Obi-cat

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there.

Having just returned from my parents' house, where a 1970 Bordeaux complimented pork and potatoes, and strawberry short cake drenched in whipped cream put the cherry on top of a fine late springtime meal, I am presently relaxing in my recliner, diet coke in reach, ready to blog my butt off.

As I collected my belongings, preparing to leave, I noticed Obi, my old white Himalayan cat, sitting in shadows underneath some cabinets, atop a short stack of magazines and unopened envelopes. In his teens when I purchased my condo back in October '04, Obi was, my parents and I decided, too old to become accustomed to a new home. Besides, at that point she still had PJ, our since deceased collie, to keep her company. Obi and PJ busted the myth that cats and dogs can't get along. He was the yin to her yang. Or something. But now his companion is up in doggy heaven, and tonight, watching him sit there with his these-days-typical grumpy mien, I decided that often times, I feel like an old cat; all I require is the comfort of another willing to lick me when I'm dirty and leave me alone, or maybe rub her soft fur against me, when I'm peevish and disagreeable.

Obi is by no means alone. A month or so ago, my mother bought a 10-week-old white golden retriever. It's from Europe. The golden retrievers from Europe are white. Why don't they just call them white retrievers? But anyway, Einstein is his name, and like the white-haired mad scientist, he is full of energy, humps legs, and poops everywhere. The introduction of Einstein to the family didn't sit well with Obi-cat, who recently confided in me that "Einstein purloins my attention! Now he gets all the dinner scraps. Nobody pets me anymore because of that insufferable dog."

Though he whines ad nauseam that Einstein is the root of all his woes, I believe he simply still misses PJ (Pumpkin Junior, selfishly named after my first doggy, by yours truly, because I was unprepared, unwilling, to completely let go).

Obi used to purr like a Porsche at the first sign of affection. Eyes closed in contentment, mouth intermittently opening to issue forth his hiccup-like pseudo-meow, Obi would ensconce himself in your lap and arch his backside like a wave while petted from head to tail. I noticed within the past couple months that Obi doesn't purr like that anymore, not the way he used to, especially when Einstein or Georgia, my new kitty, are nearby. If he so much as sniffs the scent of one of "those usurpers" (his words, not mine), the purr machine becomes inoperable. At one point, Obi either could not control the urge to purr, to announce his happiness to the world in his utterly annoying, yet endearing way, or he simply chose not to censor his feelings.

How that cat used to hum his satisfaction.

Loss, however, has changed the once affable feline. Sometimes, the effect of loss is a temporary kind of deal. It's eventually accepted as part of life's vicissitudes, and one moves on, once more capable of letting the simple pleasures pick up your spirits, like how Georgia reaps so much enjoyment playing with a plastic bag, or chasing the puppy, or tempting the African Grey parrot, Peanut, who is quite used to being the dominating presence of the household; or the way Einstein sprawls out, belly on floor, limbs splayed in an X, completely exhausted after running full-bore from the bird for twenty minutes; or, of course, tasty cat treats.

Obi doesn't seem to have adjusted just yet. It's sad to see the ubiquitous grumpy face stapled on his face, to hear the silence as you pet him. Sometimes he purrs, but mostly he stays stoic, pensive, maybe melancholy. It's hard to tell. Because cats are lazy, and laziness can easily be misconstrued as discontent.

But like I said, he doesn't purr too often these days. And that's a shame. Why couldn't he have been rendered purrless when he slept in my bed and woke me up at 3 AM every night all those many years ago? We used to enjoy playing Toss the Kitty Across the Room after these dead of night disturbances. What fun we had!

There I stood, belongings in hand, having just bade farewell to my parents. I walked across the kitchen, stepping over a tuckered out Einstein along the way, kissed Obi on the forehead, and petted him head to tail. The old cat nodded, blinked, and started to softly purr. As I continued to show my affection, he purred louder and louder, until finally he reminded me of the young, happy Obi-cat I used to know.

Annoyed by the thunderous purr, I hurled him across the kitchen.

Hearing the panicky rwraaaarr warble through the air, and the eventual thump against the wooden floor, I felt a teardrop meander down my cheek.

Ah, just like the good old days.

OK, it didn't happen exactly like that. But purr he did, if briefly, in acknowledgement of my affection. Despite Einstein's close vicinity. Is this a sign Obi-cat is accepting not only the loss of PJ, but also the undesired presence of the energetic puppy, Einstein? Or did he just happen to smell dinner and hope by purring I would offer up some leftovers? We may never know.

Cause cats don't talk. Well sometimes they do, but my therapist said not to mention things like that to other people.

Oh God, what have I done?!

Scat, cat!

Up at 2 A.M., woken by the need for a little mid-night micturition, teeth of a Norwegian Forest cat chomping on my feet (Georgia, it tickles!), I thought it the natural time for a blog update--though I warn you: I'm groggy and hopped up on meds, so my judgement may be a tad tottery, and it is indeed exceptionally likely everything I write will make not a modicum of sense.

Yes, this is how I write when I've just been ripped from slumber by the need to pee. Can't you just smell it? The petulance?

Anyway, I think Georgia has a urine fetish; I'm concerned about it. I take that back: it's all streams of water she craves, not simply my sweet, yellow nectar. But having a cat with a stream fetish makes urination a trifle adventurous. Imagine the stream, gloriously flowing from tip to toilet. Maybe you don't want to imagine the tip part. But you get the idea. Hey, it was alliteration, I had to go for it. You imagining? Good. Now allow a racing cat, tearing up a stairway, nearly crashing against the linen closet in her cartoonish celerity to simultaneously turn ninety degrees and bolt for the bathroom, to enter the mental picture.

Her feet summon dust puffs of alacrity, roadrunner style, as she veers spang for the holy grail.

She halts before the mighty stream, paws on porcelain, simply gazing with curiosity, or awe, or perhaps curiosity and awe at the same time, as the urinefall splatters on water with its mellifluous siren's plop.

What is this? she ponders, testing my typically deft aiming ability by creeping her nose farther out over the bowl, becoming more target than kitty with each passing moment.

She leaps lithe as a ballerina onto the rim, avoiding the object of her curiosity. How? I don't know. Consider it one life consumed. She stands straddling the bowl momentarily before deciding to tightrope toe along the other side of the toilet.

There, she poises to strike. Ears back, teeth bared, she sallies forth her paw, slapping the stream, at first as if testing its temperature. Then, finding it delightfully tepid, she continues her assault as I struggle to avoid her onslaught without puddling piss on the tile floor. I do the herky-jerky, swaying to and fro, trying to assuage my manhood*, which, long--very long, snakelike, and anaconda thick--appears possessed as it thrashes back and forth. Like an unmanned firehose on full blast, it cannot be controlled.

The cat wins this battle. But the war isn't over yet! Next time I will be more prepared. I'm devising an ambush!

I will have the last meow in this matter!

ANYway, I suppose I should get some shuteye. In short, I woke up to pee and the cat was there. I probably could have just written that instead. Oh yeah, she likes to bat at the water when I take baths, too, but she seems to lose interest when I shove her into the tub.

Cats are outstanding.

Good night, everyone! And good night...holes.

Love,
Brett

*No, that doesn't mean I was masturbating

Golf and Beer

Amtelco has its bi-annual golf outing at 3:30 today. It's nice and tenebrous outside, so maybe it'll get rained out. Nah, that's not my luck. Actually, I hope it doesn't get rained out, because golf is better than work, as I've already admitted. Besides, I had a great deal of fun at the last Amtelco outing I attended during Summer '05. It's amazing how 3-5 beers during the course of nine holes can turn a Mr. Sad Golfer's frown into a freakish Joker's grin. After imbibing a little of the glee sauce, one doesn't mind hacking and slashing quite as much. Making a fool of myself?

Bring it on!

Joy derived from driving the cart is doubled, at least. Fair warning, squirrels!

I hope they have Whiskey this year.

I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

Gulp!

Avian Flu Times Two

It's wretched. Veritably abject.

I have been afflicted since childhood. For fifteen years, I've struggled to overcome. Like alcoholism, and masturbation, it is not merely an addiction; it's a disease. It debilitates ability to reason, causes delusions of grandeur. Like bipolar-affected individuals, those who share my malady suffer extreme highs and lows, reckless (often aggressive) behavior, and abnormally poor judgement. Commingling Turret's Syndrome, Bipolar Disorder, and God only knows what else (or possibly the Devil, but probably no one else, except maybe Jesus, but then again, isn't He God? Would the Holy Spirit know these things?), this disease is the greatest threat to Unites States citizens since the invasion of the British rock group, Coldplay.

Indeed, the Avian Flu has nothing on golf. In fact, scientists have proven golf to be twice as deadly.*

I took up the game of golf for the same reason I originally played hockey and baseball: because my parents made me. Little did I know, what began as a way to structure my time in a meaningful manner would prove to achieve quite the opposite.

I have a great idea, gang: let's spend the next four hours in the pits of hell! Golly, I've been meaning to throw twenty-five bucks down the poopshoot!

Golf is a dreadful, insidious game. More often than not, I hate the damn sport. In a recent round, I completely lost my swing. To lose one's swing, in golf vernacular, means the following: If you were to poll a small group of nearby spectators who happened to for some reason be watching my round of golf, and you asked them if I were 1) a novice golfer, 2) an experienced amateur, or 3) a golf professional, they would respond, collectively, "AAHHHHHHHHHHH! NOOO! THE HUMANITY!!!" as my errant pitching wedge shot, shanked--sprayed straight right off the clubface--struck their skulls in a masterful show of ineptitude.

I vowed to quit. Forever. Despite years of training.

Why?

Ultimately, golf, like life, is utterly pointless. Delving deeper, I decided to quit golf out of a more basic desire: to ensure the survival of those I love (and often, play golf with). I do not wish harm upon my family members, nor even on the stray single who might foolishly wander into a threesome full of Killer Bs (Dad: Bernie; Bro: Brady; Self: Brett). In general, I value life. At the very least, I try my best to avoid committing murders--accidental or otherwise--which is a grave possibility on any given golf shot. Well, probably not on a putt, but is that a chance you are willing to take?

Not me, for golf is Russian roulette with balls.

Alas, the very next day, my boss invited me to play a round of golf. 18 holes, for free, during a workday.

Clearly, I could not turn down a day off work.

Naturally, I expected the worst. When you expect bad things to happen, typically they do. And do they did: I sank a birdie. No, a drive gone askew did not crush a wading duck; rather, I sank a birdie putt. My first birdie of the year. Moreover, I played other holes with uncanny consistency. I miraculously rediscovered my driver swing. Balls arched majestically through the air over 300 yards. Not left. Not right. Not Backwards. Not nowhere. But Straight, 300 yards. Irons met the dimpled surface of my Titleist head-on, imparting perfect spin and trajectory. Putts rolled with near-perfect speed and precision.

I was in the proverbial zone.

The occasional shot still strayed off course, and sure, one or two putts hit an unseen slope and missed the cup by a measly foot or ten, but golf, after all, is a game of mistakes; the goal is to minimize errors as much as possible. Consistency is the key. If I could simply birdie a few more holes per round, I could take aim at the city golf tournament this summer and have a realistic shot at claiming the title! After that, who knows?

To the practice range I went! Oh, this would be fun, getting to fine-tune an improving golf game, one on the verge of blasting past amateur status into the sphere of the elite. Even the worst professionals on the tour make solid dough. According to recent statistics on pgatour.com, the 184th best golfer makes six figures!

Oh, snap!

I plugged a tee into the ground, set a ball atop it, and hit my first drive of the practice session: a beauteous sight to behold! I wondered, gazing around coyly to see if anyone had witnessed my mammoth smash, if I could outdrive Tiger Woods, because that baby really had some hot sauce on it! After tracing the sky with one peerlessly projected golf ball after another, a startling, if breathtaking, panoply of brilliance, I decided to hit the practice putting green to hone the short game.

After ten minutes of hit-or-miss success, I decided the practice green did not suitably mimic the greens of a real golf course. Wasn't this green too sloped? Why else would I be missing three-foot putts? Eh, it's probably because it's impossible to practice putting with the same intensity one feels during the thrill of competition. Besides, putting is easy; no worries!

Once home, I scoured the Internet for sundry golf tips that were sure to dot the final remaining lowercase j's of my emerging excellence. One tidbit, in particular, would surely prove to subtract two or three strokes off my score in a jiffy; how could increasing my driving distance by 30 yards do otherwise? All it entailed was a fairly minor grip change, and the procurement of a new $250 1W ($100 off the retail price! What a deal!)

I emailed my brother, and we agreed to meet at 6:30 AM at Yahara Hills Golf Course. Better to beat the rush. 18 glorious holes, uninterrupted by slow players. Newbs. We'd be done by ten A.M. and have the rest of the day to discuss the round, and what, if anything, we needed to work on yet.

At this point of the story, there are two and only two possible outcomes. One: I have a very good, but infuriatingly imperfect, round of golf, scoring at or near my low score of the year, thus facilitating further delusions of grandeur; two: reality, in the form of slices, shanks, and misread putts, slaps me in the face like a tire iron rapped across my cheek by a crazed victim of road rage (despite the fact that asshole cut me off!). In the former scenario, I would continue golfing until the latter, inexorable outcome occurred. If slapped by the cold tire iron of reality, however, I would vow to forever quit this game I loathe, only to be lured by the siren of the birdie's chirp, or the eagle's squawk, doomed to fall prey once more to expectations smothered with the tasty, addictive dip of naiveté, which might look and taste much like nacho cheese.

The only option for the hacks like myself, and all of you golfing addicts out there (I'm better than 90% of you, so yes, this means you, Mr. Skin-tight Khakis), is to enjoy the game for what it is: hell on earth. Imagine the searing pain of self-immolation. Now pretend Death decides to eschew your appointment to the afterlife in order to delight in your suffering. You are walking down the fairway--your drive, oh by the way, just sailed at least fifty yards over the woods that beset it--where finally you plop down a new ball, take out your pitching wedge, and swing with Herculean force, feeling still the sting of embarrassment from your little "episode" on the tee box in which you hurled your driver one-hundred yards toward a gaggle of geese because "those fucking bastards distracted [you]"; then you gaze down the fairway toward the green only to see a wisp of white flash, transient as a firefly's flicker, in your peripheral vision.

Shank. Out of bounds.

You begin laughing uncontrollably as the frail grip of sanity slackens and the intricate system of failsafes designed by God to prevent descent to madness begins a rapid shutdown sequence, one by one, until only your maniacal cackle, which is all that remains of your humanity, if it can be called that, dies like a sigh into the thick silence of a humid mid-morning air.

It is 9:15 A.M. You are tired, cranky, dispirited. All you want in the entire world is to curl up on your bed and cuddle with the one you love, even if it is just the damn cat, and fall peaceably into the serene respite that is slumber.

You have seven holes to go.

The nightmare continues.

If you are thinking of taking up the game of golf, and you have any choice in the matter, please, heed my warning: like excessive masturbation, golf will chafe the foreskin...of your very soul.

Beware!

*Scientists have not studied the pernicious effects of golf vis-à-vis the Avian Flu. But I'm confident my figures are on the mark. I have pie charts available upon request should further evidence be required.