we will ---interlocutor!” Pet Guy said, as he grabbed Stanford to hug.

The End

Stanford's Art Gallery

I walked down Geary St in San Francisco, California, down through Union Square, to a little alley called Maiden Lane. Instantly, as I made that turn, I saw cats smoking, painting, and talking. I over-heard their conversations enviably talking about Stanford. They saw me and became motionless, measuring me. I gave them a nod, and they continued with their superlatives about Stanford, as I continued, ignored. I saw a sign: ‘Stanford’s Art Gallery'. I was where I should be.

The moment inside the gallery several items were dropped in my hand. In awe I held them. Stanford made them for me by hand, or, with his own two paws. It was exaggerated colors and beauty, similar to his Gallery. It was a hat and a matching scarf. Suddenly I felt like an artist. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, twice.

Stanford’s preparedness is impeccable; he tailors my clothes, his, and the rest of the crew, with uncanny detail. His tuxedo is immaculate, always, with a perfectly symmetrical hole for his tail. I’ve always wondered, ‘How does he do it?’ Without superlatives, and without questions, he’s a post-modern renaissance cat! He’s already taken over the books, and has re-built what a fledgling business once was into: Talk around town.

Every night the smell of Stanford’s taste and wisdom billow out into the street, and soon Stanford’s Gallery is filled to capacity. Every patron that enters is greeted by Stanford like a long last friend. His tail, always, is moving in perfect sync, either because of noise from the gallery, or from noises in the street. He kisses everybody’s hand and check, old woman blush. There’s nothing else to say---he’s one charming cat! Everybody loves Stanford! I love Stanford ---he’s my cat!

The End