The Revenge of Sagremor

Don't piss off a cat.

I've learned this lesson many times in the past few years. But it never sticks. Mainly because I don't actually know how to actively piss off a cat. I just happen to do it on a regular basis.

Kay, my "responsible" cat, never really seems to stew for very long. He just kinda accepts that he's been pissed off, then hides somewhere until he calms down.

Sagremor, on the other hand. Well... he's a bit more stubborn. He's also a bit more clingy, even though Kay is the one who likes to follow me around like a puppy.

I typically let both cats outside in the morning. It's part of the daily routine. I get up, go to the bathroom, let the two cats and one dog out of the house, then go about making breakfast, getting dressed, etc. Kay is great. He goes out, plays outside damn near all day, and only comes home when he wants to eat dinner and go to sleep. Basically, he's out, then in, and that's it.

Sagremor... ugh. He likes to go out, come back in, go back out, come back in, go back out, come back in, go back out... yeah... ugh.

One night this last Halloween weekend, I had guests. Sagremor went out, came in, went out, came in, went out, came in... It got kinda irritating. After everyone else was gone (sometime just before 2:00 AM on Saturday), I'm doing my habitual last email check before bed (yes, I'd been sleeping at that point). I hear Sagremor meow outside of the window. Usually, this means he's ready to come in, eat, and fall asleep. So I let him in. And then I went to bed.

Or tried to, anyway, since he decided to meow incessantly in a futile attempt to be let back outside. Sorry, dude, but I was comfortable and teetering on the edge of an all-too-rare-these-days passing-out sleep.

The next morning I'm feeling quite refreshed. I get up, use the bathroom, and let the animals outside (except for Kay, who continued to sleep for most of the morning). And that's when I see it. A piss stain on the carpet. That big "fuck you" that only a cat is capable of.

Fine. Whatever. I clean it up. Since I was cleaning already, I decided to do a complete run-through of the entire house. Bathroom. Kitchen. Vacuum. And, shit, since I was well-rested, I decided to vacuum the couch and fit it for a couch cover. Removing the three cushions, that's when I see it. Or them, rather. Piss stains all along the backing of the couch.

They're clean now. The couch is covered now. And I'm calm now. But Sagremor is very lucky he was outside.

Cricket & Rabbit

Cricket and Rabbit shared many adventures together. Though the two lived together for only a short while, they'd seen and experienced nearly all their world had to offer. Crossing the Hard River of Black was particularly dangerous, and the screaming lights almost made finding home impossible. The Wood Towers provided a journey full of hardship and exhilaration. And the Abyss Underneath revealed several hidden wonders while exposing terrifying fears.

Never were there closer friends than Cricket and Rabbit. They were not, however, a cricket and a rabbit. Brother cats from the same litter, they were taken from their mother by the kind young man and cared for like they were the man's own offspring. Despite the love of the kind young man, there was a big, ugly, white dog who had black spots. His name was Xander and, try as Cricket and Rabbit might, Xander refused to befriend the kittens. In fact, Xander remained a vile enemy for all time.

***

"Wake up, Rabbit!" Cricket is always excited in the morning. Then again, Cricket is always excited. If ever a cat can be described as loquacious, Cricket is it. Always jumpy, he's almost always making some sort of noise, even in his sleep. In fact, the only time Cricket is quiet is when he's scared.

"Oh, Cricket," Rabbit mumbled, "can't you give me until the sun's actually over the line at the end of the sky?"

"But there's adventure to be had!"

"Aw, Cricket, we had one yesterday."

"That was yesterday!"

Rabbit straightens himself out, yawning a toothy yawn, his butt and his tail extending into the air. He considers momentarily to slash at his brother with his exposed claws, but he forgets the idea. Rabbit's rarely mean to anybody, including overeager siblings. "Fine, but let me use the sandbox first."

"Hurry, hurry! The man is putting more leaves in the field!"

"He does that all the time," Rabbit utters as he makes his way into the room called a laundry room. There he finds the sandbox he's looking for, full of dusty and gritty gray grains of dirt. And hardened clumps of yesterday's business. "What he needs to do is get us new sand."

***

Cricket and Rabbit stare at the large glass, mesmerized by the rising sun and the young man placing a strange, green plant in the middle of a field with other strange plants (not all of them green). This new plant looks like a weak group of fuzzy vines. But on the fuzzy vines were these green and red (mostly red) balls. After the young man seems satisfied with where the plant is, he grabs one of the balls and takes a bite out of it. There's a large smile across the young man's face.

"Oh, it's food!" Cricket exclaims, which reminds him that he's yet to partake in the morning's kitten chow.

"It looks gross," Rabbit replies.

The two cats watch through the large glass - something the young man calls a window - as Xander trots up to the plant and sniffs it. Cricket and Rabbit watch, to their delight, as the young man bats Xander on the nose and scolds the dog.

"Shall we go take a closer look?" Cricket asks, the answer already in his mind.

"I don't know, Cricket." Rabbit appears nervous. "I don't think the man wants us to go near it."

"Oh, come on, it'll be an adventure!"

Before Rabbit can object, Cricket takes his usual position near a small table and prepares to pounce through the opening door. The man enters the house, intent on washing his hands, and Cricket bolts outside.

Not wanting to get left behind, even with his nagging reservations, Rabbit calls out, "Wait for me!" and joins his brother in the backyard.

***

At the strange plant, the two kittens examine it with their noses and their paws. Cricket is a tad disappointed and Rabbit knows it, but Rabbit also knows that Cricket will pretend that he's enjoying this so-called grand adventure anyway.

"Oh, look, Rabbit! It's so... red!"

"I think we should go back inside. The sun's heating my favorite part of the carpet."

"Come on! That can wait!"

"So can this."

A thought pops into Cricket's head and he rushes over to where Xander is reluctantly sleeping. Xander very much wants to play with the young man, but it seems the young man spends most of his time inside with the two stupid kittens. Rabbit, realizing that Cricket is going to bother the dog, chases him.

"Cricket, don't wake up Xander! He might eat you!"

"He's not going to eat me. Don't be stupid."

Xander notices the exchange and opens his eyes. "I will if you get any closer to me, you annoying whelps."

Cricket and Rabbit freeze in their tracks. Cricket, suddenly unsure of what to do, just comes out and asks a question. "Why did the young man bat your nose when you sniffed the new leaves?"

Lifting his head, Xander almost answers honestly, but stops himself. He stares at the two kittens and formulates a wicked plan. "Oh," Xander starts, "he said I'm not ready for the magical gifts yet."

Cricket's eyes widen while Rabbit's suspicions arise. "Magical gifts?" Cricket inquires.

"Yes, yes," Xander answers, trying not to laugh. "Those red balls are magic. If you eat one, you will receive a special power."

"You're lying," Rabbit says, not one to trust anything that comes out of Xander's mouth, which includes his breath.

"What special power?" Cricket's lost in dreams of being a magical cat and ignores the obvious concern in Rabbit's tone.

Xander closes his eyes and lays his head back down. "Well, there's only one way to find out." It is a clever response to both Rabbit's statement and Cricket's question.

***

"Aw, what happened?" the young woman asks the young man. Rabbit could hear the false sympathy in her voice, but is too tired and depressed to run over to her pantyhouse and scratch her for it.

"I don't know," the young man starts, "but the vet thinks he got into the tomato plant. I didn't even know he got outside."

"What did you do with his body?"

"It's buried in the backyard."

Rabbit, through tear-filled eyes, glances out the large glass to the freshly turned soil beneath which his brother is laid to rest. On top of it lies a large rock, there partly as a marker - it reads: "Here lies Cricket, the most energetic kitten I've ever seen." - and partly to keep Xander from digging up the body.

Gazing at the sleeping dog, Rabbit swears that the evil beast is smiling in his sleep. One day, perhaps when Rabbit is larger, there will be revenge.

For now, though, Rabbit will fall asleep and dream of a great adventure... with Cricket at his side.

"Rabbit, there's adventure to be had!"

"Aw, Cricket, we had one yesterday."

"That was yesterday!"

Sagremor

He was born sometime in the latter half of 2004, shortly after the first time I moved to Wilmington, North Carolina. It was August, I think... September at the latest. I can't recall exactly, but I do have the date written down somewhere. I watched him come out of his mother, Guinevere, along with his two twin brothers - Arthur and Kay - and his twin sister, Isolde. Yes, he was part of my Cats of the Round Table, and while I fear the worst, I hope that he still is.

But he's probably dead. Being abandoned in a place where coyotes and hawks hunt freely tends to lead to that.

Sagremor wasn't always the friendliest cat, at least not as I remember. He wasn't my favorite - Guinevere and Arthur were - though my ex-girlfriend claims that he was hers (along with Tristan, from Gwen's first litter). As such, the first year-and-a-half of his life is lost on me. Upon preparing the leave Wilmington in early 2006, my ex and I made the decision to give up two of our cats. We had six, and trying to move nine animals (counting the three dogs) from North Carolina to California didn't seem like an ideal situation. So, using a strange method of determination, Kay and Sagremor were selected to be given to my ex's mother.

Now, as I implied, I didn't spend a lot of one-on-one time with Sagremor and even though I wasn't giving him up lightly, I felt that it was something that wouldn't keep me up at night. The day before he and Kay were supposed to go to their home, that all changed. For whatever reason - be it animal instinct or some other paranormal observation - both of those cats knew something was up. One at a time, they came up to me as I watched television, climbed into my lap, and pulled a cute act... cuddling at purring as if begging to stay. Obviously, given my attachment to my pets (and animals in general), they were loaded into the back of the truck with the other seven four-pawed members of my family.

Once in the West, misfortune forced all of us to settle in a small desert town in Northern Nevada. It was there that four of the cats - Isolde, Guinevere, Arthur, and Tristan - disappeared (I later saw Isolde and Guinevere hunting together in the middle of the desert a few miles away, but that's another story). Sagremor and Kay, however, stuck around as if to emphasize their loyalty to me for making the choice to remain loyal to them. I miss the others, sure, and often dream of them, but Sagremor and Kay became my favorites... and not just by default of them being the only ones left.

Sagremor was, by all accounts, a cuddling cat. He liked to hunt, loved the outdoors, but he always came back within a few hours to use the bathroom and take advantage of a free hand for a petting. He had an obnoxiously loud meow, but it was an effective tool to let one know that he wanted inside (or outside, depending). He loved being picked up, held upside like a baby, and having his stomach rubbed. And he had ridiculously long teeth... so long that I often called him "Vampire Cat." He also had a recurring problem with his wrists and could often be seen limping, particularly after attempting too high a jump (usually from the top of a refrigerator).

Like all cats, he hated traveling by car, but he tolerated it as we returned to Wilmington in the summer of 2007, settled in a sub-let, then settled again in our own place (barely 15 minutes from where he was born), then left again in October of 2009. He tolerated living in a garage outside of Fort Bragg while I tried to tie as many loose ends as I could before returning to the West.

Upon our return, I knew that I would need to place him temporarily with someone while I yet again found us a home. So I left him with my sister, thinking he would be well-taken care of and babied as much as he was used to. While I stayed with her, she let him (and Kay) in the house, got familiar enough with him so he'd sleep on her lap, and everything appeared to be going according to plan. But, on Wednesday, May 12, I left for Seattle to take care of some things. I last saw him cleaning his brother's forehead in my sister's living room. He looked happy.

She kicked him out of the house while I was away. In my head, I know what happened, because I know Sagremor very well. No doubt from his "let-me-in" meows being ignored, he took off in search of friendlier pastures... pastures that were never meant for him to find. I've been scouring the desert, all through the night for the past two days, in an attempt to bring him home.

There's a chance this eulogy is false, rash, and the result of too pessimistic an imagination, and I hope this to be the case. But in that there are no signs of him, combined with the strange behavior of his brother - behavior I saw in Tristan when Isolde disappeared - he's probably dead. And I will lose sleep over it.

*Serendipity smiles upon me... within 20 minutes of this post going up, the chubby bastard came home. He'd been gone for almost 8 days. I'll admit, I overreacted. But I'm happy and don't care if you sneer, roll your eyes, or laugh. And neither does his brother, who seems happier than I am.

Separation Anxiety

I'm in the process of giving up my pets, and it sucks. No, it's not a permanent situation, merely one borne of necessity as I attempt to resettle into an oversized city and get back to work. As soon as I'm able to acquire a place with a decent backyard, I'll retrieve my four-legged companions (all five of the bastards) and live happily ever after... at least in terms of cats and dogs.

I've done it before with two of my dogs (Jasper and Starbuck), but this will mark the first time that I'll be separated long-term from my alpha male (Jax, who's very close to getting his nuts chopped off) and the two most loyal cats I've ever known (Kay and Sagremor). Oh, there's a possibility Jax's adopted mother won't be able to handle him and he'll wind up with me in the city of angels, but until that presents itself, I'm planning on not seeing him for a while.

And it sucks.

I'm not a worrier. That gene seems generally absent from my DNA, but I am going to feel a bit sad at not being able to run and spoil these guys (yes, they're all male... that's another story). I know this beyond any reasonable doubt. A while back I drove to Las Vegas for some work. This drive marked the first time I made a long-distance drive without my dogs in the back of my truck. I couldn't help but checking the bed every so often to make sure they were doing okay, even though there was nothing back there.

And now I'll be making another long-distance drive to drop them off with a friend of mine so I can concentrate on getting back into the industry that I left over a year ago. And it sucks. I can already see myself suffering from depressing separation anxiety on the drive back. It's bad enough that I've already left my two cats with my reluctant but willing sister. I feel as though I'm somehow punishing them for their loyalty (that, too, is another story).

But, people have to do what they have to do.

It still sucks.

Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks.

A Really Strange Dream

A while back (November 1st or so) I had this really, really weird dream. Like, really weird. It was one of those dreams that feels like it's been dreamed before... and, who knows? Maybe it was. I asked a friend to look up some of the "symbols" in the dream to see what some think they dream might mean, but it was all very confusing.

So, what was the dream?

I was traveling across the country, from the East Coast to the West Coast (probably to California),  when I arrived at an abandoned restaurant somewhere in Tornado Alley (Kansas comes to mind, but I can't be sure... maybe Oklahoma; maybe Nebraska). Somehow I encounted a bunch of "friends" of mine (friends is in quotes because, unlike most of my other dreams, I don't actually know any of the people in this one) and decided to reopen the restaurant. This part of the dream is a little hazy, but I remember scolding one of the waitresses (apparently I was the floor manager and the host) for taking an order from a table without turning in a previous order to the kitchen. It should be noted that the waitress couldn't have been more than 12 years old.

Aside from that, the Grand Opening was going well, but for some reason I went outside (I think to find a chef or something) and saw a really tall silo-like building that was apparently the subject of some town controversy.

There was a tall ladder up the left side. The silo itself reminded me of a really, really tall log cabin. The bottom of it disappeared into a "shell" of a pine tree - imagine a pine tree teepee. What the silo contained was rather surprising... it was a very elaborate waterslide. The townsfolk, for whatever reason, wanted to close it down and there was some "lifeguard" assigned by the city. His job seemed to be to watch for violations so the slide could shut be down. Anyway, I climbed to the top and some guy up there was complaining about how people like to write wishlists and shopping lists on the waterslide walls (I guess someone used purple lipstick or something once, which left the dude complaining covered in purple stuff).

The very top of the waterslide portion was a corkscrew, which it appeared to be all the way down. I took off my pants (I heard someone yell that in order to get back into the restaurant, you had to have "three sets of underwear, a pack of cigarettes, and a beer" - like, what???) and went in. I thought it was going to be fast and furious, so I was a little disconcerted when I wound up almost having to push myself down the slide. The watersprays in the slide came from jury-rigged garden hoses. About 1/3rd of the way down, the corkscrew stopped at a hole in the floor, which revealed a straight drop (in the dark) the rest of the way down. Somehow there was enough light to see hand holds, which I used to climb down to the bottom.

Once I got to the bottom, I realized that my pants (and shirt, apparently) were still at the top. I was going to yell for someone up top to throw them down, but everyone was disappearing. So, I went up the ladder again... only this time, the ladder was cut in half and was actually two ladders joined together.

As I got to the top, the entry way was blocked by a black and red snake. I looked around and saw several more snakes. I couldn't get my clothes. I think I was going to give up and climb back down, but then I heard a cat meow. The black and red snake had a little orange-ish kitten trapped in a constrictor grip. I tried to help it, but when I yelled down to find out what kind of snake it might be, I saw its rattle (which is really when I saw the other snakes... there was some confusion as to which snake the rattle belonged to). Then, while I was mulling over grabbing and pulling on the cat (who seemed to be sleeping, as was the snake, in some weird lovers pose), the bottom of the ladder started spreading wider and wider, and I struggled to keep the top of the ladder together.

That's all I can remember. I have no idea if I fell or not.

What the Hell does that mean?

Just Another Case of Blah

Can't write anything. How typical. So it's time to disguise random and fleeting thoughts as something profound, which they most certainly are not. There was a schedule when the Atlantic Coast was abandoned, but a couple of dogs decided to delay things by going sightseeing without telling their owner. He didn't panic, but he was certainly upset and more than a little worried. Was about to give up, too, when they decided to come back. A 94-hour foray to who knows where, and they didn't think they did anything wrong? Ah, well... at least the fat one lost some weight. The little bastard.

There was a book to read when Dallas was reached, but, again, that was delayed when the dogs took off. Good thing an old college friend took her family to Disney World and left her house empty. Good thing, too, that she's not too mad at how she got pissed off the other day. Then again, she did leave the house a bit of a mess. Hah. Ah, well... just desserts in every meal, no?

And then the cats ran off. But at least they came back the next day. Cats and strange places don't mix well, or maybe they do and cats are really more loyal than dogs. There's a guy in Massachusetts who would debate that, and his wife says he secretly loves cats, but he keeps a mean face about them. Perhaps too much has been stated.

Anyway, the book has been read and must now be analyzed. But what a chore that is. Better to watch a bunch of movies with a guy that was in the Army, too. Talk about old times, complain about present times, wax poetic about new times, hope against hope about future times. Something like that. Suddenly the cross-country trip seems more trouble that it's worth, especially seeing as how the ultimate destination should be right back in the Eastern Time Zone. A rat hole known as Fort Benning. Then again, there are those lazier than others, and Benning might never be seen again, save on an episode of Ramsay's The F Word.

Funny how TV works.

Maybe time just needs to be taken to breathe... and listen to a little music.

Pet Musings: October 12, 2009

Well, well... this week has turned out to be an eventful uneventful week, and I just figured I'd share a few things concerning my dogs and cats...

As some of you are aware, my two lost dogs have returned to me. They were gone for 94 hours (from Sunday at 3:00 PM to Thursday at 1:00 PM) in a place that they were unfamiliar with. I posted an ad on craigslist.org, went to the local animal services, and was about to put up about 50 fliers in the neighborhood they disappeared in when, in typical fashion (don't ask), I watched in relative disbelief as my two dogs walked down the road towards the very spot I was standing. Also in typical fashion, they didn't seem to think their disappearance was a big deal, although they were both a few pounds lighter. Jerks.

My German Shepherd (you know, the loyal dog that DIDN'T run away) was at first extremely happy to see the other dogs, but quickly realized that all the one-on-one attention he had been receiving had gone away. So, he did the grown-up thing and cried all freaking night because there was no half-asleep guy sleeping in an open garage throwing him the tennis ball at 2 in the morning.

One of my cats made a break for it on Sunday (yesterday at the time of this posting), primarily because they've been stuck living in the bed of my truck for an extra week, thanks to the missing dogs. And now, due to occupational requirements, they're going to stay in the bed of my truck for yet another week because I have to finish a book and submit a critical analysis by the 23rd... and driving across country isn't really conducive to that.

Pointless Musings

The San Diego Padres finished the season with 75 wins and 87 losses... good enough for 4th place in the National League West. Crappy, I know, but a far cry better than the 5th place they held for most of the season. Ah, well... there's always next year.

Thank you, NFL Mobile (only on Sprint) for allowing me to catch last Sunday's Pittsburgh-San Diego game when I was devoid a television. And thank you, NFL, for scheduling a Chargers bye week this Sunday while I was still devoid a television.

This just in: I am reactivating all of my paper bills from all of my utilities and banks. Not having the Internet whooped my ass last week, and I ain't letting that happen again.

Eh... I'd complain about more things, but I'm tired. I'll be returning to form in a couple of weeks (I think).

Incredible Journeys Home

The Appalachians just west of Asheville are already getting get cold. There is no risk of snow just yet, but the autumn chills are settling in and familiar aches returning. Weather isn't the only reason for the aches, of course, as the memory of a tired and hungry body's journey from the Atlantic coast is still fresh in bones and muscles. It has taken five weeks to get this far, and a desire to return to a Californian mountain lake once called home ensures that aches and pains will be endured for another few months. If, that is, a body no longer conditioned can remember younger days long enough to make it.

A month ago, everything was lost. Career, money, life... everything. So a journey was begun. A dying truck on its last miles sold to ensure food, at least, could be had. As companions, loyal dogs would remain beside, hunting their own meals and occasionally sharing the unlucky squirrel or rabbit. The two smaller dogs, a pointer-mix and a beagle-mix, would often range together, but always pick up their master's scent and return. The German Shepherd, true in camaraderie, would never roam too far away.

An old Army backpack was packed with what clothes, soap, and toothpaste could be carried. There was a cell phone, of course, but one no longer paid for and soon to be inactive. Most unusually, a cat carrier containing two cats, a gray-white and a dark mackerel-tabby the sole remnants of a family once numbering ten or more. A hard journey made more difficult by a stubborn reluctance to part with what were considered children.

Naturally, the cats had to be let out of their cage to relieve themselves and to eat, but never without a gentle hand holding tightly to neck or back. Initially the cats found themselves at odds with such an arrangement, but they learned to accept it eventually. Still, they continued to despise it, unaware of the great care taken to prevent their getting lost so far from any home they've ever known. A great care taken despite the great burden.

But their master is not invincible, and a feeble attempt at staying warm in the Appalachian forest serves pitiful proof of this. Exhausted, no forward progress had been made in days. A decision is made to let the cats roam around, hoping they would somehow recognize their temporary abode. At first, the cats are weary of leaving the safety, if confinement, of their cage. Soon, however, playful dogs and the sounds of an open wilderness provide the motivation to set foot on strange land.

A tired smile. Pairs of cat eyes make contact with human. An unspoken trust providing some comfort where none is to be had.

"Don't go too far," a voice cracks. Less for the words and more for the sound remembered from happier days and telephone conversations from the next room. "Don't go too far."

The cats cautiously prowl around, under both the watchful eyes of an adopted parent and the curious eyes of canine cousins. Toys reveal themselves as leaves fluttering in the wind, insects hiding under decaying bark, and the rare evidence of previous encampments. Slowly, but surely, the playground continues to grow, all the while the melody of "don't go too far" plays in the background.

But the Autumn chills are increasing, and strength has to be preserved. Human eyes close, and a voice quiets into a slumber. Dogs, sensing the need for warmth, huddle close. But the cats continue to play, further and farther away. Further and farther away, until the instinct that home lies somewhere to the East overwhelms the knowledge that such place was no longer home.

In the morning, hours of calling, and perhaps a few tears shed, ultimately give way to a westward journey continued.

And an empty cage remains in the mountains west of Asheville.

Priorities

I have cats. And I love my cats. Okay, sometimes I hate my cats, but for the most part I love my cats. Everyone has a crazy cat story, of course, and I am no different. I've found poo in strange places, woke up to a piss stain on the pillow next to my head, discovered dismembered small-animal parts in my living room, and laughed as a kitten attached itself to my German Shepherd's face.

Despite all of this, I have never had to make a decision of priorities while watching my cats do something that, well, I'd regret later.

Tonight, however, and merely a few moments ago, I did.

Now, my cats adore me. I'm not exactly sure why, as I don't treat them any better than my dogs, but these two cats adore me. They follow me around like begging dogs, watch TV with me, sleep with me, and fight over which one gets to sit in my lap. I haven't been a cat person for very long, relatively speaking, so forgive me if this all comes across as "normal" to some of you. To me, it's downright strange.

Usually when I watch television, one cat will take station on the back of the couch, right above my head. Most of the time, that cat will simply fall asleep, but other times, he'll attack my hair. The other cat will, as implied earlier, simply curl up on my lap.

Now, I'm a fairly avid drinker of Vitamin Water. I like it, and it doesn't damage your teeth as badly as Gatorade does. And, since I usually don't eat as balanced as I should, I take solace in the extra vitamins the drink provides. My current favorite flavor is "power-c." Mind you, Vitamin Water isn't the cheapest drink in the world, and when you add up the gas you use to drive to the nearest convenience store to buy a bottle, it's about, oh, $57.12 for a 32 fluid ounce bottle.

Currently, my favorite comedy is a little-known British comedy called Spaced. To be blunt, it is the funniest fucking 30-minute comedy series I have ever seen. And that's not an exaggeration.

So there I was...

Watching an episode of Spaced, drinking a bottle of "power-c" Vitamin Water, when my dark cat decided he wanted to sit in my lap. Normally, he'd walk to the front of the couch by my feet and jump into my lap. But, since this particular cat suffers from frequent bouts of laziness, he decided to take the short route... which was from the left, over the armrest, which just happened to be where my arm was resting. Go figure, right?

Unfortunately for me, the cat misjudged how much higher he would have to pounce in order to clear my arm, and, as such, didn't quite make it. Instead of simply falling to the ground and trying again, however, he went with "Option B."

Now, I assure you that "Option B" is quite painful, as it involves my cat attempting to maintain altitude by latching onto the nearest surface with his claws. That nearest surface happened to be my arm.

Since I love my cats, I'm always willing to lend a helping hand. The problem here was that one hand was pinned to the armrest, and the other was holding my drink. So, in reactionary fashion, I instantaneously set the bottle between my thighs, reached over with my now-free right hand, grabbed my cat by the neck, and pulled him up to safety... right into my lap. Spilling at least 12 ounces of my 32 ounce drink onto the floor.

Result? Cat not on lap, Vitamin Water not in mouth, me no watch Spaced.

As I knelt there, cleaning up the liquid mess, I went over the incident in my head. I came to the conclusion that my priorities were wrong. I shouldn't have attempted to save the cat, who would've been fine anyway, and lose my drink while interrupting my entertainment.

I should've just hit the cat with the drink bottle, tapped the "jump back" button on the DVR, and finished my show.

Next time, I'll be ready.

Realistic Resolutions for the New Year

New Year's resolutions are bunk. We all know that. Hell, anyone checking at my resolutions for 2007 would know that I didn't keep any of them.

So, this year, I'm going to make some that I know I can keep.

1. I resolve to eat lots of food, ignoring any possible health risks caused by said food.

2. I resolve to pet my cats and dogs, even while neglecting their desire to go for long walks.

3. I resolve to imbibe in alcohol, smoke an occasional cigarette, and throw up once or twice.

4. I resolve to watch a lot of movies, keep up with certain television series, and play video games when I have the time.

5. I resolve to cuss out someone who insults me, making them feel really small and really stupid.

6. I resolve to waste a lot of time on the Internet, remaining oblivious to the fact that there are other, more productive, tasks that require my attention.

7. I resolve to drive on the highways like they are my highways, acting as though the rest of the drivers out there are merely borrowing my road space.

8. I resolve to forget birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions due to my own self-centered and narcissistic tendencies.

9. I resolve to spend more money than I should, buy more things than I need, and deplete my savings in the name of fun.

There... that's better.

First Full Week Back in Wilmington: Some Notes

Well, it's official. Yesterday marked my first full completed week back in lovely Wilmington, North Carolina. I actually officially moved back May 19, but I had to return to Fayetteville and didn't actually stay here until May 21.

Anyway, some notes...

Wilmington's film industry seems to be no better off than when I first left it. Three projects, almost all wrapped. No available film jobs. Nuts.

The humidity is killing me.

I had to split up my three dogs. It sucks. They're sad. So am I.

I've been sick for the better part of a week. What a way to celebrate returning to an awesome beach town.

A bunch of "friends" have yet to return phone calls or emails. Thanks, guys.

Another friend told me to never contact her again. Still confused about that one. I'm not sure if she found out about my "adventures" in Latin America or not. ;)

I quit smoking on May 26. For those who didn't know, I started again on May 5, when I stopped in Dallas for two days and stayed with the guy who taught me how to smoke in the first place.

It's very weird shopping in my old Food Lion and eating at my old Subway. Can't explain it. It's just weird.

My laptop is painfully outdated, and despite my best efforts to upgrade the hardware/software, it really doesn't invite me to use it... hence, the few blogs and complete lack of other significant writing.

I cut all of my long hair off. I officially look like a soldier once again (even though I never looked like a soldier when I actually was a soldier).

My cats are pissed that I haven't let them outside yet.

I have no idea how the Padres are doing, and have no clue how the Chargers are progressing with their off-season. Also, I don't even know if the Ducks won the Stanley Cup. In fact, I'm not even aware that sporting events are occuring right now.

I hurt my foot, my hip, and my elbow doing pratfalls for a buddy's video project on Saturday. He showed me a rought cut, and my pain didn't even make it on the trailer. I feel used.

I taught my dog how to jump in and out of my room window, primarily because I'm too lazy to walk him around back.

Finally, despite feeling so out of place and mostly being bored with nothing to do, I feel great and am loving it.

Shoot me a line, people. Let's hang out.

All I Want for Christmas...

Well, it's Christmas Eve. One day to go. And, given the nature of the high-tech world we live in today, I figured I can get one more request to Santa in, via the oh-so-wonderful world of MySpace. Yes, Santa has a MySpace page. Don't let it fool you, at first glance his profile makes him look like a simple fat guy with a reindeer fetish, but the elves are a dead giveaway. He's a complicated fat guy with a reindeer fetish AND an elf fetish.

Anyway, my list is a modest one, so let's begin...

1. World peace. No, scratch that. It'll never happen anyway.
2. Bigger yard for my dogs. I'm getting real tired of the beagle moving his poop around so I can't help but step in it. And don't think I don't know you're doing it on purpose, asshole.
3. Higher alcohol tolerance. Holy shit, I'm a lightweight again. Well, scratch this one, too... it's keeping my bar tabs low.
4. New car. An Aston Martin is preferred, but I'll take anything that costs over $60k and doesn't look like a rapper drives it.
5. New job. That last one I had was essentially a rip-off. You want me to take over marketing? At what salary? My response: "I quit, have a nice Christmas."
6. My unemployment check. You gotta love those. Freeloading jerk-offs. Wait a sec...
7. Less snow. Much, much less snow. And more heat. Much, much more heat.
8. Oakley to be a little more clear on their replacement policy. I'm going to be confused about that for a while, I'm sure.
9. Four years without mention of a Bush or a Clinton.
10. The Chargers to win the Super Bowl. Win, not just get there.
11. An HDTV that costs more than my new car. And is bigger. With accompanying DTS+ sound system. I'm a glutton, what can I say?
12. Eli Manning to break his leg. Does Santa tackle at the knees?
13. My cats to quit pissing on my stuff because they think the snow is my fault.
14. I'm going to break down and ask for an iPod. If there was ever anyone in need of an uplifting soundtrack for life, it's me at this very moment. Although I hate iPods... and cell phones... and indoor plumbing... the stone age was much simpler, man.
15. Adjustable sample rates on MySpace profile songs, in case I'm ever stuck with dial-up again... I can't hear my own damn profile songs.
16. A trip to Europe, a trip to Africa, a trip to Asia, a trip to South America, and a trip to Australia. I'd ask for a trip to Antarctica, but ever since I saw March of the Penguins, I'm afraid that one of those baby-stealers will try to take my unborn children.
17. Dinner in Hawaii.
18. The USA to figure out what the fuck it's doing in the Middle East. No, scratch that one, too... doesn't look like that's ever going to happen, either.
19. Baseball and hockey to shorten the length of their seasons. And for baseball to expand its playoffs. It is, after all, America's favorite pastime. Or was, until that last strike... funny how Canada's favorite pastime becomes more popular after a strike, isn't it? Damn northern liberals. It's all a conspiracy. Go Ducks!
20. To have that fantastic indie music that's exploding just below the radar to replace that crap pop music that's imploding everywhere else.
21. To have the weddings I'm invited to outnumber the funerals. I'm really tired...
22. To rebuild all of the bridges I've purposefully or inadvertently burned over the last 28 years.
23. Ah, fuck it... Peace on Earth.
24. Her.

Random Givings of Thanks

Personally, I think that Thanksgiving is a painfully and obviously arbitrary holiday, but whatever...

Some things to give thanks and not-so-much-thanks for this year:

Thanks to my friends who helped me get through a shit time in my life.

Not-so-much-thanks for the person who single-handedly put me there (not that I hold a grudge... anymore).

Thanks to the idiots who are making the "Global War on Terrorism" a de facto screw up.

Thanks to the NFL for putting a third game on Thanksgiving Day.

Thanks to Kay and Sagremor, my two cats who have actually stuck around.

Not-so-much-thanks to the asshole "retiree" CEOs who give themselves $400 million pensions while the rest of America struggles to make ends meet.

Thanks to John Kerry for informing me that I was in the Army because I got bad grades in school. I was under the impression that I held a sense of duty that many no longer hold.

Thanks to my muse for putting me back in a writer's mindset.

Thanks to my dogs for putting up with my lack of attention giving... that'll change soon, I promise.

Thanks to my sister for editing my writings for spelling and grammar at no charge.

Thanks to PH for lending me a shitload of money (five figures, seriously) to keep my head above water.

Not-so-much-thanks to Chevrolet for making the third-door latch on S-10s an easily broken piece of shit.

Thanks to the screenwriters of Casino Royale for making James Bond cool again.

Thanks to Martin Scorsese for making back-to-back films that truly inspired me.

Not-so-much-thanks to George Lucas for refusing to remaster the prints of the original Star Wars trilogy for DVD.

Thanks to the paratroopers who have entered my life, but will never be able to enter it again thanks to a really fucked up war. You guys were the best.

Thanks to the filmmakers who brought work my way at the exact moment my career seemed to dead-end.

Not-so-much-thanks to the man who had me arrested because he lost a fight that HE started.

Thanks to the networks for fielding the best television programming on the air since, well, the day I was born.

And last, but certainly not least, thanks to the people who are trying to make sure that 2007 will be that "Best Year" that 2006 should have been.

The Irony of Cats and My Life

I have, in my lifetime, owned nine cats. Ten if you count the stray Pete and I tried to adopt before our hateful, anti-people, anti-animal landlady kidnapped him (her?) and shipped him away.

I received the first of those nine cats while I was living in Fayetteville, NC, in 2003, I think, from my girlfriend at the time. She had caught Lancelot in her old neighborhood and brought him to me. He was a doll, I must say... big eyes, scared shitless of my dog, Jax, and loved to attack my toes and my eyelids while I slept (the latter of which is quite frightening when you think about it). I didn't have him long. A stupid fight led to Lancelot running away in the middle of a golf course. I found him a few weeks later, but by then he had been acclimated to running with the other feral cats... and besides, some old lady was taking care of him.

My next two cats were Galahad and Guinevere (noticing a pattern?). I was to pick up Galahad as part of my apology for scaring Lancelot away, but when I got to where I was to get him, I noticed Guinevere. She looked a lot like Lancelot, which was one of the reasons I picked her up. Little did I know that this decision would turn my household into a fucking zoo. Galahad ran away shortly after I moved to Wilmington, NC, in August or September of 2004. He just really wanted to go home to Fayetteville, I think. He ran out of the house while I was shooting a student film. One of my buddies offered to chase him down, but I assured him that Galahad would come back. I was wrong. At the time, Galahad was my favorite cat.

Guinevere ran away while I was stuck in Dayton, NV, this past June. I saw her out the window, walking by my dad's truck. Had I known that was the last time I'd have seen her, I'd have went outside to play with her one last time. At the time, she, like Galahad, was my favorite.

While still in Fayetteville, Galahad and Guinevere had a litter of four cats. We named them Gawain, Tristan, Merlin, and Vivianne. Merlin and Vivianne were given to my roommate at the time, Joe, while my then-girlfriend convinced me to keep Gawain and Tristan.

Gawain died while in Wilmington. He had been sick, came home with some cuts from a fight... my girlfriend let him outside on accident. I never saw him again. When he had disappeared, Guinevere had been gone on a "vacation" (she came back later), so, as before, he had been my favorite.

Tristan disappeared last week. He wasn't my favorite, but he had been my girlfriend's favorite, and I feel a deep and quite strange sense of guilt for having lost him. What makes it worse is that the day he disappeared, I could've sworn I heard a stuck cat meowing from underneath my truck as I drove to work... my dumb ass chalked it up to the radio, but I'll never know for sure, and it makes me ill.

While in Wilmington, Guinevere had given birth to another litter of Galahad's children (he had run away by this time). This litter was named Arthur, Kay, Sagremor, and Isolde. For some odd reason, I kept all of them.

Isolde ran away the day after Guinevere did. I don't know why. Maybe because she was mad that I just spayed her two days prior. I've seen her and Guinevere together once since then, but it was in the middle of the night in an open field a couple of miles from me. They looked healthy, and none of my traps were working, so I forced myself to let them go.

Arthur died early in August of this year. He was sick, and one day decided just to go somewhere and die. I'm still sick to my stomach about it. Guess what? He had been my favorite, too.

Kay and Sagremor are all that are left of my nine cats. The irony here is that, prior to leaving Wilmington, I had decided to get rid of two cats in order to alleviate myself of some of the burden of taking care of so many animals. Guess which two?

I sure am glad that I'm stubborn when it comes to pets.

I was going to tie this story into something relevant, but I've just depressed myself... have a nice day.

Sympathy for a Field Mouse

I love cats. There was a time when I didn't really care for them, but now I love the damn things. I love them so much, I have six. Sure, two of them haven't come home in a few weeks, but that still leaves me with four, and that's still a lot of cats. They're great, have distinct individual personalities, and they're all named after King Arthur characters. Hey, I'm a writer, what can I say?

On the night of July 16, however, my cats seriously pissed me off. For the last few weeks, when the sun goes down, they've been capturing, torturing, and executing field mice. All four of them have been doing it, Arthur and Tristan in particular. They are the reason that I now know that field mice, when tortured, sound like baby birds. I'd rather have never learned that, but I sleep with my window open and the cats prefer to conduct their torture sessions right outside of it.

Arthur, it seems, has exhausted the local supply of adult field mice and is now (along with Tristan) in the habit of "kidnapping" infant field mice from their mothers, all of whom I'm presuming are now dead as well. But last night, I went ape-shit. I heard the chirping of a tortured (and I do mean tortured) field mouse and I rushed outside. Sure enough, three of my cats were out there taking turns swatting, biting, and otherwise scaring the little creature to death. I brushed them aside, picked up the mouse, and headed down the street to hide it somewhere so it could get away... which is when I noticed that its eyes weren't open. The damn thing was still a baby.

Ah, the predicament of animal lovers. I have little sympathy for dying people, but show me a dying animal and I'm there to help in a heartbeat.

What to do? What to do? I couldn't let it go now, for it would die anyway without its mother. And I couldn't take it back to the field, because Arthur and Tristan would most certainly recapture it before any chance of a surrogate mother coming along. Shit out of luck on all counts, Mickey. Well, what could I do but put it in the field and hope for the best? Then I put it in the field again... and again... I swear, if the government would hire my cats to find Osama Bin Laden, he'd be incarcerated by now.

I spent about a half-hour with the little mouse. He had a tiny mole underneath one leg, there was a small remnant of his umbilical cord, and he wasn't yet coordinated enough to walk. Of course, he was so little, he could've been a she, but I'll never know. I admit, I was upset... still am, really. But nature's cruel and my cats are more than willing to prove that to me.

It seems my only option is to close my window. And that kinda sucks.

A Sleepless Night

I'm a pet owner. Dogs and cats. A lot of them. And like most pet owners, my pets are a part of my family. A part of it. They watch my television, they listen to my music, they eat in my kitchen. Sounds dirty, I know, and it is... but I wouldn't change it for the world.

On Wednesday, May 24, 2006, I took my dogs for a walk in a wide-open field. Not quite the middle-of-nowhere, but a good couple of miles from the nearest house and the nearest highway. In fact, other than a small livestock farm, a gravel quarry, and a water tower, there's nothing but acres upon acres of playground (for a four-legged friend, of course). It was 12:30 PM. I walked my usual route around the field, with my loyal German Shepherd in tow. My two other dogs, an independent "king-of-the-hill" pit bull/pointer mix, and a super intelligent, yet super stubborn beagle/pointer combo, decided to check out a small hill to the north of our location. Somehow, I knew it was going to be hell to get them back. And it was.

4:30 PM. My truck is stuck on an outcropping on top of a different hill. My German Shepherd is terrified of the squealing tires. My pointer mixes are nowhere to be found. Nowhere. The longest they've ever stayed gone before was two-and-a-half hours. Not three, and certainly not four. As my rescue vehicle approaches from the south side of the hill, I start thinking... start thinking about the poisonous snakes that live in the area, about the groups of coyotes that run rampant, and about the wild horses that can kill a dog with a mere flick of its hoof. And let's not forget the people who shoot dogs for getting too close to livestock, or just for fun. It's 4:30. Where the fuck are my boys?

My truck's out, but I'm tired, hungry, and my hand is bleeding from a multitude of splinters from an old, weathered two-by-four that I probably shouldn't have picked up. I have to leave the area, get my German Shepherd some water, and take care of my hand. One last look across the horizon. Nothing.

My pit bull/pointer is easily the coolest dog I've ever had. He was the first dog I'd owned since I had left the Army (Hell, since I had joined the Army) and, like my previous dog, was a stray. My roommate and I had found him, along with another lost dog, in front of our rental house outside of Fort Bragg. While the other dog was clearly trained (she wouldn't even climb on the couch when called), the pit bull/pointer was young, and was apparently still in the process of being potty trained. A good Samaritan (sometimes), I posted signs for both dogs around the neighborhood. A couple of days later, the trained female was picked up by her rightful owner. But the pit bull/pointer... nothing. Probably left by some G.I. who couldnt take him with him, and couldn't (or didn't feel the need to) find a home for him. Weeks passed, I got attached, I took down the signs that the weather hadn't blown away. The pit bull/pointer became mine.

Over the years I discovered just how gentle this dog was, and yet, how protective. I would baby-sit my friend's infant daughter from time to time, but to be honest, the pit bull/pointer did most of the baby-sitting. He would curl around the baby, keep it warm. He'd lick her when she started crying. And, if for some reason I left the room, my dog would act angry until I came back. Obviously, he'd grown up around children, and every so often I would wonder if a small child yearned for their lost pit bull/pointer. I didn't care though... by this time, like I said, he was all mine.

It's 5:30 PM. I'm back out at the field. I drive a few mile radius around the spot I last saw them. The only thing I find is a small red hatchback parked on a closed road with two teenagers trying to have sex in broad daylight. They see me, try to hide, I laugh my ass off as I pass them. But still no dogs. At 6:30, I leave again, eat a quick dinner, take a quick shower, and head right back out. I'm there from 7:00 to 8:00. Nothing. So I leave again, watch American Idol to distract myself, and then head back out at 10:30. Still nothing, not even jackrabbits.

The beagle/pointer is another story entirely. Extremely needy, extremely stubborn, and so fucking smart, it blows my mind. He's also so self-conscious, when he takes a shit, he buries it meticulously with his nose and his front paws. I'm serious when I say this... you'll never know he pooped. I had built a privacy fence at my last house. Now, this could be a testament to the sloppy work, but no matter what I did (chicken wire, rocks, boxes, planking), that damn dog would find a way out of the backyard. He's like those velociraptors from Jurassic Park: if there's a weak spot in the defense, he'll find it. He's also a master at getting to the cat food bowls. It doesn't matter where they are... on the counter, on the table, in the garage in a secluded area... he'll get to it. I've seen him walk on his hind tiptoes and turn his head upside down just so his tongue could flick at the cat food. It didn't matter how much he knocked around... as long as one or two morsels stuck to his tongue, he was happy.

He's a bit of a sad case, too. I wasn't his first owner. His previous owner used to beat him because he barked too much. That explained why I had him damn near a month before I heard him make a sound. His previous owner used a crate to try to potty train him. Unfortunately, he would be left in the crate even when the owner was home. And the fucker wondered why the dog would bark The dog would also get carsick. Every single time you'd put him in a car, he'd hurl. I don't know why. When I drove him across country, he quit doing it, so I'm guessing he was afraid of cars... probably something to do with that prick first owner. But it didn't matter now... he belonged to a new family. One that wouldn't abandon him... one that would look for him until he was found.

It's 4:30 AM, Thursday morning. I haven't slept a wink, although I've tried. I'm attempting to wait until 9:00, so I can call animal control to see if they've picked up two pointer mixes, but I can't. My anxiety overtakes me, and within 15 minutes, I've got my German Shepherd loaded up and am on my way back to the field. I get there, and there are jackrabbits up the ass, now. Everywhere. Running from my headlights, taunting me... cottontails up as if saying, "Here we are, where are your dogs?" The fuckers.

I roll down my window and start calling for my dogs, futilely, I figure. I drive slowly... maybe they'll hear the truck this time... if they're not dead. What am I doing? I should be asleep, but instead I'm driving around the same field I've driven around 50 times. I'm approaching a bush that I stop to piss on every time I walk by it. Why? I don't know... it just happens to be the right distance from the point where I drink a glass of water to the point where I need to go. A beagle's face is poking out of the bush. I stop the truck, get out, and blink. The face isn't moving. I'm seeing shit. I call for my boys. The pointer emerges from the bush behind the beagle. The beagle finally moves. Holy shit... They stayed together. I've found my boys.

They're mad at me, of course. They act as though I left them there on purpose, as if I'm supposed to wait until they're done wandering the countryside. While the pointer enjoys the hot air from the truck's heater, he growls at me a bit. I guess it was my fault. I might as well take the blame, or they'll hate me for a week. I laugh. Pet them both. Pet the German Shepherd because he feels left out. Pet the two pointer mixes again.

Then I laugh again. They're home, and they can be mad at me all they want... they slept in my piss.