Elvis and O.C.

I found Elvis in the parking lot of a local redneck bar. He was mangy and hungry. It was obvious to me from his barely hidden ribs that the skinny black cat was an orphan. I gave him a cat call, expecting him to hightail it up into the nearest tree. Instead, he just turned and looked at me. I kissed my lips together again and he slowly and cautiously approached me. I made no sudden movements. When he reached me, I slowly extended my hand so he could check me out. He came closer and I began to pet him. It was August and it was comfortable outside so I just sat out there petting him until I sobered up enough to take him home.

He let me put him in my truck and off we went. When we got home, I took him inside. I dug through the cabinet for something to feed him and found a few cans of tuna. He must have recognized the girl on the can cause he started going crazy purring and meowing. I popped the lid, poured the tuna in a bowl and put it outside on the back steps. The tuna was gone in about 6 seconds and I had a new friend.

I figured if he stuck around, I'd take him to the vet and get him checked out. He did and I did.

He had anemia from all the fleabites he had received over the summer, as well as some internal parasites (that's vet language for $100). It was well worth it.

That skinny black cat became the best cat I ever owned. He grew fat and lazy and perfect. He had the personality of a dog. He would lay on his back and let me pet his belly in every direction. He was the kind of cat you could throw over your shoulders and hike up a mountain.
I named him Elvis after his jet black hair. The hair faded after a couple of years but the name stuck.

We moved to a different house a few years later and my son was born. Around the same time, I was working out back cleaning up some junk behind my house, when I heard a tiny mew coming from underneath a huge pile of construction material. I peered into the darkness beneath and saw two eyes looking back at me. It was a kitten. I love kittens. I tried and tried to get him to come out but he wouldn't. So I took a can of catfood and left it at the entrance to his lair. After a few weeks of coaxing he finally came out. He was orange and shy. He never really grew close to me but he formed a strong bond with Elvis.

At first, he thought Elvis was his mother. We almost named him Shadow because he followed Elvis everywhere he went. He nursed on Elvis for months although Elvis was a male cat. Poor Elvis lost all the hair around his teets from the orange kitten nursing on him. But Elvis was a patient and laid-back cat. He tolerated the orange kitten when most cats would have ripped him to flying fur.

We never could settle on a name for the orange kitten so finally we just called him O.C. (for orange cat). For some reason it fit.

O.C. grew up and never quite got tame. Even in adulthood, he would follow Elvis wherever he went. When Elvis slept, O.C. would crawl right up beside him. Elvis would look annoyed but he wouldn't move away. Occasionally, Elvis and O.C. would fight and Elvis always had the upper hand. He'd make O.C. scream bloody murder a few times, but he'd let him go before he hurt him too much. Most of the time, however, they got along as good as cats will.

Two weeks ago, I received a call from my wife. OC had been hit by a truck on the road in front of our house. I went home and found him, still lying near the road, dead. I picked him up, carried him in the woods, and buried him where he loved to play. I did it out of the sight of Elvis. I didn't want him to see. I was sad. How would Elvis handle this, I thought, as I pushed the dirt onto his lifeless body. How would I explain this to my son? He's only 3.

Over the last two weeks, my son has questioned the where-abouts of OC. He overheard his mom saying OC had been hit. So he's asked me the following questions: OC get hit? That hurt OC? OC got booboo? I reassured him that OC wasn't hurting and tried to explain to him the dangers of going into the road.

Elvis mourned as cats do. He sought extra attention from me. Every time I walked near the door, there he was. Every time I walked outside, he was rubbing on my legs. I knew he knew what had happened. So, I have spent the last two weeks giving Elvis extra attention and love. My son has also became closer to Elvis. He was down to one cat and poured all the attention onto Elvis. And Elvis ate it up. That was a change. Before OC died, Elvis avoided my son like the plaque. But now, he would just sit and let my son put his head on him and hug him, always gentle.

This morning, as I pulled out of my driveway and started up the road, I saw a lifeless black furry heap on the side of the road just a few feet from where I had found OC. I knew instantly that it was Elvis.

I backed back into the driveway and cried. It helped that I knew the routine of burying a cat so that I could just go through the motions. I was so full of grief and pain that going through the motions was all I could do. I found a spot near OC. This time, I dug the hole a little deeper. This was, after all, the best pet I had ever kept. He was my little baby boy before I had children.

I got back in my truck to go to work. I turned on the radio and "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" had just started. I drove and sang and cried and somehow made it to work where I'm writing this Eulogy.

To Elvis and his shadow, OC. You were loved and will be missed.

The last day.

Beyond the sound of the birds and the traffic, if you listen past the crickets and the trains, you can hear the screaming.

We are taken one by one. Sometimes we know it's coming. Sometimes it is least expected. A blown tire that causes a swerve that can't be controlled with the steering wheel or a blown valve that causes blood to turn into poison.

We'll meet Him or him and be led to our eternal homes.

Of course, we all pretend it will never happen to us. And we'll keep on thinking that until the scream we hear is the one coming from our own mouths.

urgent (we don't) care

Last week, I diagnosed myself with my bi-annual sinus infection. One in September, one in May without fail.

So, I slipped out of work and mentally prepared myself for a trip to the urgent care down the road. For some reason, I really wanted a cigarette. Maybe it was the hope that the menthol death gas would clear my sinuses enough to smell -- even if it was just the odor of the cigarette itself. But I had to fight the urge. I had checked 'non-smoker' on my life insurance application. If the P.A. (you wouldn't see a doctor there if you went in with a missing hand) at Urgent Care caught wind of a Newport, she might rat me out to the insurance nazi's. HIPPA be damned.

As I arrived, I whispered a small prayer of thanks for the empty parking lot. Only 3 cars. That means it should only take me 2 hours to get a prescription written for something I already know I have.

I stepped into the waiting room and wondered how the people inside outnumbered the cars in the parking lot. I stepped to the check-in counter and waited. And waited.

The two receptionists sat directly opposite of the glass window and I knew that they knew I was standing there. Yet they made absolutely no acknowledgement of my presence other than being so obvious in their non acknowledgment.

I stood there not knowing exactly how to respond. I have always thought outright staring at folks is rude. Should I take a seat? I scanned the window and nearby walls for hateful notices and regulations intended to make you feel as small as possible. "No smoking cause we're all having a nick fit right now". "No cell-phones allowed - If we're going to be stuck here bored all day, so are you". "Please don't knock on glass. We will be with you when we damn well please".

Finally, the lady I thought was a modern day Helen Keller turned and spoke. "You been here before?"

"Yeah, but I don't remember if it was a year or three ago"

"What's your birthdate"

I answered, making sure I said 1961 instead of just 61. Ever since the new millenium and the whole y2k scare, I'd been making sure to throw those two extra digits on that response. Am I really afraid someone is going to think I was born in 1861. Or 2061? (I'll never tell)

"Fill this out" she said with no pleasantries and thrust the clip board with the germified pen jammed between the steel trap.

I scanned the room for a seat. The waiting room was basically split into two halves. On one side, about 9 white people sat reading "Good Housekeeping" and studying their shoelaces. On the other side, an older black lady sat watching "Montel".

I walked over and sat right beside the black lady although there were 2 dozen empty seats on that side. I was making a point. I looked up at Montel and saw that he had that crazy Psychic lady on again. If she was so damn psychic, then why didn't she know her hairdresser was all thumbs? I looked at the magazine selection. All were health and fitness magazines with pictures of muscular men and women working out with no sweat. If I look at those, people will think I'm a pervert. I'll just watch Montel.

An hour later, a fat white nurse shoved open the door and called me by my first name. (I go by my middle name, but I've stopped correcting people LONG ago).

I step in the door and prepare to answer 20 questions. It doesn't matter what I say because the doctor is going to ask me the same 20 questions again in about 15 minutes. The last one was "Who is your primary care physician?" Damn. Such big fancy words, I thought. I answered, "Well, you are" She looked surprised that I was still alive and guided me over to the scale.

"TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN POUNDS" she screamed for all in the nearby county to hear.

Why my weight pertained to a sinus infection I'll never know.

I was sent to another waiting room with a paper covered bed and asked to wait. "What, I don't get to take my shirt off so the entire staff can laugh at my belly rolls?" I thought.

The P.A. pretending to be a doctor confirmed my diagnosis and wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic and something called Plemex. What a perfectly descriptive name.

I left and ran across the street to the pharmacy to fill my prescription. While waiting, I took my blood pressure. This particular machine also measured body fat. It said my body fat was good but under the weight chart, it said I "needed improvement".

Must be poke the fat man day, I thought.

6 days later, I'm still coughing but I'll wait until I've got triple pneumonia and a knife in my chest before I step back into the "urgent" care again.