Eulogy for Cat

I woke up this morning at five. That's the time my cat usually comes in to request breakfast, only this morning I woke up because he didn't come. I am currently sitting on the couch with my laptop - this is nothing unusual. I wake up and write every day. Usually, however, I have company - my cat sits right beside me all day long. That was the way things used to be. That all changed yesterday.

I grew up in a Navy family. We moved a lot, and I never had a pet. Sure, we had a goldfish for a few days. Hamsters for a brief time. I always wanted a dog, but I was always denied. Which, in hindsight, makes a lot of sense. Sort of.

When I was twenty years old, I lived in a punk house in the Mission district of San Francisco. It was a great old building that had been left to decay. We lived with eight people in a three room flat with a picture of Prince in a g-string on the front door. I was going out with a girl at the time and she moved in with me. We were in love. We were also battling some serious demons, though we didn't realize it at the time.

My girlfriend grew up with cats. She suggested we get a kitten. I don't remember being all that excited about it, but she was excited, and I certainly didn't hate the idea. I craved some kind of "settled" existence, and I was not in the right frame of mind to realize that being an addict and living with an addict made the decision to adopt a cat kind of bizarre.

I looked through the paper until I saw an ad for free kittens. I called a nice woman and we were shaking hands less than an hour later. The woman was friendly. Older (I have no idea now whether that means she was forty or sixty). There was a pile of kittens in her garden. Half were all white. Half were black and white. None were moving.

I walked over toward the pile and, immediately, one of the little black and white kittens stood up like he had been called to duty, walked over to me and put his paws as high up on my leg as he could. Something changed in my heart that day. I didn't realize it at the time. At the time, I thought, "I guess we'll take this one."

Kittens are one of my favorite things. If you can find anything unlikeable about a kitten, there is something seriously wrong with you. We went back to the house and everyone was stoked on the new kitten. We played the rest of the day. When it was time to go to bed, I lay down, and the kitten immediately plopped down onto my chest and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning to a tiny rough tongue licking my face. We decided to name him Catamaphone (which will make sense to Simpsons fans), but we called him Cat for short.

I think it is fair to say that, from the beginning, Cat was my cat. He liked my girlfriend and they were cute together. He played with my friends. But he slept on my chest. He followed me around like a puppy. I was fascinated and in love in a whole new way. We took him to the SPCA to get fixed. They had a deal where they would give you five bucks if you got your cat fixed. I donated the five dollars although I really could have used it. They were looking after my cat, after all.

Cat didn't leave my room much. I loved my roommates, and I didn't mind having a different band sleeping in the living room all the time, but I didn't trust them to be as vigilant as I was. Cat was hell on wheels, and he broke for the door every time it opened. He was fast as hell. I think if I had let him out, he would have come right back, but when you live at 24th and Mission, you have some reservations about leaving a tiny, cute animal to defend itself. There are some tough cats in the Mission.

Time passed, the house changed, and my girlfriend and I moved to a tiny apartment with Cat. We were happy for a while, and then things started to go downhill. Honestly, I don't remember whose fault it was. Which probably means we shared in the petty stupidity that led to our breakup. Regardless, we broke up. In one of the worst ways I can imagine.

A few days before my last semester of college, my girlfriend didn't come home until like six in the morning - several days running. We didn't speak of it. I was mad, but I didn't want to know what she'd been doing. I left for the first day of my last semester with the same words I used every time I left the house: "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." When I came home all the locks on the apartment had been changed.

This would seem normal if I were an angry, abusive guy. Or a thief. I'm not. And I never have been. I get angry, but not at people I love. And if I do, it's more of a sadness. I remember trying every key I had, even though I knew - it was incomprehensible to me. I was pissed. My cat was inside the apartment.

I called my girlfriend and told her that the door was going to be opened whether she came home and opened it or the cops did. She came and opened the door. I said I was leaving. She said she'd pack my stuff up. I said one thing and I remember it like it was thirty seconds ago. I said: "If you think I'm not taking Cat with me right now, you're out of your mind." She nodded: "I know." I remember being glad that she didn't fight for Cat. It made it much easier to hate her as opposed to missing her. I called my friend Josh who went to Stanford and lived in East Palo Alto - the murder capital of the US at the time. I went and stayed with him. I rented an apartment in the same complex. I couldn't afford the City on my own, and I, literally, did not have the strength to even think about apartment hunting. So, I moved to EPA.

I stopped doing hard drugs because Cat didn't like it when I was spun, but my drinking hobby became a drinking obsession. I drank Albertson's brand bourbon. $7 a fifth. I probably went through four or five on an average week. I worked, I went to school, I drank as much as I could, and I read everything John D. MacDonald ever wrote. I was grasping at straws, and I'm not sure if I would have made it had it not been for Cat. I loved bourbon. I love John D. MacDonald. But they didn't need me. Cat needed me, and the responsibility of taking care of him saved me. As did the fact that he was there for me. Always.

A lot of animals do amazing things, and everyone thinks their pet is special, but Cat was something extra special. When I was sad, he knew it and would not leave my side. When I was sick, he slept with me. He didn't even demand food. He put me first. That was a new experience for me. Later, when I was married, my wife would tell me that every day about ten minutes before I came home, Cat would go and stand vigil by the door. Waiting for me.

Allow me to break the narrative for a moment. My cat played fetch. I would sit for hours and throw sparkle balls and he'd either catch them in mid-air or bat them around a little before trotting over with the ball in his mouth and dropping it at my feet. He came when I called. He was my best friend. I say this because I know there are folks who don't think you can have a meaningful relationship with a pet. And there are a lot of folks who don't like cats because they're not dogs. I didn't expect to adopt a cat who played fetch, obeyed voice commands, or was completely devoted to me. Cats were supposed to be aloof ... like I'd always tried to be.

Back to the story.

Things were hard, as I said. But, no matter what, I had to be able to feed Cat. I had to clean his litter box. I had something to take care of. He needed me. I didn't think I was worthy of being cared for. Cat disagreed. And there was no doubt in my mind that he deserved the best of everything. He ate better than me. I built a track around the wall of my 'bunker' ... er, studio ... and he'd run and jump and amaze me. The only thing that made me happy was Cat, bourbon, and John D. MacDonald. You can't snuggle with booze or dead writers, though.

I'd always been a pretty high-functioning drunk, so I didn't miss work, I finished school and even made the Dean's List. And I met a girl. And I reconnected with my best friend, Pat. We soon moved in together (me and Pat), and I was happy. We didn't have much, but we had guitars and a four track and I had a sweet girlfriend. And, most importantly, I had Cat. And he had a bigger apartment to run around in.

This girlfriend lasted about as long as the one who'd locked me out. Around two years. The major difference was that we parted as friends, crying, hugging, knowing we loved each other but were not right for each other. I think it hurt worse that way.

Pat and I moved to a new apartment, close to my first home in the Mission. We both worked. When we weren't working we read, played music, wrote a lot of songs about heartache, and spilled a lot of whiskey on our four track. The best songs I've ever written were written during this time. And Cat sat quietly and listened to us play.

Cat was the only true constant in my life. When I sat down, he sat on my lap. When I was in the shower, he waited outside the door. When I went to sleep, he curled up beside me. Once I was asleep, he'd take his night time prowls around the apartment, but he was always back when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes he didn't even ask for food.

And then I met Karen, the woman I would end up marrying. The first time she came to my house, we sat down and Cat ran over and climbed up on me, licking my chin for all he was worth. Karen thought it was cute. She was a cat person. Had she not been, we would not be married. But she was. She was wonderful with cats. Cat absolutely adored her. She gave him face massages and knew special tricks I didn't know. We were happy.

After a decent amount of time, we moved in together. Later, I would pop the question and we would marry. We're still married. We have two daughters. Until yesterday, we also had Cat.

When my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, I wondered how Cat would react. He was a thirteen pound Tom cat. I was about to have a baby that would weigh less and come un-equipped with claws and sharp teeth. I wasn't worried. Cat had never used his claws or his sharp teeth on anyone. Ok, I was a little worried. I needn't have been.

About a month before my daughter came, Cat began to lick and 'scent mark' all the things we had gotten for the baby. Crib, bouncy chair, toys. It was curious. Was he marking his territory? Was he helping us prepare? Other people worried. I didn't. Much.

When we brought my baby girl home, Cat kept a respectful distance without any encouragement. He was not angry. He was not jealous. He seemed happy for us. And he did not come within five feet of our daughter. Until she weighed thirteen pounds. That sounds crazy, but it's true. As soon as they were the same size, they became fast friends. My daughter slept in our bed, and, as she began to recognize the world around her, she began to really appreciate the cat she would later refer to as her 'big brother' - I would wager you'd have a hard time finding a better big brother.

Every morning, my daughter would wake up and grab Cat's tail. Then, she would rub it vigorously on her nose. She followed Cat around the apartment. She hugged him and dragged him to the ground. She tried to ride him like a horse. For a week or so, I worried that Cat was caught in a living hell. Then I noticed that he never left. He'd simply move away and wait to be tackled again. And he never once made an aggressive move toward the tiny child pulling on his ears. He was clearly enjoying himself. And my daughter was thrilled.

Years began to pass quickly. And each year took a little bit of Cat with it. Soon, he was eleven pounds. His demeanor did not change, but he became easier to pick up. He still chased sparkle balls. He still came running when he heard his name (I think he thought his name was psst psst, but he answered to Cat, too). When my second daughter was born, he did the same thing. Wouldn't come near her until they were the same size. Then, the exact same thing happened. Right down to the morning nose tickles with Cat's tail. Cat had another tiny friend. A more aggressive friend, but it was by nature - both my girls loved Cat.

As they tend to do, the years were catching up with Cat. Soon, he stopped chasing sparkle balls except for rare occasions. He slept more. His days consisted of napping beside me when I wrote and playing with the girls. He started sleeping more at night.

I was always good about taking Cat to the vet. He got a respiratory infection after being boarded that almost killed him (and me). I gave him antibiotics. He got better. Then the vet trips became more and more depressing. Bad teeth. He had some removed. His kidneys were failing. The last trip to the vet (before yesterday) was about a year and a half ago. They said he had a year left. He weighed seven pounds.

For the last several months, Cat could not eat solid food. We mixed cat food with baby food and when that was too much, we gave him straight baby food. We debated taking him to the vet, but I thought the trip would kill him.

Then, it was no longer a choice.

Two nights ago, I was reading before bed. My wife came in and told me to come see Cat. My throat closed and my heart sank. That's a cliche, but I felt it sink. I had been dreading this moment. I could read it on my wife's face.

Cat was unable to walk without stumbling. My wife had made an appointment with the vet for later in the week (the writing was on the wall, even if I didn't want to read it), but it was clear he was not going to make that appointment. My wife called the vet as soon as they opened. I found Cat hiding under the shelves in our "junk room," which he had claimed as his sanctuary. He was barely responsive. There was blood crusted on his nose and mouth. I have never felt such acute physical pain from an emotional response - and I don't know that I've ever been so scared.

When we got to the vet, Cat weighed in at six pounds. His bones poked out. His blood pressure was low. The vet, very kindly, told us that he could admit Cat to the hospital and buy him a few more weeks or months, but he would also support euthanizing him. As strange as it may sound, being "given permission" to euthanize Cat was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. When I can do it, I will go thank that kind vet.

I'm a pretty sensitive guy, and I'm not afraid of crying. I don't, however, like to cry in front of people I don't know. That didn't matter. My wife was trying not to cry. I didn't even try. I stood, covered in cat piss, bawling so hard I thought I might hyperventilate while the doctor asked me if I'd like Cat to be cremated or buried. Or if I'd like to take him with me. I tried to speak. I signed the paper.

Karen and my youngest went to the waiting room. My oldest was at school. I went back to a room that looked like a miniaturized version of every grandmother's living room. Soon, the doctor came in and put a pink towel on my lap. Then, he lay Cat on the towel. Cat had an IV in his shaved leg, and he had just been given the anesthetic. The doctor told me I had a few minutes and then Cat would sleep and he would be back.

What do you say? Especially when you're gasping and crying so hard you'd probably vomit if you had the strength. I thanked Cat for being the most loyal friend I've ever had. I thanked him for taking care of me and for letting me take care of him. I thanked him for loving my wife and my girls and being so sweet to them. His eyes were getting heavy and I said, "Psst psst." He looked up and I said: "I love you, Cat. I'll hold down the fort for you. Come back soon ... somehow ... if you can. And now just sleep. Just go to sleep and dream." I kissed the top of his head. You will never convince me that he didn't look grateful. His gratitude made it hurt even more. But it will help someday.

The vet came back in and made two injections into the IV. Thirty seconds later, Cat was gone. His body was there, but there was a very real sense that he was gone. The body was merely an empty vessel now. I stood up, tried to comport myself, gave up quickly and went out to the waiting room. I was sobbing. I later asked my wife how big of a wreck I'd looked like. She said I looked like someone who had just lost their best friend. Sounds about right. The nurses murmured their condolences. I shook the doctor's hand. Then, I shook, my whole body, for a long time.

I have always feared Cat's death, partly because he played such a huge role in my life, but partly because I'm not sure if I'd have a life if it wasn't for Cat. As I said, during periods of my life where I couldn't muster the courage to take care of myself (and didn't very well), I refused to shirk my obligations to Cat. I had to get out of bed. I had to make money to buy cat food. I had to be there for Cat because I knew he would do the same for me. And I promised him many times that, no matter how hard it would be, when it was time to step up and tell a man it was OK with me if he killed my cat, that I would do it. For him. And I did.

Yesterday, I did very little other than alternately cry and stare off into space. I hugged my family a lot. I winced when I saw Cat's bed. His food bowl. I'd realize that I'd never be sitting in a room and have Cat come in huffy that I'd snuck off and left him in bed. He was never mad. He just relocated his nap.

One of the realizations I had yesterday makes me feel strange. Over the years I have fought many battles against drugs and alcohol. And I quit them all. But I could never fully quit drinking. Three days ago, I drank too much at a party and had a come to Jesus talk with my wife. I have never been a mean or an angry drunk. And recently, I haven't even been drinking all that much, but the party made me realize (again) that when I take a sip of alcohol, I am taking a serious gamble. I might drink two beers and wake up feeling a little groggy. I might wake up with no memory of the night before. So, enough was enough. I wrote up a contract. If I ever drink again, my wife gets to sell my pocketknife collection (it's quite a collection) and my motorcycle. And I can never have a motorcycle ever again.

So, it occurred to me yesterday that, possibly, the Cat that kept me alive when I didn't care ... the Cat that spent his whole life loving me and putting me above everyone and everything else (including himself) ... maybe that Cat was finally satisfied that I'd be okay. And maybe he was smart enough to know that I would never break the vow if he checked out. He had been sick for a long time. Maybe it's a coincidence. I don't know. I don't think so, and I don't really care what anyone else thinks. I think Cat spent seventeen years looking out for me and, when he was confident that I would persevere on my own, he allowed himself to end the pain. He reached out to me and my wife and you could just tell that he needed it to be over.

What will I do now? Well, you can call it stupid or silly or whatever you want, but I am going to try and live the rest of my life by the example Cat set. He was never angry, never petty, never greedy. He was kind, loving, generous, and forgiving (not some of the time, ALL the time).

I don't believe in cat heaven. I don't believe in people heaven. I wish I did. I believe that Cat stopped being Cat the moment his heart stopped. My heart stopped for a second, too, but it kept beating.

My oldest daughter has never dealt with death before. She spent part of yesterday walking around with a stuffed cat and making meowing sounds (she's always done a really good Cat impression) until I asked her, in tears, to play with another toy. She asked if we could get a hamster now. Or another cat. It was like being stabbed in the heart. But she didn't mean me any harm. She was dealing with it in her way. And Cat would have understood that better than anyone.

Will I ever have another Cat? I don't know. If I do, it won't be for a long time. And if I do, that cat will have some pretty big shoes to fill. I know it won't be Cat, but someday I might be able to accept that I can love another furry thing.

Some people will probably find it weird that I wrote this. I understand. I had two reasons. One, when I was younger and didn't have any experience with domesticated animals, someone would tearfully tell me they put their dog or cat down and I'd say I was sorry while thinking, "Wow. It was only a dog/cat." I see now how stupid that was. It's hard to miss anyone you love when they die. It's damn near impossible when the loved one never did anything but fill your house, heart, and life with love and joy. Two, I have to write things out. I can't talk things well, but I can't keep it inside me or it will fester.

It still doesn't seem real. I took my best friend to the vet and didn't bring him home. Every time I leave my apartment and don't say, "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." will be a twinge in my heart. Maybe for the rest of my life.

And I write this because, despite the fact that I am currently typing ten words a minute through tears, I owe Cat a decent send off. I need people to know. Even if it's only six people. I need to tell the story. Hell, I'm a writer. If I was a sculptor, I'd be shopping for slabs of marble online. I'm not. My sculptures are made out of words. Usually, they are made out of pretty words that I care about very much. This is the first thing I've written in a long time where the words don't matter. I could give a damn about the typos because it all comes down to this:

It hurts. It hurts like hell, and I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. But I wouldn't trade the last seventeen years of my life for anything, either. Cat is gone, but he does live on in our hearts. In pictures. In videos. In anecdotes - the only time Cat ever hurt me was because I came home and he was covered in gel. I found one of those blue liquid-filled eye masks ripped open. I don't know what they make that gel out of. So, I immediately stripped, grabbed cat, and stepped into the shower. Water might have been the only thing Cat hated. His claws tore me up pretty bad, but he was scared and trying to hold onto me. And he didn't stop licking my face the whole time I shampooed him, rinsed him, dried him. And when were we done, I put my pants back on and he sat on my lap looking at me with golden eyes like I was the best thing in the world.

I held onto him for as long as I could.

Catamaphone Mader. 1998-2014. RIP, buddy. We'll never forget.

They Never Are

"So, what now?"

"What do you mean? We bury her."

"That's it? You're good with that. We bury her..."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, she was our mother."

"She was no fucking mother."

"That's the whole point, though. She can't hurt us now. We can get some kind of ... what the hell do they call it ... closure?"

"Yeah, we'll close it by putting her in the ground and hoping there's a hell."

"That's it?"

"That's it, Sis."

They walked up the steep path, puffing slightly. At 34 and 32, neither Sean nor Maddy were in 'sprinting up the hill' shape anymore. They knew the hill, and it knew them. It had even changed with them. Where once the hill had been an oasis of green, there were now stunted scrub bushes and empty beer cans. It was sad. It made Maddy especially sad. Sean was more concerned with his elevated heart rate.

When they reached the top, there was an awkward silence. The hill looked down over the whole neighborhood, including their mother's house. It was theirs now. Neither of them wanted it. They didn't even want to go inside. They'd sell it to a neighbor. Get rid of the damn thing. Exorcise the demons.

Sean lit a joint and passed it.

"Just like old times."

Maddy looked at the joint and frowned, then she shrugged and took it, inhaling deep.

"I thought I'd stop hating her when she died, Sis."

"Me, too. But now I just feel like I'll never get a chance to tell her how badly she screwed everything up."

"At least Dad got out."

"He fucking died, Sean. I don't know if that's a 'win'."

"Can you imagine if he hadn't?"

"Jesus."

They sat in silence, passing the joint until it was hard to hold. Maddy ground it out under the heel of her running shoe.

"Do you think she knew?"

"What?"

"How much we hated her?"

"Naw, Sis. I doubt it. She was fucking evil. And if she did know, it probably made her happy."

"Anything you want before we sell?"

"Nope. Literally, not one goddamn thing."

"I want her jewelry."

Sean cocked an eyebrow.

"Why? You gonna sell it?"

"Nope. I always wanted to see it ... touch it ... when we were kids. She never let me. I think 'things' were the only thing she loved. Especially the valuable shit. It's all that mattered to her. I'm gonna throw it all in a fucking lake."

"Will that make you feel better?"

"I don't know yet."

"That's a good point. I brought some booze, want some?"

"What the hell..."

The flask was filled with vodka.

"You drink too much."

"Yeah, I know. I do a lot of things too much."

"Why?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess it was worse for you, huh?"

"Maybe. Different. She didn't ... she hurt you in different ways."

Maddy lifted the flask.

"To Mom. Rest in misery, you sadistic bitch."

Sean laughed, and then they were both laughing. Bright-eyed laughter that lived around the corner from sadness. It had been like that as long as either of them could remember. Laughter and tears. Both important.

They started back down the hill. They walked around the shining neighborhood and looked at the houses. Same old houses. Most of the same people, older now. Maddy wondered if any of them knew, but she doubted it. Mom had always kept the crazy at home. No one ever talked about it.

They saw a figure approaching through the darkness. An old man. Then they saw the little dog. Mr. Johnson. They had dreamed about living with the Johnsons as kids. Their house had always been filled with games and smiles. It hadn't been brittle. Their house had always seemed about to split down the middle.

"Evening kids. I was real sorry to hear about your Mom. We all were. If there's anything we can do, let me know."

Sean's mind raced. He couldn't think of anything to say. Maddy stepped forward and began to sob. The old man put his arms around her. It felt nice.

"It's OK, sweetheart. Everything will be OK."

"She wasn't how you think she was..."

The old man's face went blank, there was a sadness there.

"They never are, sweetheart. They never are."

He Needed To Die

He tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut - sand and sweat and blood. He rose to one knee and the pain between his temples took his breath. Sudden. Shocking. It was a color he did not recognize, bright and vibrant in the darkness. He rotated his neck slowly; it sounded like broken glass. He could feel the sun, deadly hot. What the fuck? Then, everything slowed down. He remembered. He was supposed to be dead. He was close to it, now. Not close enough. He pictured the man's face and wished he'd chosen the bullet. His optimism had been folly. The desert does not empathize. The desert takes what it wants.

He tried to spit into his hand, but there was no moisture. He rubbed his eyes, but it ground the grit deeper. Sandpaper madness. Fuck. Where was the man with the bullet? Why had he been so stupid? Hubris. That's what they called it, right? He flashed to a college classroom: girl in the front, always dressed nice, pretty, perfect posture. He'd never spoken to her. Something about heroes. He couldn't remember.

The gun had freaked him the fuck out. That's what it was. The man smirking. I can shoot you or leave you here. He could hear himself begging: Don't shoot me. Just don't shoot me. The big man had looked almost shocked at his choice...which made sense, bullets are fast. But the gun. He'd looked at the end of the gun and just lost it. And there had been some hope in the decision, hadn't there? Stay alive ... it seemed ridiculous now.

He didn't understand. That was the injustice. Why him? What had he done? He tried to remember, but he was so thirsty. His head was so big. So fucking loud. Oh, Jesus. He was going to die, blind, in the desert. He wanted to rise and walk. He wanted to be the man who comes out of the desert. Louis L'Amour revenge fantasies blossomed. But this wasn't a book.

He had done bad things, sure. There was no denying that. But bad enough to die for? He searched through the slideshow in his mind. Some of the slides were blurry. Maybe he had done something during one of the black nights. Maybe it was mistaken identity. It didn't matter.

It was over. He knew it, but he couldn't accept it. Couldn't make it right in his mind. If only the man had explained. He'd asked and he could still hear the laughter. Does it fucking matter? No, it didn't matter. That was clear.

He let his head fall back and he could see the sun, just a redness through his eyelids. He could feel his skin burning. He tried to yell, but his throat was shredded. The sound that came out was something close to a howl. Pain. Fear. He smelled sweat and dry-heaved, gasping as he remembered the broken ribs.

The calm came slowly. Like an opiate ascent. Warmth. Not heat. Not the burning of the sun. A warmth from inside. Some kind of benevolent tranquility. He felt his muscles relax. He was relieved. Confused. Scared. He could feel death coming. He wanted it more than anything. He also wanted to live.

Pieces of the conversation came back to him. He remembered his pleading tone. The disgust on the man's face. Hell, he was disgusted with himself. He didn't know why. It was irrelevant. He did not know where he was. The man would not have left him an out. The desert promised death. And he couldn't even accelerate it. In his mind, he was on his knees, begging. Please. Please come back and bring the bullet. Bring the gun. I won't say a word. I promise. Jesus Christ! I promise!

The smells were strange. He had been lost in the labyrinth of his smells. Now, with the calm, other smells emerged. Some plant baking in the dust and sun. Sage? It was a sweet smell. It turned his stomach and made him shudder. Quick flashes. Christmas morning. His grandmother's peppermints. Acolyte candles. Altoid kisses behind the bleachers. There was also a smell of decay. He wondered if there were vultures circling.

His body was wet. A special slickness composed of sweat and blood. He had soiled himself. He could feel that, too. Smell it. He could smell his body becoming a part of the desert. Hot sand. The smell of wreaths and old wax. Resignation.

His brain was sluggish, still stuttering over the question. Why? In some velvet crease of the brain, he knew. Just as the man had said. It didn't matter. It was what it was. Everyone has a job to do. He fell on the hot sand and watched stars and cartoon faces explode behind his matted eyelids. The man had done his job. Now, to hold up his end of the bargain, he need only do the simplest thing in the world, let go. He needed to finish it.

He needed to die. 

Bygones

It wasn't that he found it. He'd known where it was for years, hidden beneath piles of attic treasure. He'd put it there himself. No, it was his decision to climb the ladder, find it, hold it. That was was the thing. That was what he said when his wife got home. Hold this for a few minutes. She was upset. Get that away from me! And he'd stood, it seemed like hours, wondering why he couldn't let it go.

He didn't know why he had finally decided to exhume the thing, but it was done. Dinner was a bland, vast silence. After dinner was no better. He listened to her night time sounds. Water running. Tooth brush bristles. Still, he sat in the living room. He couldn't put it down.

There are some things that hurt so badly that they transcend pain. They are too big to process. Then, there are the small triumphs. The occasional true victory. All these things spice up the routine. And without the spice, things get simple. Simple is not always good. Sometimes it is merely simple.

He turned it in his hands, and his mind went blank. The room was now near-dark. His wife was snoring softly. Shadows flitted around corners. He had that uncomfortable feeling that things were darting right in front of his face. That he was missing them, whatever they were.

He stood and looked out the window, turning it slowly. Feeling the scuffed edges. His focus shifted between the street and his reflection. The street was quiet, festooned with old fast food bags and cigarette butts. He was him. Thin. Everything was thin. Thin hair, thin arms ... his face was painfully thin. It wasn't his fault. Food didn't taste the same as it used to.

He was lonely ... lonely in a way that he could not explain, even to her. He was lonely at parties, with his friends, in his wife's embrace. He knew it. He tried to fix it. Internal monologue that was so loud he was sure everyone could hear: She's your wife! She loves you. She's holding you. You're supposed to feel comfort! You're supposed to feel fucking something! 

He played his role. Sometimes, he caught himself chuckling at jokes he hadn't heard. He agreed with everything that was said to him because the words took too long. They could never catch up with his pre-emptive self-loathing. So, he nodded. Right. Right. Certainly. Yes, yes. Never understanding.

It was time to sleep. He knew that. He had to work in the morning. But he could work tired, bleary-eyed, sometimes fatigue made the day go faster. Sometimes it didn't matter. Most of the time it didn't matter.

He couldn't even walk down the street. Strangers' innocent glances became assaults, insinuations, sly winks, looks of pity. Don't look at me! You don't know. Let me explain it to you so this will all make sense. So you will suck that look of sadness back inside your face. There was no point in explaining something he himself did not understand. He knew that.

When the phone rang, he jumped. Finally. He had known ... there was a reason that he'd gone spelunking in the attic. He reached for the phone with shaking hands. He knew that the person on the other end of the line would make it all sensible again. His hello wavered slightly, a gut-shot deer trembling before the fall. Is Michael there? A woman's voice. He didn't know what to say. He said nothing. Hello? Hello? I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number. 

The phone clicked to the dial tone and still he stared at it, gripped it with all his might. Wrong number? Wrong fucking number? You were supposed to explain. The phone never rings and tonight of all nights ... damn. Damn, damn, damn.

He wondered what a "man" would have done with all this. That was drilled so far into his brain. His father, long dead. Broken leg? Be a man. Broken heart? Be a man. Failure, ache, longing, pain? Be a fucking man, Nancy! But he wasn't a man. Not the kind of man his father had wanted him to be. He was a man, perhaps, in gender only. Or, as he had long suspected, his father had merely simplified the rule book. He'd taken a different approach. He had never told his son to be a man and, perhaps, it would have made a difference. He had his doubts.

The phone was still ringing in his ears as he slowly scanned the apartment. Everything was bright, crisp, defined. Even through the haze of half-light. It wasn't right. Was he drunk? He hadn't had a drink in years. What was it? A stroke? A hallucination? He blinked hard, letting his eyes rest in the closed position. When he opened them again, the room was back to normal. The pounding in his chest settled to a trot.

He realized that he was still holding it. Where would he put it? The mantle? The dining room table? He scouted places of honor inside small, dark rooms ... places where it could finally rest ... his hands began to shake again, and he was afraid he would drop it. And with the fear came the knowledge of his folly. It had been in the attic for a reason.

He climbed the fold-down ladder carefully, one hand on the rungs. He pulled the ball-chain, and angry light fell on boxes of Christmas decorations. His fishing gear. Her sewing machine. Piles of clothes and mystery. Things they hadn't touched in years. With a wavering confusion, he put it back where he'd found it. He walked slowly down the ladder and then to the garage where he grabbed his hammer and four long nails. The pounding sound woke his wife. He did not know this.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face. The harsh light of the bathroom made him feel silly, romantic, foolish, ashamed, angry. He turned the light off and pissed in the dark.

He climbed into the bed. He had never understood why the bed had to be so high. It was something he used to give her grief about: the high bed, the fancy pillows that they weren't allowed to actually use - he had stopped hassling her years ago. She wanted a tall bed with fancy pillows. A bed that always looked 'bed and breakfast' sharp. Maybe it was the one thing she could control. He didn't fault her for it. He did not try to make her feel small.

She was asleep on her side. He thought so, at least. He curled around the back of her, his arm draped across her hip. He felt her move slightly, an adjustment that, somehow, made for a closer fit. Did you put it away? He didn't have to answer. What were you hammering? There was no need to answer that one either. He knew she knew.

He kissed her gently on the back of her neck. He held her close until her breathing was slow and regular, plodding. He held her while she dreamt, sometimes lashing out with her arms ... sleep fighting. He held her until the sun wiggled through the curtain. The curtain that matched the pillows.

She woke, but she did not move. And neither did he. They stayed together. What else was there to do, really? Just hold on and hope that holding on is enough. They did not go to work that day. They did not speak. The words had been spoken a million times before. He thought about the attic door. The nails smartly embedded in the old, dry wood. He wondered how long he would be able to keep his promise. The one he'd broken so many times. Let bygones be bygones. He didn't know if it was possible, but he would try.

Finally Bagged One

When I was young, the woods were my playground. I fished, burned things, made slingshots and bows. I used my scout knife to whittle absurdly sharp arrows that flew sideways and broke with astonishing ease. Which was cool. Because I liked whittling arrows.

I was a strange kid, which is kind of like saying 'I am a person who eats food', but it is true. I was a strange kid. I wanted, more than anything, to be rooted to a place. To not move all the time. And yet I was obsessed with birds. So, perhaps I just wanted to be untethered, but led by my own capriciousness, not the whim of the United States Government. 

I read about birds obsessively. I spent hours looking through my mom's old field guides and I looked for hawks everywhere I went. And I always saw them first. And my folks called me 'eagle eye'. And they were right. 

Raptors were my favorite. I stared at glossy pictures for hours. I can't remember what I thought about when I looked at the birds. Maybe I thought about nothing, which would certainly have been a relief. In hindsight, I worshipped hawks. They were beautiful, but strong. They were agile, but deadly. They were free to fly wherever they wanted, soaring on updrafts. They did not worry about where they would be moving next. They did not need friends. They were probably the closest thing to being free that my mind could comprehend at six years old. They were my heroes.

As I got older, I got better at making bows. I learned to make thicker arrows that flew straight because I notched feathers into the butt ends. When I was ten or so, I asked Santa Claus for a real bow. A compound bow that would send arrows into the heavens, straight and fast, plunging back to earth like a Peregrine Falcon.

My Dad bought me a BB gun. I don't know why. I really wanted a bow, but I was not disappointed for long. I was too young to understand that guns could be anything other than fun. And I was a good shot. Eagle eye, they called me, remember? I made a shooting range in our garage and it was a good BB gun. Pretty soon, I could shoot the flame off a candle. 

My sister was older than I was and she did not want to fly; she wanted to find a book that never ended. A wonderful book that would stay with her, day after day. Year after year. She did not understand that her spastic brother, four years junior, just wanted to talk to someone. She was the only one who was experiencing anything close to what I felt. But she did not want to talk. She wanted to read and to be left alone.

There were many things that I considered a game that my sister did not. I wanted someone to play with. She did not. I wanted someone to tell me that it sucked that we had to move so much. She wouldn't. I was annoying. She knew how to stop it. Fast. My stomach still clenches when I think about it. 

I loved the gun. I loved the gun because I was a good shot. I loved the gun in that way young boys have of imagining things that will never be. Things that I didn't even want. Things I thought I should want. 

I shot through BBs by the hundred. I also clipped Q-tips in half so I could shoot the gun inside. Tamped down the end of the barrel, ten pumps, that Q-tip would fly a good twenty feet. And it would fly straight, especially when wetted with Juicy Fruit spit. 

So, I shot Q-tips at my sister. It wasn't a cool thing to do. It didn't hurt, but it violated a lot of things. It involved pointing a gun at my sister. It was wasteful. It was immature. It was everything that I was not supposed to be. It was careless.

I don't think my sister ever said anything because I don't remember getting in trouble, and I still have the gun. It would have been taken. No doubt. I don't know why my sister didn't tell anyone. Maybe for the same reason I never said that every argument ended with me in the fetal position crying, the ache inside me spreading.

Things escalate. That would be a pretty good subtitle for the autobiography I will never write. The story of JD Mader - "Things Escalate". 

I never had a pet when I was a kid and I didn't really like animals without wings. I mean, I didn't dislike them, but I also didn't feel bad shooting my neighbor's cat in the ass. One pump. Cat took off like a bottle rocket. I never would have hurt an animal. I shot myself point blank with one pump all the time. In the foot. The stomach. Sometimes the temple. The eyelid, once. I knew the cat would be fine. It's not one of my prouder moments, but I wasn't one of those kids who tortured animals. There was enough torture going around.

I don't remember when I started shooting at the grackles and black birds that sat in the top of pine trees, level with my bedroom window on the second floor. I shot at them with Q-tips and they rarely moved. Sometimes, I would get close enough that they would flap away, indignant. I only did this when my parents were gone. I'd smoke cigarettes on the roof and shoot Q-tips out my window. 

I have no idea what compelled me to load the gun with BBs. I suppose, since I had never come close with a Q-tip ... maybe I didn't make the connection. Maybe the candle flames had been snuffed in my mind as they had been in the garage. All I know is that, one day, I loaded the BB gun, pumped it ten times, aimed at a black bird high in the tree and barely visible - an impossible shot - and I pulled the trigger. Just as I had been taught to do. Just how I'd practiced. I held my breath with one eye closed and gently squeezed.

When the bird fell, I was dumfounded. It spiraled to earth like the ducks on Duck Hunt. My heart stopped. I dropped the gun and ran to the yard as fast as I could. The bird was still alive. I had hit it in the eye, and it was bloody, gasping. Suddenly, the boy that I thought I was evaporated. Because the boy that I thought I was would never have shot a bird. And if he did, and it didn't die, he would have put it out of its misery. Like a man.

The boy that I was did something I will never forgive him for. He ran inside and got two plastic bags. He put the bird in the bags. He watched it open and close its beak, making intricate patterns in the blood that smeared the inside of the plastic. 

The bird wouldn't die. 

I didn't know what to do. The gun was upstairs. I was in the yard, tears streaming down my face, a dying bird suffocating in my hand. I remember thinking how beautiful the ink black feathers were. 

I dug in the dirt with my hands, frantic. I tore my fingernails and pulled roots and stones from beneath my mother's favorite bush. I put the bird inside the grave, still alive when I put it in the ground. Still alive when I scooped handfuls of dirt on it. Still alive when I went upstairs and washed my hands and put the BB gun in the back of my closet. I knew I would not get caught and that was the worst part. 

I know the bird died eventually, but in my mind, it will always be under eight inches of dirt, gasping, eyeless, with it's head pressed against bloody Zip-Lock.

The Spinner

The old man stood silently by the edge of the water. His eyes were squinting into the nigh-set sun. He was almost motionless, and the animals had taken him for one of their own. They did not fear him. He was like a tree stump. His body did not move when he made a cast. A quick flick of the wrist sent his small spinner tumbling low across the still water. Occasionally, a swallow would dip to the flying lure and the old man would smile.

There were times when the rhythm of casting could take him back in time. Decades passed in seconds. Sometimes, he would catch himself turning to look for Tommy. Then he would remember, and he would feel foolish on top of feeling the pain. He'd hear the voice of the preacher saying how it wasn't right for a child to die before their parents. He recalled being so angry when the red-faced man had said it. Now he knew that, cliche or not, it was the absolute truth.

He blinked back a tear and flicked the spinner toward a weed bed, skirting it just above the vegetation. Years and years. He could see the bottom of the lake in his mind. It was part of him.

He'd loved fishing with Tommy. That kid. God had put a lot of pepper in that kid. He was hell on wheels from the time he'd learned to walk. The folks at school had all kinds of fancy names for it, but he knew it was simpler than that: he was a boy. A boy who didn't like school.

Sometimes, he'd called his son "All or Nothing" because that's what he was. He was a passionate boy who lived by extremes. It made him hard to deal with, but there was a fire in him that was a pleasure to see. And he had been a good fisherman. He was relaxed at the lake. The sun melted the chip on his shoulder.

The old man was crushed, and was inexplicably embarrassed, remembering the morning Tommy died. Or maybe he'd died in the night. Regardless, he was dead when his father had tried to wake him. Shaking the boy gently. Then more roughly. Then with tears in his eyes. He didn't stop until the doctor had given him that shot. And, though he knew it was stupid, it shamed him. He couldn't accept that his little boy, though no longer little, was gone from the world.

He paused his retrieval when he knew the lure was right over a submerged log. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. And then there as a tug on the line and the old man set the hook. He added the crappie to the others in his cooler and took the spinner off. Before putting it in the empty chaw tin he kept in his back pocket, he took a close look at it. The paint was chipped. Gone, really. It was a battered wood color now. The golden spinner blade was still shiny. He watched it flop in the breeze, glinting like a little piece of magic. He held the lure in his hand and thought. How long? How many times had the little piece of wood, feather, and metal provided his dinner?

He couldn't look away. There was a memory tickling the edges of his mind. He wanted to think that this was the same lure, but he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He smiled. He looked up the bank to the deep water Tommy had loved. He closed his fist around the lure and felt a slither of blood eke between his fingers. He looked at it and chuckled, rinsed his hand in the water. He put the lure away. And then he broke down his rod and ended another afternoon fishing the same way he had for over fifty years now. He stood perfectly still and absorbed it all. He watched the herons loop in a lazy sky. He heard the red-winged blackbird call. He could hear an osprey shrieking and there was an otter playing in the weeds, taking long strings of green to places unknown, even to the old man. He looked at the light dance on the water and smiled.

"Goodnight, son."

Tomatoes

The match dove toward the sidewalk, a smoking rocket, a NASA nightmare. He pulled the nicotine deep into his lungs, and he felt time slow down. Just a hair. So little, he barely noticed, but enough. Just enough.

The rust red, crumbling bricks shimmered in the sun. He lit another cigarette. There was no point in postponing it. He just didn't want to hear it. Even if he already knew. It was like they had to rub it in. He knew she was dead, he didn't need some slick city doctor to tell him that.

He had half a mind to just get up and leave. But there was probably some paperwork to fill out. He stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and threw the butt in the nearest trash can.

He saw the doctor coming, and he saw his practiced look of concern, and he felt a little sick inside. Not because she was dead, but because he'd have to hear the words come out of some asshole kid's mouth.

"Sir, I'm so sorry to tell you that your wife has passed."

"Yes, sir. I know she has."

The doctor cocked his head to the side and with his round glasses he looked just like an owl. Bud chuckled.

"Sir, would you like to speak to one of our counselors?"

"Nope. Want to go home."

"Sir, I think you're in shock."

"Nope again, son. I'm not in shock. My wife is dead. I know that. Now I'd like to go home and get to work. I've been neglecting the tomatoes."

"Sir, these things can be unexpected, even when..."

"Listen, boy. Don't talk. Just listen. I know my wife is dead. She's been dying for five years. This is neither a shock, nor a disaster. It's a blessing if you ask me. I loved that woman. And I don't know what they teach you in college, but I don't appreciate your tone. You did your job, now move on."

"Sir, anger is a natural reaction..."

"Listen, boy. I ain't angry. I ain't happy, but I am something close to it. Do you know what it's like to watch the woman you love die? Do you know what it's like to have the woman you love die and have some snotnose kid insinuating you aren't grieving right?"

"Sir..."

"Jesus, son. I thought doctors were supposed to be smart?"

The doctor's eyes flashed and Bud cocked his head to the side like they were mirror images.

"Well, you go take care of your tomatoes then, sir. If's that's what is important to you right now..."

Bud's old, busted fingers wound themselves up in the boy's lab coat. Bud pushed him up against the wall. His face was inches away from the owl glasses.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch. I don't like tomatoes. I never fucking liked tomatoes. But my wife loved them. And if those plants die, I'm going to come back here and kick every inch of your pretentious, ivy-league ass for delaying me. Do you understand now?"

The doctor looked down at his shoes.

"I understand."

"Good, then I'm going home. I'll come back tommorow and fill out any paperwork you got. Today, I need to water them tomatoes. Never do to let 'em die."

Thank You and Goodbye

He held the trout gently, hand under its soft belly, and he spoke to it in his heavy accent. Alright, fish. Let's make this good and easy. Good and easy. I do not want to eat trout tonight.

He was careful not to handle the fish roughly. The barbless fly dropped easily out of the fish's mouth, but it was tired. It had put up a good fight. A brook trout is a beautiful thing. Like the northern lights. Like a peacock. Mother nature likes to show off now and again, and she did a doozie on the brookie. Bright red and yellow dots lined its sides, flashing in the lazy sun.

The old man reached a weathered hand into the chilling water. He gently turned the fish in the current and helped it breathe again. It finned beside his boot briefly and then shot away, back to its home under the brittle roots of a stream-side tree.

The man smiled and chuckled in spite of himself. Good fight. Strong fish. By God, beautiful fish. God, thank you for these beautiful fish. You know what they have meant to me. 

Josef liked to talk to God, but it was really a way to speak to himself without feeling crazy. He'd lived alone since his wife had passed. The kids had tried to "rescue" him. They didn't understand and Josef had even yelled at his son. It was the first time he had ever yelled at one of his children.

"Fritz! You will not tell me how to live my life. There is not much of it left. What I do with the rest of my life is for me. Not for you!"

"Dad, you're being foolish..."

"How dare you speak to your father like this? How many times in your life have I called you foolish? How many times have I doubted you?"

"Dad, I'm sorry. We're just so scared. I think about you alone in this house. It makes me sad. And worried. You don't get around like you used to..."

"Good, you leave sad and worried to me. Let's fish."

"Dad, we talked about the fishing..."

"We talked? You talked. I know the streams. They know me. If they choose to take me, I will go with a smile on my face."

Frederick rubbed his temples and tried to think of an argument that made sense. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the neon crumbs of his mind.

"You promise not to go too close to the water?"

"No."

Frederick sighed, but inside of him there was a smile. Old Josef. That's what he had always been called. Even when he was young, before he was a father, they had called him 'Old Josef'.

Frederick grabbed onto his father's forearm and marveled again at the contrast - strong muscles covered in skin like rice paper. Josef pulled his arm away.

"I don't need help falling, Fritz."

"Dad..."

"You hold me because you love me. I understand. But you must understand, too. A man has his pride."

Frederick looked down with shame in his heart. He knew he was right, not the old man, but the validation changed nothing.

"Dad...I'm sorry. Let's go fishing."

*****

Frederick did not know that his father fished without him. He did not know that, most days, the man spent thirty minutes battling trembling fingers, trying to get his waders on, covered with sweat by the time he had finished. He did not know that he still tied his own flies, arthritic fingers aching with the pleasure. His flies were simpler now. Life was simpler now. His wife was gone, his heart was broken, and, whether he admitted it or not, Josef was done with life. Now it was just a matter of patience.

The brook trout had been the first fish of the morning. It was a perfect winter day. The sun was soft, and it made everything appear as if viewed through a cheese cloth. The sun was rising and his muscles felt good. He waded back out into the stream until he was over his knees. His gargoyle fingers pulled line from the reel and he cast lazily toward a large pool. He fished the pool for an hour before a strong brown trout nipped the fly from the surface. Josef raised the rod and kept tension on the line. The fish dove, and he coaxed it out. The fight lasted almost five minutes. When the fish was beside his boot, he slipped a hand down and knocked the hook out. The trout was gone is a flash of silt. Joseph smiled. You do not get so tired? Or are you just a fighter? Well, you are back with your friends now.

It happened so quickly that Josef couldn't process it. The water was frigid and his legs were almost numb, even with the waders. He turned to head upstream and his right leg found the 'Y' of an old tree branch. He heard a sound. A snapping noise that played throughout his body. He sat down hard in the water, dumfounded. He thought of the slingshot he could make with the limb and chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. He tried to stand and, though there was no pain, his leg would not support him and he fell face-forward into the icy water. The shock of the cold water was abrupt and exhilarating. It cleared his mind. He was, at most, a mile from his house. It had been a mild winter, but the temperature was still in the thirties. Josef. You cannot make it home. But. Get up, old man. Get up. 

Josef was soaking wet, and his waders felt filled with cement. His whole body was growing numb. With a terrible slowness, he dragged himself toward the deep hole. He took an old Barlow knife from his pocket. It was wet and his fingers were numb. His hands bled as he cut into the cork of the old fly rod. Three words: I love you.

Fritz would find it. And he would know. With the last of his strength, Josef launched the rod onto the bank. It caught in a some brambles by the creel looped over a low-hanging limb. Hell of a shot, Josef. Once in a lifetime shot, old man. He smiled. He looked at the blue sky. He thought of his wife. Of Fritz. Of Helen and his grandchildren. A tear escaped his eye. But he was not sad.

He stepped off the ledge and sunk into the deep hole, pulled down by the weight of his waders. The water had already numbed him. He opened his eyes and, in the clear water, he was almost sure he could see the big, brown trout. He sank further and further, until he touched the bottom. He had always known that the hole was deeper than it looked. He closed his eyes and felt the stab of death in himself. He smiled again. This is a good thing, Josef. The fishes were good. Beautiful day. Goodbye fishes. Thank you and goodbye.

Josef was dead long before the sun set. Long before the the stream was bathed in the light of a Cheshire moon. Long before the nighthawks cried. Long before Frederick sat in his chair and knew, inexplicably but with certainty, that his father was gone.