As anti-Woke comedian Jerry Seinfeld would say, “What is the deal with Oscar?” Since I think a few people might be interested, I decided to fill you in.
I used to have a cat named Magik. When Magik was a kitten, there was a mishap, and he didn’t get fed for two days. Magik, as a result, was food insecure. He ate each meal like he was preparing for a famine. Since Oscar was starving when Nicole rescued him, I was concerned that he was going to overeat and be a roly-poly like Magik was.
Luckily, he has different ideas. He used to try to steal the food out of my hand, no matter the cuisine. Now he has no interest in human food, except for meat sticks, and even then, he spits out the teriyaki. Original flavor only. That, the wet food, and a little bit of dry food are the only things he eats now, which is a huge relief. If he started getting chubby, I was going to have to start saying no.
Oscar has grown. Again, when Nicole found him, he was starving. The vet couldn’t give me an estimate of his age because of the damage. But he’s all repaired, and now he’s starting to become a cat. I mean, I knew he was a cat this whole time, but he had the build of a ferret and an unnaturally long tale. Now he’s starting to fill out, and his coat’s growing in.
His favorite perch is my shoulders. Despite having claw marks (through clothes) all over my back and arms from him making himself comfortable, I really love having him there. Of course, that means I have to stand until he gets bored. Also, he’ll hop up on the bathroom counter while I’m getting ready for a shower, and his eyes will start to focus on my deltoid muscle, and I have to intervene before I pass out from the blood loss. He bit my shoulder as he settled in, but he suddenly stopped, as cats are wont to do.
I still haven’t told management I have a cat.
Even though there’s a heat wave (otherwise known as An Average Summer in DC) right now, I’ve been opening the window so he can experience the outdoors. I’m pretty concerned that he’s going to get bored. I have a very small studio, and he’s already explored every corner. He becomes a fuzz-saw when I put him into his harness, and when it’s on, his legs don’t work. So no walks.
He is constantly begging me to play, and I try to keep up with him, but that kid’s got a lot of energy. I have to tell him, Dad is very old, and his elbow has been giving him problems. His favorite toy is the long, skinny ribbon someone left in the hallway (Exhibit A). As you can see from Exhibit B, it’s the most stylish toy any cat has.
I still miss Newcastle. I’ll remember how happy he was exploring the backyard, and it doesn’t make me sad, for the most part. Sometimes a memory will drag me to tears, though. It’s not because Oscar isn’t a good cat. Oscar is a great, well-behaved cat. But he can’t replace Newcastle.
I love having the little guy around. He’s a great lap cat, and he’s always so excited to see me when I get home. He’s a talker, but at his high pitch, it sounds more like singing. He tends to stick close to me, even if he’s mad about something. His favorite place to play is on my bed, so he’s starting to shred my comforter. He hasn’t settled into routines, so he’s unpredictable, and that is exciting.
I could go on for pages, just rest assured that Oscar is getting spoiled, and so is his dad.
When terrorists crashed planes into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, they inadvertently brought Rita and me together. You have to look on the bright side.
Basically, a high percentage of a tribe of friends in Brooklyn were born in September, so they couldn’t celebrate their birthdays that ear. One of them said “Screw that, we’re celebrating!” and threw what we would now call a rager. My girlfriend’s thirtieth was September 13, so we damned well went. She and I were at a point in our relationship where we were just fine not hanging out, so I partied like I did all my life by smoking cigarettes outside and letting people come to me.
The people I met that night were largely forgettable, except for a pair who came out kind of early with their manly Camels. They were like anime characters—the duo who look almost exactly alike, but one has platinum blonde hair, and the other is a dark, dark brunette. They introduced themselves as Anne Marie and Rita, respectively. I’m pretty sure one of them dropped a bullfrog reference on me, but Rita felt my pain because of the goddamned Beatles.
Rita and Anne Marie were, to be clear, really cute, and I was feeling like Mr. Charm by keeping their attention. Eventually, I became comfortable enough that I opened my wallet, took out the only money I had, and said, “I’ll give you five dollars if you make out.” They said no. “What can I get for five dollars?” They shook hands and took my money.
I probably never would have seen them again were it not for a friend from Nebraska. I had always thought of her and her husband as a unit, but she called to tell me they were getting divorced. I had never been through a friend’s divorce before, and I didn’t have any friends who might tell me what it’s like, so I tracked down Rita, who had described the nightmare of her own divorce in vivid detail.
Also, she and Anne Marie were really cool, and I wanted to hang out again.
Rita and I met at the International Bar, on First Street in Manhattan, between Second and Third. I haven’t been to New York in ten years, but it was still there then. It’s the kind of place you assume has multiple health- and building-code violations. Their bathrooms are single stall, without the space for a sink. It was there, outside, in full view of the entire bar, so if you didn’t wash your hands, we knew. They only served beer in bottles, and the only beer that didn’t taste like watered-down yak piss was Amstel Light. Rita answered my questions, and we became instant friends.
Rita is (still) thin, not as in skinny, but as in lean. One look, and you know she’s as affectionate as a housecat, but she is fully capable of clawing your eyes out if you do the wrong thing. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, and she does his goofy head bop when she listens to cool music.
Whenever I hung out with Rita, it was either one-on-one at the International Bar or we’d go to a larger bar to house the Group. The Group was kind of like a French-style salon. We were vulgar and talked a lot of dumb shit, but we also discussed politics and philosophy until we could drink no more. The group had a rotating cast, and they all had one thing in common: they all were really cool, even the dorky ones.
Did that mean I was at least kind of cool? I did introduce the group to a catchphrase. When someone mildly annoys you, you say in a flat tone of voice, “I never liked you.” We were independently fans of the same hiphoppunkfunkmamboska band. I played a crucial part in one guy’s trip-hop remix of our bar conversations. I kept getting invited back. It’s not like they didn’t know how much of a nerd I was—Rita and I had a sleepover the day I watched my beloved Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man.
Rita had a pet iguana. I do not remember the iguana’s name. I have asked Rita four times for the iguana’s name, and I have forgotten it four times. Next time I ask, she’s going to tattoo it on my arm. On Spider-Man day, I discovered that she had inherited some birds from an aunt (?) and kept them in a cage in her kitchen. She would never hurt them, but if they suddenly fell over dead, she would not be sad.
That was the first half of 2002. After June, we didn’t see each other as much, mostly because I started hanging out with different friends, who I had just met. However, after I bought a leather pea coat and took on the alter ego of Jack Murphy, cop on the edge, she started calling me Jackass Murphy because the true duty of your friend is to take the wind out of your sails.
She came to Jersey City for my going away party in 2004. My ex-wife told me afterward that she had said something mean to one of her friends. This only was the first time my ex would try to distance me from one of my people, but unlike the later times, she did not succeed. This time, I just didn’t believe it. Rita could get very angry, but she was never cruel. I assumed my ex’s friend had misheard something.
Seven years later, I wanted to honor the tenth anniversary of September 11 by making it a celebration of life. What I made it was the celebration of friends. I split the day three separate ways with three friends, each reminding me of an aspect of New York I treasured. Rita was the ability to start a new story, whenever you want. We went for a run in Central Park, we had dinner, and I played with her oldest kid.
Rita told me that, on September 10, 2001, she was shackled to a cubicle during the week and in a dehumanizing marriage. By the time I’d met her, she had gotten rid of both. She swore she’d never marry again, and she was never working in an office again. She hasn’t, twenty-three years and two kids later. It’s one of the things I admire about her.
I’ve always been a bit of a hermit, but for a while there, I was surrounded by people who wanted to hear my thoughts on a subject. They wanted me to tell a joke. Even though I make Obi-Wan Kenobi look like the wedding crashers these days, I did manage to captivate a small crowd on New Year’s Eve. I’d changed my story, and I don’t think I would have done that if not for her.
I’ve had Oscar for three weeks, and for a third of that, I called him Potato. He is permanent part of my household now, and I keep “forgetting” to tell management so they can charge me pet rent. He’s always excited to see me when I get home, which means a lot.
He’s put on some weight, and his coat is starting to fluff up. He’s going to look exactly like Newcastle in a year, which is great because I won’t have to change my phone’s wallpaper. It’s really bothering me, though. I don’t want another Newcastle. Last week, I was spacing out with Oscar in my arms, and when I came back, I thought he was Newcastle for a minute. I wasn’t upset, though. I wasn’t disappointed to see Oscar in my arms, and I got to spend another minute with Newcastle. But I still don’t feel like I’ve had enough time to grieve.
Oscar felt like my cat when his collar was delivered, and I put it on while he fought and squirmed. It’s orange because that’s my favorite color, and he likes to direct traffic. I took out Newcastle’s automatic feeder when I had to return to the office because my non-profit’s loose work-at-home policy made it possible to have paternity leave without having to use up sick leave, and I had a whole week at home with him.
He trusted me right away, which is an honor, especially from a former stray. With the exception of meals and when he sleeps in my laundry basket, he needs to be around me at all times. This is great because he’s soft and warm, like a predatory tribble, but it’s hard to do art at home. I can work or look at my proofs by stretching and twisting, but sketchpad is out.
Today, he discovered paleo meat sticks. He’s really pushy when it comes to my food, especially cinnamon rolls, but this cat would have straight-up murdered me if I didn’t give him a piece fast enough. Because I could not give him a piece fast enough, he bit my thumb, and he’s got alligator jaws. Teriyaki flavored is his favorite.
Skin-on-skin touch releases hormones that your brain needs to function properly. Sucks for me because I’m touch-averse (though I won’t say no to a hug every now and again). The good news is that petting your pet counts as skin-on-skin touch. I needed Oscar. I still miss the last guy so much it hurts, but I’ve fallen in love with this hairy little goofball, and I’m really grateful to have him draped over my legs like a heavy scarf as I type this.
Also, he’s a jumper, unlike Newcastle. I think I’m in trouble.
To explain to you what went wrong on Halloween night, 2003, I have to tell you about Satanicide.
If you’re an educated Satanicide fan, at some point you have had this conversation in your head: “Doesn’t –icide mean to kill? Killing Satan? They’re on God’s side? Or are they just that stupid?” You never learn the answer to that question because the band in question rocked your face off. Satanicide was a Spinal Tap style of band, i.e. comedy, but can actually rock out.
Front man, the voice, Devlin Mayhem, was played by Dale. Devlin represented hard, biker rock. His chaps even had flame-detailing on them because Dale’s girlfriend (now wife) is amazing at that kind of thing.
Aleister Cradley, played by Phil, is a glam rocker, complete with teased hair and spandex tights. Part of his joke is that he’s an f-word but doesn’t know it. In the Satanicide movie, Aleister moons over Devlin while their cover of “My Heart Will Go On” plays in the background. I thought it was funny. Other people might not. This will get me into trouble during the Halloween in question.
Satanicide goes through a lot of bassists, and their replacements are always relatives of the first one, Baron von Goaten. None of the von Goatens could speak English, and, mentally, they weren’t operating on the same world as the rest of us. Last I checked, they all wore masks to hide their Frankenstein hideousness from the world. I’m pretty sure the second Baron was my contemporary. He might have been the first. His name was Jake, and he was the sweetest guy. The von Goaten clan represents European metal, which is some weird, scary shit.
English punk was represented by Sloth Vader. One minute, he was tearing some shit up in London, and then he wakes up in a dumpster in New Jersey, so he joined a band. Griff, the English guy behind Sloth, was a big guy. He loped along like a bear. So when I tell you he routinely did stage dives on top of me, you won’t question my commitment to taking one for the band.
I first saw them because Beth invited me to a show. She did that within five minutes of meeting me, before she even asked me for my name, if I remember correctly. Since that initial concert, I don’t think I missed more than one show during my last two years in New York. Beth’s boyfriend was Dale, so we had the inside scoop. I even recommended a fragment of a song that Devlin sang at one of their concerts (“P is for pussy, that’s good enough for me!”)
In 2003, Beth thought that it would be funny if, on Halloween, Steve and I dressed as Devlin and Aleister, respectively, and go to a Satanicide show. I thought it was a brilliant idea, but my execution was loathesome and half-assed. I wore a curly wig when Phil’s was straight. I couldn’t find exciting tights, so I wore these pants that looked like a cheetah-print pajama bottom. I wore makeup like a drag queen, thanks to Beth. Steve’s costume was on point. We were a terrible mismatch.
Right before we left Steve’s apartment to go to the bar, we had to decide if we were going to eat something for dinner or do vodka shots. We didn’t have time for both. We chose vodka shots. Later at the bar, before the concert, we did shots again, more than once. We watched the show with beers in our hands. After the show, I had a Jack and Coke.
It was in that state that I encountered Moby. That Moby. He went to high school with Beth and Steve. I called him a homophobic slur. The reason I did was because juvenile gay jokes were part of the Satanicide experience. However, this did not endear me to him. Next, I encountered Ed Helms, who was a very, very loosely defined neighbor of Dale. Ed Helms is a cool guy. On the street you will recognize him as Ed Helms, but he looks completely different than the dork that is his brand.
I sat down at the bar and ordered another drink. After I finished it, I swear there was an earthquake, and I fell off the stool. Immediately, I was escorted out of the bar. I ran into Beth and Steve outside, having a cigarette, and we all agreed to call it a night. Beth went off on her own adventure while Steve took me home and put me on his couch.
That’s where I proceeded to puke all night, like young Regan on The Exorcist. That was not the worst part. The worst part is that I tried to cover it up.
Steve missed this because he went out alone after he’d dropped me off. Later, he described himself as kind of a zombie, but one with a single-minded focus on eating a slice of Ray’s Pizza. When he arrived at the storefront, he lurched up to the counter and somehow ordered a slice, which they brought to him lickety split. As he was walking away, tasting victory in the mozzarella and sweet tomato sauce, he noticed the long line he had just cut in front of.
Beth went to sleep on the sidewalk somewhere.
I don’t know what happened to Moby.
Steve and I never spoke of how I befouled his couch.
While Beth agrees that the night was pretty horrible, she can’t stop talking about it. She treats it like it’s a warning tale for the youths.
I had a hangover for days. I didn’t quit drinking until 2007, but when I was coming up with reasons to stop, Halloween 2003 was Exhibit A.
Meet Potato. Potato is his placeholder name. It’s short for Hot Potato. We’re not even sure if he is a he, but I’m going to keep calling him a him until the vet tells me otherwise.
Last night, Nicole and her boyfriend happened upon a young cat licking a Reese’s wrapper, and they thought it looked skinny and really hungry. They fed him, but they didn’t want to mix him with Henry because what if he had worms? Or leukemia? Or HIV? So they brought him to me until we can find him foster care and perhaps a home. He’s already made himself at home.
He’s a real sweetheart, but he’s skin and bones. He’s eating, but after the initial feast last night, be doesn’t have a lot of interest in food. He slept peacefully on my bed all night.
He’s good company, and it’s been a while since I’ve been able to pet a cat.
He also likes to read what I’m writing about him.
I don’t know if I can live with a cat who’s not Newcastle. He looks like Newcastle did at his age (I’m going to say from nine-twelve months), but I’m trying not to let that affect me. I’ve enjoyed hosting Potato, though, and as long as he’s well-behaved, he’s welcome to stay.
I was chatting with my friend Lisa, and she said, “I want to see Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns.” This was a trap, and I fell for it. Immediately, I started looking up Chuck Norris pictures, and when she Photoshopped what she had in mind (it was a terrible Photoshop), I said, “Thank you for bringing this to me instead of going to an AI.” She said, “I hate AI so much.” This was the ethical (and fun) way of entering a prompt and getting an image out of it. So here he is, Chuck Norris, but with kittens instead of guns, as well as proof I did it (thumbnail, pencils, backgrounds, paints).
So I can’t use the lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” in my book. I tried. The publisher told me it could potentially cost thousands of dollars (for fifteen words; yay capitalism!). The first version is almost perfect because it captures that moment when you realize, “I’m going to have to listen to this again.” The second version is lame, so I’m not going to do it. The third version is what I’m going with.
Original Version Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said, “I’m too sexy for my love; too sexy for my love; love’s going to leave me.” Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?
The What-I’m-Not-Going-to-Do Version Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. A deep voice, almost comically so, said the opening lyrics to “I’m too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. Her head slammed down onto her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant?
Final Version Because, just as she was trying to make sense of a geometry problem, the jukebox went off. An aria, with a voice as deep as the bowels of hell, heralded a first-person ballad she had come to know of a man whose sexiness exceeds the tolerance of his love, his car, his cat, your party, several cosmopolitan cities, and his shirt, the latter of which actually causes him pain. Her head slammed down on her book. Had they seriously not updated the jukebox for ten years, but when this song came out, they thought, this was the one? This was the music they wanted everyone to associate with their family restaurant? “I’m Too Sexy?” Really?
Conclusion This whole ordeal reminds me of the original Cybermen from Doctor Who. The women who designed their costume had something like fifty dollars, so she bought a vacuum cleaner and some floodlights and constructed one of the most iconic bad guys in science fiction TV. Nowadays, if you want something onscreen, you throw millions of dollars at some keyboard jockeys, and they make it happen. Before CGI, you had to work within existing space with limits, and they did some amazing things. Think about how much better A New Hope looks like next to Rise of Skywalker. Being limited ultimately gave me a chance to describe how dumb that song is without using any of the lyrics, and the result is better than I’d originally written it.
(Special thanks to Donna Martinez who helped me brainstorm this approach. Someone, I won’t say who, has earned a space on my acknowledgements page.)
Yesterday, I picked up Newcastle’s remains. I could have had them shipped to me, but I thought it was better to pick them up at his vet’s, so I could see the office one last time. I paid a fortune for his death, and I can see where the money went, from this hand-carved, sealed box to the kind, professional vet who came to my apartment seventeen days ago and took him away.
I don’t know where to put him. The other mementos they gave me when he passed, including his collar, paw print, and the lock of his hair are in a cabinet because I can’t bear to look at them. It’s like if I see them, I’ll have to accept that he’s gone.
There’s good days and bad. More often than not, I forget he won’t be there when I get home from my duties in the outside world. It’s the days when I remember that hurt the most. I’m not ready to accept his absence. Last weekend, we had a single spring day amongst the ongoing cold drizzle we’ve been enduring in the DMV area, and I thought about how I’d love to open a window, but I couldn’t because it was still too cold for him, even in his Wookie-fur coat. The same thing happened to me when I
decided to treat myself to a pizza last week because I was going to have to share my sausage with him. I didn’t enjoy the pizza. Too much sausage.
I’ve spoken to a grief counselor twice since he died, the second time when I had forgotten how his fur felt. I may have to call her again. Everyone has been so good to me, though. The girls in my eight-cubicle “pod” at work got me a card, and my boss got me a beautiful window ornament I have displayed at my desk. I have some friends I still talk to when I really miss him, but I feel like the rest of the world has moved on, even if that’s not true.
The worst day was last Wednesday, when I was so overcome with grief, I had to leave work. On the train ride home, I was struck by the image of Neil Gaiman’s perky, goth personification of Death picking the little guy up, scratching him behind the ears and whispering sweet things to him as she carried him where he needed to go. I burst out into tears. I still cry, even writing that sentence. I fell asleep at 3:30 in the afternoon and woke up twelve hours later. That was the worst day I’ve had since the actual day.
My neighborhood consists of a Walmart, some liquor stores, and a lot of fast food, so I went one stop past mine and discovered a beautiful area with a vegan donut shop, a vegan cupcake shop, and a vegan soul food restaurant. Most importantly, there is a café, called The Lost Sock for some reason, and on the rare moments when it hasn’t been raining, I’ve sat outside and drawn or painted. Now that I’m not eking out my last moments with my best friend, I have room to wander, and it’s calling out to me.
Last night, past my bedtime, I went to Artomatic, in which hundreds of local artists set up mini-galleries in a large, empty building. There’s seven floors of art, music, bars, and sandwiches from the historic Busboys & Poets. I made it through two. Also since he left, I’ve unpacked my books, the last remnants of the move, and hung up most of my wall art. It only took two months.
I’ve been drawing and painting a lot since he left. I’ve only managed one page of my comic before it became a burden, but I’ve been focusing my attention on my sketchbooks. I loved drawing and painting him. I have over a dozen works with him as a subject, from bad to good, from 2004 to 2024.
Last week, I rediscovered the hilarious “Gangham Style” video, and I recreated my favorite five seconds in any music video as a self-portrait, with him playing the part of Psy. Drawing him didn’t break my heart, so I think I’m going to see what happens if I do it again.
It’s still hard to talk about him without tearing up. The other day, I barely held it together as I told my sister Rachel about the night I was afflicted with sleep paralysis, and he stayed at my side the whole time, protecting me from the evil dark figure looming at the foot of my bed. He was a good boy. The goodest.
There’s something about Three Stories in One. Of all of my intellectual properties, of all my ideas, it has to be the dumbest. It wasn’t just my idea, though. Severian (nee Boone) was there with me in drama class, and when Ms. Lindberg told us to take out seats, we discussed how hard that would be for me, who came to school on my bike, or Boone, who took the bus, and it took off from there. Suddenly, Severian is (kind of) hooking up with Amber, the most popular girl in school, and I was racing cars in the Indy 500.
When I sat at my desk after school that day and wrote it all down, along with some of my own embellishments (there was lots of flying), I inserted Severian’s friend (who I barely liked), Luke, inspired by a Doors song I had just learned, and later in the tale, Wendy, who I’d had a crush on at the time. The storytelling was unique, in that, instead of chapter or scene breaks, each main character’s adventures were presented as a separate story, woven together with titles and “To be continueds.” Severian wrote a sequel to the collection, and we took turns writing them.
Three Stories in One became a mini-phenomenon. This was in the early nineties, so there was no internet to share it on, but it spread anyway. Severian typed it up, printed out a few copies, and they circulated, even coming into the hands of Amber herself (who I’m pretty sure was horrified, though the only hooking up Boone and Amber did was to play games like Ping-Pong). Severian and I were celebrities. In 1995, I condensed my contributions to Three Stories in One into a single collection (which can be read here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1OciHzg8YdB8wyjGZNZx509v1nCvXPMIO/view) When each story fragment is put on a separate page, it came out to seventy-eight pages. In 1998, I started to teach myself how to draw, and by 2005, with four comics under my belt, I decided to illustrate Three Stories in One. I wasn’t great with faces at the time, all five of us had a distinctive look that was easy to cartoon. I made it fifty-six pages before I started making friends in the town I had just moved to and abandoned the project. However, those illustrations stuck with me, and every once in a while, I like to come back to them.
When we were kids, we talked about Three Stories in One like a pop-culture mega-hit, and I still do, even though I’m only Facebook friends with Wendy and Amber, and we don’t ever interact. The less said about Luke, the better. As for Severian, the last time I saw her was January 1, 2000, and she was presenting as Boone. She and I had a difficult relationship, as we were both mentally ill and not receiving necessary care, and she had a number of issues on top of that. After Newcastle passed away, I sat down and worked on a watercolor to take my mind off of everything. As is the case with most of my sketchbooks, I let the picture tell me what it wanted to be, and it became a dramatic drawing of Wendy. Next thing you know, I made movie posters of all the main characters.
LUKE: A total sleazebag
JEREMIAH: A miserable nerd who rides his bike everywhere
BOONE: A surprisingly cheerful and innocent goth
AMBER: The most popular and perky girl at school
WENDY: The Worst Driver in the World
I’ve made attempts to reach out to Severian, but no luck. I don’t want to do all seventy-eight pages again, but I’d love to do something smaller with these characters, and I’d love for her to writer. Though, if she chose not to, I’d completely understand. It was a difficult time in her life, and one of the main characters uses her dead name. For me, though, it was an innocent time (even though I was unhappy for at least half of it), and I’ve never written anything as bananas since.
On Wednesday, 21 February 2024, at approximately 3:30 a.m., I made the decision to end Newcastle’s life. Everyone I’ve spoken to about the subject told me that I’d know it was time—that he’d tell me. I didn’t understand. I’ve spent the past three weeks in a near-constant state of stress. I spent mornings on work-from-home Fridays and Mondays, along with the weekends, begging him to come out from under the bed. In the afternoons, he would. He would walk to the food bowl, eat (less and less each day), drink some water, go to the bathroom, and yell at me to come pick him up like a baby. But after I got home from work at 1:00 p.m. on Tuesday for a telehealth appointment, he had found a space under my bed that was dark and cramped, and he hasn’t come out.
Ordinarily, when I would lie down on my bed at night, he positioned himself at my feet like the lions at the New York Public Library (Patience & Fortitude/Hallelujah & Amen/Run & Hide/Rack & Pinion, whatever their names are). He’d done this since he was a kitten. I think he was protecting me from the monsters. After I was asleep, he’d go somewhere else until breakfast. He didn’t do this Tuesday night.
Last night, I dreamt that he was fine. He jumped onto a stack of boxes I still haven’t unpacked to get my attention. The dream faded, and I found myself on an empty bed in an empty apartment, and I remembered. I gave him one of those yogurt tubes that cats will maul you for, and he ate some. I was so happy, I gave him another one, and he turned around and faced the other way. That’s when I knew.
Between crying jags, I made the preparations. I reached out to a pet hospice that makes house calls; it’s expensive, but this was the last time I’d spend money on him. I found a pet grief counselor to talk to after. I canceled his quality-of-life appointment Friday, and I canceled his twice-monthly kitty litter shipment, and let the online pharmacy know we couldn’t be needing their services anymore. I scheduled some time off work and arranged coverage for my job.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with his stuff. Because it’s a handy place to stash art supplies, I’m going to keep the cat tree I’d planted next to my desk so he could take a nap with Dad while Dad was working. He never used it because he’d rather lie down on Dad, preventing Dad from working.
He’s never going to do that again.
I asked Nicole to be there, less for me and more for her and him. When Nicole lived with Kate and me in 2012, she and Newcastle had a pretty great relationship. When we moved in with her five years ago, she was his auntie, though I’m pretty sure he thought of her as Mom. She gave nicknames to all the cats she’s lived with as an adult, so Henry is Gibbon, Andrew was Gray Cat, Magik was Badgley, and Newcastle was Babycat, shortened to Bebe.
Newcastle was an ugly, sickly kitten. They were going to put him to sleep when Kate rescued him and nursed him to health. This was during the six weeks between my deciding to move to Bloomington and me actually doing it. As she was cleaning bloody snot off the walls and giving his greasy body baths, she told me that she intuited that he wasn’t her cat. She didn’t know whose he was. After I’d been living with her a while, she realized that she couldn’t separate us.
When he wanted to play as a young adult, he’d run up to me, meow, and do a backflip. He was like a dog, always at my heels, playing fetch. When I’d taunt him with the birdie on a string, he’d reach a point where he’d just grab it in his teeth and walk away. I always let him take it to his den. He’d earned it. It’s been a long time since he’s played with me. Until Tuesday, he just wanted to snuggle.
He also did this thing where, before guard duty started at night, he had to sit on my chest and massage my throat. This wasn’t exactly comfortable for me. It seemed to be a compulsion, and he always had a serious look on his face when he did it, like it was his job. And yet he purred the whole time. If he came to bed and found me spooning Kate, he’d tap me on the shoulder until I moved down to my back. I tried massaging his throat with my thumbs to see how he liked it, and it turned out he liked it a lot. It’s been a long time since he’s done that.
I saw a movie the other day. I’d put it on so I’d have something to listen to while I drew, but it turned out to be engrossing, and I brought my iPad to bed and pet Newcastle while I watched it. Ben Kingsley played a good-natured senior citizen who befriended an alien, and Jane Curtain played an elderly woman with a cat so elderly it couldn’t walk anymore. Another character tried to persuade her to put her cat to sleep, and she said, “He’s all I have.” She took a breath and added, “He’s all I had.” Newcastle spent his last three days under the bed, not eating, not going to the bathroom, and only coming out for water. When I looked for him, he was just a pair of yellow eyes just out of reach.
Newcastle loved me. He loved me when I was depressed. He loved me when I was manic. He loved me when I was angry. He loved me when I went on long vacations. He loved me when all I wanted to do was hide. He loved me. I’ve never had that kind of devotion before, and I can’t imagine I ever will again.
I’ve never felt as lonely in my life as I have this past month. My hobbies are reading what I want to read, watching what I want to watch, blasting whatever music moves me and me alone, and writing and drawing. These aren’t social hobbies. Even when I lived with Kate and Nicole, people with whom I spent most of my time, and even when I drew apart from both of them, I always had Newcastle.
I never doubted him, but after the move, I could never be sure how he was doing. When the vet gave me the diagnosis of his kidney failure, I watched him so closely I got headaches. The vet gave me a couple of months. It’s only been two weeks.
The thing that upsets me the most, as I sit here in bed without him, typing this, is that I’m going to get used to his being gone. I’m not going to come home from work or from the store and look for him. It won’t bother me when I sit down at my desk to work, and I don’t get interrupted by his begging for attention. That editors and coworkers won’t see him draped over my shoulder and ask after him. I don’t want that to be normal. I don’t want this pain I’m feeling to ever end. But it will. I will feel better. I’ll go back to work on Tuesday. My gas bill is due tomorrow. I need to run to the store to pick up half and half.
Today, 22 February 2024, at approximately 9:30 a.m., Newcastle died, his face in Dad’s hands.
When the cardiologist diagnosed him with congenital heart failure, he gave Newcastle a year. That was in 2015. I had twenty years with him. It wasn’t enough.
