Lurking In The Shadows

 

I like this photograph of my cat, Monkey, taken from behind as he gazes upon his court.  The light casting a mighty shadow so that we fail to see the intricate designs of his striped back, replacing it with darkness and mystery.

The other morning as I drove to work, I'd just rounded the corner from my street onto the main drag that takes me westward.  Like so many mornings before, I saw a couple rabbits scampering across the street into the adjacent park.  It's a large park, large enough that a small group of rabbits could probably live long happy lives there without ever having to leave the safety of it's perimeter.  "Be careful, rabbits." I always say.  In addition to the lively scampering of this indigenous wildlife, sadly I also see many tattered corpses that didn't fair too well crossing the boulevard.

I got to thinking, driving up the street, listening to whatever was on the radio at the time, "What DO rabbits do all day?"  Good question, right?  The sun breaks through the morning dawn, shining light down on the world and these rabbits awaken from their slumber and begin foraging for food.  Do they do that all day long?  Just eat, sleep, and shit.  Then my thoughts came back to something, or someone, dear to my heart.  My boy, Monkey.  What does he do, all day long? 

Same thing, only there's four walls and a roof protecting him from the elements and possible predation.  That aside, he lives the same mundane life as those rabbits.  Eat, sleep, shit, repeat.  Only advantage Monkey has over the rabbits, aside from the structure that he resides in, is guaranteed meals and snuggle time with yours truly, Daddy.

There are times, however, when I'm home and I cannot find that cat anywhere.  It's like he just vaporizes then reappears when it's convenient.  It's magical.  Does Monkey have special abilities that he's hiding from me?  Am I not trustworthy enough to keep his secrets?

The other night I was having trouble going to sleep.  For the fourteen years that Monkey has been alive and living with me, we always go to bed at the same time, snuggle a little before I doze off and he retires to his corner at the foot of the bed.  So when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can glance down and see his shadowy form snoring in the corner and all feels right and I'm able to fall back asleep with ease.  On this particular night, just three sleeps ago, I woke up and Monkey was nowhere to be seen.  I got up to get a drink from the fridge and in my travels, failed to see Monkey lying in any of his preferred spots that pepper the household.  It wasn't until nearly a half hour later that I felt him jump onto the bed, murmur a little meow of acknowledgement and returned to his corner, like nothing had transpired.

I rolled up next to him and started stroking his back, from neck to tail and chatting him up.  I asked questions like "Where do you go?" and "What are you doing?"  Then mid-query, I realized something imperative.  If you look at the distinctive markings on Monkey's face, it's almost too obvious.  Much like Clark Kent wears a cheap pair of glasses to hide the fact that he's actually Superman, Monkey hides his secret identity by looking like a cute kitty cat with that unique triangular white patch on his face.

(Please forgive me for getting off-topic, but HOW stupid are the people in Metropolis that they can't see through that shitty disguise?)

I'm lying next to my cat, on top of the covers, stroking his fur and listening to his gentle rhythmic purr when I realized, "I've never seen Batman and Monkey in the same room...  I wonder.  Is it possible?"  All those nights when I came downstairs because he was absent and I did see him, seated on the back to the armchair, gazing out over his world, looking for neerdowells and riff-raff, poised to leap into hand-to-hand combat at a moments notice.

If you take a moment to really look and analyze the pictures of the Caped Crusader versus Monkey, you'll have to agree the resemblance is uncanny.  I think my cat is a superhero, watching over and protecting his land.  If he chooses not to share that life and burden with me, then I'm sure Monkey has his reasons.  Perhaps it's out of love and wishes to protect me from those who wish to do him harm.  I can appreciate that and I thank him for the security he provides.

Broken

I ventured out this morning headed to the nearby Wal-Mart.  Amongst my travels inside, I made my way over to the Electronics Department, as I often do.  It's like an instinctual path I take when I come to the Preston Crossing location.  Each store has it's unique route, but this one always takes me in the North entrance, where I then circle around past the self-checkouts, before hanging a right to head down the center aisle.  This brings me to the junction where it's a left turn to electronics and a right hand turn to the pet supplies.

I have no interest, really, in the electronics department, other than finding a movie or TV series on DVD for a reasonable price to add to my collection.  Today I found no such deals, but I did happen across a young lad with his mother.  They were getting assistance from the clerk who was removing a Nintendo video game from the locked case.  The look of jubilation on the little boys face, was priceless.  Even the mom, who was attempting to ease his excitement, shared that look of joy.  She'd probably worked hard for the money to purchase this game for her son.

The scenario reminded me of the documentary I watched last night, "Count Me In".  A doc about drumming, percussion and what inspired these musicians to embrace what it is to be a drummer.  The documentary included some rare home videos of these, now grown professional musicians, receiving their first drum kits as, in some cases, toddlers.  One girl, in particular, was so overjoyed when she unwrapped her kit, that she fell into the box, sobbing with tears of happiness on a level like I've never witnessed in my life.  A moment so precious, that it brought tears to my eyes.  

On a personal level, I can only recall my cat, Monkey's first Christmas, where I successfully hit a cat fort in the garage on Christmas Eve.  We'd gone to bed and I got up quickly and rushed down the stairs.  I thought for sure Monkey would have followed me, as he always did so, at the time, but this night was perfect.  He stayed put on my bed.  I placed the fort next to the front entrance, where it has remained to this day, over thirteen years later.  The next morning we came downstairs and he never noticed the new furniture.  It was me who had to stop us in our tracks and vocalize, "Hey buddy.  What's that?"  I said pointing to the new addition.  The cat actually stopped, looked over and I saw an actual feline WTF moment.  I rushed upstairs to grab my phone to take pictures, but in the thirty seconds that I was gone, he'd already destroyed the feathers that hung below the fort.  There were feathers everywhere, including some smaller ones still floating in the air.  I was ecstatic that he was finding so much joy in this new experience. 😊  I love that kid.

Witnessing the joy of that boy getting a game that he's wanted for who knows how long?  Maybe it was only a few minutes or maybe it's been since Christmas?  Who knows, but the experience wasn't any less special.  Then suddenly, like a stray bullet from a drive-by, I was struck with a memory that broke my heart so much that I nearly lost it in the store.  I fought back actual tears as I recalled a time from my youth, when my mom gifted me a toy out of the blue.  The look of joy on my mom's face when I was taking the toy out of the package and began playing with it.

As stated in previous blogs, our family never had a lot of money when I was growing up.  I never sensed that we were poor and given some of the stuff I saw when I was at school, we definitely had it better than some of the other kids in my grade, but we weren't flourished.  One day, I came home from school and my mom gave me a Riddler action figure.  I already had a Batman and Robin.  Maybe a Joker, too.  I know I had a Spider-Man figure, but the Riddler was a flashy new addition.  I played with that like there was no tomorrow and the joy on my mom's face as she witnessed the glee coming from her eldest child, was incomparable, unless you consider the look I got the next day.

I was so excited about this new toy that my mom allowed me to take it to school the next day for Show & Tell.  I can't recall what I had said in the presentation, but it was enough to entice a fellow classmate to approach me about the figure.  Craig S. was a crafty young fellow, who had every toy you could imagine.  I don't know what his parents did, but it seemed like they spent a lot of their money showering their kids with more toys than any kid could play with.  Craig approached me with this flashy spacecraft toy from the TV show Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.  This kid had a way with words and somehow talked me out of my brand new Riddler figure in exchange for his Draconian Marauder.

That afternoon, I returned home and was playing with this new-to-me toy when my mother discovered me.  She asked where this toy came from, having not recognized it as one of my regular toys.  I told her that I had traded my Riddler action figure for this toy and the look of disappointment and heartbreak that overcame her face was devastating to witness.  A feeling of shame overcame me and I put the Marauder toy in my room and took it back to school the next day with hopes of trading back for my Riddler figure, but alas.  It was took late, as Craig had already bamboozled another child out of their toy for my Riddler figure.  The kid in question was a sickly boy that I was afraid to approach, at the time, and so I reluctantly kept the spaceship, but the scar of what I had done to my mother was forever.

Without much money to our credit, my mom, out of the pure goodness that lives in her heart, went out and purchased something with the hopes that her child would find joy with only to discover that her kid selfishly gave it away in exchange for a worthless space toy from a shitty TV show.

Just the knowing that I disappointed and hurt someone I care about is beyond heart wrenching and, though it was a memory previously lost, it's back in my conscious, now, and it hurts my heart every bit as much right at this moment as it did that day as I sat on the floor of our kitchen. 💔

Eagle

I did the one thing this morning that, for a long time, have wished to have a female companion to assist me with.  I guess, I could have a male companion help out, but I'd feel very uncomfortable about asking a dude to come help me out in the bathroom.  Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, doing the deed is uncomfortable enough, but to do it with another fella present would be crazy awkward.  The task that I speak of is, of course, shaving my head.  Get your damned minds out of the gutter, folks.

For a couple of years now, I've opted to shave my head instead of growing my hair out.  Previous to joining Saskatoon  Transit, I'd had longer hair.  My sister, a hairdresser, couldn't always fit me in for an appointment.  Working limited hours and constantly taxiing her two boys around the city and a portion of the province (these days), she never had the time and not one for bringing her work home with her, plus I'd never dream of asking for such an arduous favour.  So I'd let my hair grow out.  For awhile it was quite lengthy, too.  In the beginning it'd hang in my eyes and would be especially bothersome on a windy day until finally I stopped attempting to keep it from blowing across my face and eyes.  Working outside, though, caused my hair to bleach from the constant exposure to the sun, until finally it began to look like I was balding, even though (at the time) I was not.  I'd always had thin strands of hair, but I was never losing much of it.

Everything changed when I got hired onto Transit.  When I had my identification picture taken for my pass card, the way the camera flash reflected off my head, was truly devastating.  That evening, I did manage to get in to see my sister for an emergency hair appointment at which time, despite her reluctance to grant my wishes, she did shave my head completely bald.  After that, I'd purchased a mid-to-high range cordless clippers and the adventure began.

In the beginning, I attempted to shave every couple of days, but strips would be missed and I'd look like a bargain basement Mick Foley (as Mankind).  One time, another driver, who also worked as a part-time hairdresser, took pity on me and cut down some of the offending strays.  After that, I decided that I'd allow my hair to grow about a quarter to half an inch before taking it all off, right down to the skin.  I don't Bic my head, as my cranium doesn't appear to be very round.  Standing back, it looks like a human skull, but when I run my fingers over my scalp or run the clippers through my hair, I'm constant finding valleys and divots, thus making some areas more difficult to cut.  Hence the need for a spot checker.  Maybe even someone who'd be competent enough to touch up the troubled areas.  Then again, if I'm shaving my whole head anyway, there's a grey area where skill doesn't even come into play.  The fact that I do it myself, is proof and a half that no skill is required.

I remember the first time I'd shaved my head.  It was...  Oh shit, more than twenty years ago. 🤯  God damn I'm getting old. 

The first time I'd shaved my head, it was done by a friend and, ironically, it was done by a dude, my friend Joel.

Another friend had been diagnosed with cancer.  He was about to embark on the chemotherapy aspect of his treatment and was facing the inevitable hair loss.  Myself and a group of his friends, all agreed to shave our heads in support.  It was a procedure that none of us had, up to that point, so the initial victims, er I mean, participants suffered through some seemingly barbaric treatment.  I can't recall who went first, thankfully it was not me, but they came out of that bathroom which trickling streams of drying blood.  It was not a pretty sight.   After all, as memory serves, I don't believe we had any clippers.   Just a pair of scissors, normally used for cutting paper and fabric, not human hair, and a pack of Bic disposable razors.  It was amateur hour at it's finest.

The next fella came out a little less scathed, followed by a third friend, who decided to have some fun in the process, opting first to cut a horse shoe out of his head.  You know, hair on the sides and back, but the top was shaved bald.  It was quite a spectacle to see and he resembled a high school principal.  He did a couple different style that resulted in all of us laughing like idiots.  It was a good night, overall.

As for my experience, it was great.  By the time it was my turn to go under the knife, so to speak, and we'd all got our process down to a sweet science and I came out of the bathroom looking like a million dollars.  I'd always had concerns as my neck is wider than my head, so I always believed that I would look like a thumb with a goatee, but it wasn't so.  My neck is wider, but it didn't (& I don't) look as bad as I thought it would.

I'd love to have a female companion for a number of reasons.  It'd be nice to come home once in awhile and talk to someone who responds with actual words and not murmurs and meows, but I wouldn't trade that fuzzy faced boy, Monkey, for anything or anyone.

Now I sit here, all my hair removed except for a velvety layer, tapping away at my keyboard.  Procrastinating about having to leave the house.  Venturing out into the cooler temperatures.  Maybe I should have waited until this afternoon to have shaved my head, but then I wouldn't have been inspired enough to come share this experience with all of you.  Have a nice day, everybody! 🙂

Window Into My Soul

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath.  Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love.  Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme:  It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components.  It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning.  As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else.  I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses.  I wanna shout from the highest rooftops.  Climb the highest mountain peak.  Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams.  I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍  I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence.  This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me.  I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed.  I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for....  My cat, Monkey.  He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life.  I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

 

Home Sweet Home

 

It's nice to get out once in awhile.  Doing so, really makes one appreciate home all the more.  I enjoy being out with friends.  Family not so much, but with friends, I'm always guaranteed a few laughs, but when the night comes to a close and I'm homeward bound, I'm full of anticipation.  Excitement about walking through my front door, tossing my shoes aside and just relaxing and being at ease.  Of course, a familiar furry face greeting me at the front door with hugs and kisses, Monkey (my cat) is another reason I enjoy being home so much.

I have to leave the house, though, to truly appreciate being home.  If I wake up and remain indoors all day, I don't enjoy it as much.  It feels more like... Existing.  The house is merely the package that contains me.  I do not have to venture far, however, nor for very long.  Just shooting down to the mall for a second to grab some milk or something is all it takes.  Even just running to the bank to grab some cash.  I'm probably only gone for about fifteen minutes, but the moment I see my garage door opening for me to park, my heart actually warms itself.  The anticipation of entering the innards of my sanctuary is almost overwhelming.  I'm overjoyed, if I gotta be truthful.

As I said, the venture homeward isn't nearly as enjoyable as the moment I exit my vehicle and slowly stride to the front door.  That's when the joy begins.

I love my house.  I've lived here for over fifteen years, now, and don't see myself ever leaving, unless it's feet first, inside of a pine box.  I've dreamt of owning other houses.  I've even dreamed up a home that I plan to build, if the opportunity ever arises.🤑 Alas, 'tis but a pipe dream, but the house would have everything from an indoor pool, to an actual bar and a home theater, just to name a few features.  When I dream, I dream BIG.

For now, I love my house and I think it loves me.  I'm home and I feel safe.  I think that's the ultimate reason I love being home.  I feel safe.  Nothing can happen to me while I am here.  I love it.  It truly is my Home Sweet Home.

Sky Fall

Today was the first snowfall for the late autumn season and watching the snow fall from the sky, I was happily reminded of my cat, Monkey's, first experience with falling snow.  More on that in a moment.

Previous readers of this nonsensical blog, will be aware that I injured my brain in a fall a few years ago and while most of my faculties returned unhindered, my memory, sadly, has not.  Most of my long-term memories are gone and I struggle daily with my short-term memory.  So when I recall something that was previously lost, I celebrate the moment in some way.  Tonight, I'm writing a blog about my cat's first experience with the white stuff, as well as some of my childhood memories.  So sit back.  I'll try to make it brief.

From the time I was a teeny infant to my mid-to-late teens, I remember going to bed and waking up to a few inches of beautiful puffy wet snow.  As kids, we'd don our winter boots and coats and run outside to play in the white stuff.  It was a more simple time and the first snowfall would always put smiles on our faces.

In my twenties and thirties, I often recalled going to watch a movie at the old Rainbow Cinemas at the Circle Park Mall.  Go into the theater after driving through a downpour only to exit the movie to discover snow covered cars in the parking lot.  The air was eerily quiet considering how close we were to Eighth Street.  All one could hear is the sound of the wind and the crispy sound of snowflakes landing on other snowflakes.  It was almost magical, until you got into your car and reality suddenly flashed back into the present.

In grade school, at Boughton Elementary, we'd arrive in the morning and the city kids (myself and a hand full of other kids, lived on a farm, so we were bussed into the city), were already hard at work stomping out the wagon wheel pattern for a game we'd play.  Essentially, if a child were standing in the middle, they were safe, but if you stepped out of the center onto the tracks that made up the wheels or the spokes, a marauding player tasked with tagging the runners out.  I was never very good at not getting caught, but even more terrible at tagging people out.  It was kind of a silly game, but fun for a time before computers or game consoles. 😄

A few years ago, I drove school bus.  In fact that's what prompted me to pursuit my current vocation as a city transit worker.  Anyway, not to diverge from the subject at hand.  There were some newly landed immigrants who rode my bus.  They were Middle Eastern and in all likelihood, had never laid eyes upon snow, but watching these little children smiling and laughing as they played with the puffy snowflakes as they drifted downward from the sky, was absolute magic.  Words cannot explain how special that moment was.

As I drove away from the school, I spied those kids still laughing with big smiles on their faces as they played in the snow.  They clearly loved it, unlike another little fella who was panicked at the first snow fall.  He was only a few months old, at the time, so it was expected, I suppose, although it never donned on me until it happened.

I was downstairs watching TV when I heard Monkey run from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back of the house.  I overheard a small murmur, before he ran back to the front of the house.  He continued to do this several more times over the course of a few minutes.  His murmurs and meows growing more and more intense and stressed with each pass.  Finally, he ran downstairs to where I was, looking up at me from the floor, I could tell something was wrong.

I followed him upstairs and this was when I discovered that it was snowing.  Again, like in my youth, big puffy snowflakes, stuck together, falling from the Heavens and all the while, my boy, Monkey, was freaking the f*ck out and rightfully so.  To this sweet little creature, the sky was falling.  To this day, I refer to that moment as Armageddon. 😃

Those days of innocence are long behind us, now.  Nowadays, when it snows or rains, Monkey simply looks at me with disgust, blaming me for the weather instead of fate.

Can you believe he was ever this tiny?

This Is Us

When I bought my house, now fourteen years ago, my plan was to get myself a housemate almost immediately.  I went out to all the popular pet stores at the time and got everything I thought I'd need for the big day.  I got this nifty litter box that would eliminate the need to manually scoop, by sifting the sand through a series of mesh pans.  I got all the dishes and a place mat and the whole nine yards.  Then I procrastinated.  I never sought out a cat for a couple of years.  I don't know why, but perhaps it was fate.

I'd gone through some personal turmoil and finally in 2010, I thought, this is the right time and during a break at work, I visited the SPCA's website to look at the creatures they had onsite.  The first cat I saw, was a little guy named 'Sprout'.  He was adorable, so that night I set out to go to the SPCA to see Sprout.

Sprout was a cute energetic little fellow, but when we went to the isolation room to get acquainted, Sprout had no interest in me and lurked all about, ignoring me completely, as if I weren't even in the room.  So I took Sprout back to his cage and tried another cat, Perry.  Perry was an orange tabby and about three times the size of Sprout.  In his cage, he was lively and quite a character.  He reminded me of Norman, my sister's cat, who went to live with my mom after my sister's divorce.  Norman was a cool cat and Perry seemed to match that personality, but once more, in the isolation room, Perry had no interest in me, opting instead to search for a means of escape.  Back to the cage for him.

Next was a smoky grey cat.  I can't recall it's name, but when we got into the isolation room, it remained at my side and I got to play with him and have a nice little visit.  I thought this.  This little guy will be my cat and I returned him to his cage, informing the folks at the desk that I'd be back the next day, a Friday, to pick up my new cat.

All day Friday, at work, I kept going back to the SPCA website to look at the cats, but it was 'Sprout' who I continued to stare at.  Sprout had a unique face.  A black and grey tabby with a white patch on his face that mimicked a face mask that extended from just above his nose down under his chin.  Though he had completely ignored me when we were in the visitation room, I knew I could break through that tough exterior and we'd be best of friends.  So immediately after work, I raced to the SPCA and told them that I was there to adopt Sprout.  That's when they gave me the shattering news that he was already spoken for.  He was being adopted by two college girls who were coming later that day to pick him up.  I was shattered.  Even now, as I write this, I'm welling up.

Seeing how devastated I appeared to them, the lady behind the desk told me, that if they didn't pick him up by 7pm that night, that she'd give me a call and I could adopt him.  This news gave me hope.  'There's no way two college girls are going to pick up a kitten on a Friday night instead of going out to the bar to get drunk and stupid', I thought to myself, handing over my phone number.  Sure enough, at 7:30pm, I received a telephone call informing me that the original adopters failed to show up and if I still wanted Sprout, that he was mine.  I graciously said 'yes' and early the next morning, I raced across town to pick up my little guy.

We placed Sprout, now renamed "Monkey" into the newly purchased carrier and we departed.  Monkey was quite vocal all the way home.  Rightfully so, he was plucked from the safety of his own little apartment and was now riding in a new container that smelled rich with plastic and vinyl, destined for the unknown.

When we arrived at home, I placed the carrier in the front room and unzipped it.  I never attempted to retrieve the little kitten, leaving him, instead to get acclimated to his new environment.  I took the fast food that I'd purchased on our way home with me downstairs and clicked on the TV.

Throughout the next thirty minutes or so, I could hear some rustling upstairs and some little squeaky meows, but no sign of the cat.  Then at one point, there he was, at the top of the stairs staring down at me.  I said nothing and he'd disappear.  Returning he'd come a little closer, then turn and run.  He did this a number of times, growing more brave each time.  Then he'd get poofy.  The hair on his back rose and his tail was tremendously large for a cat so small.  He'd then turn sideways, making himself appear larger than he was and he'd charge at me, then turn and run.  He did this over and over for the next twenty minutes or so, before finally hopping up on the chair and giving me a few sniffs.  I think he felt like I was okay and that's when the trust first began.

I've mentioned a lot about my TBI and the loss of most of my memories.  I can't remember most of my childhood or the years since then.  One memory that I am so relieved that I can still recall, are these first moments with Monkey.  He had finally accepted me as his 'daddy' and he climbed up on my chest, as I sat back in the chair, and curled up, just under my chin and went to sleep.  We both had a nap at that time, as father and son.

I wish I had more pictures available of Monkey at this age, but sadly they're all on the various cellphones that I've had over the years and aren't available (at this time) until I find the right cables to transfer them onto my computer.  All I have are these three individual photos taken by my mom at her house.

The next while was a learning curve for us both, Monkey and I.  He'd constantly get into mischief as young cats tend to do.  I had to repeatedly scold him when he'd get behind the TV and chew on the cables.  He used to climb up under my bed and get stuck in the void between the box spring and the frame of the bed, forcing me to pull the bed apart to rescue him.  One night, he drove me completely insane, getting stuck in there a total of three, maybe four times.  This prompted me to place everything that could fit under my bed to block his attempts to get in there, and everything has remained there ever since.  He's now ten times bigger than he was when he came to live with me, but I know if given the opportunity, he'd wriggle himself up there again and call for me to rescue him.

For most of his years here, I've given him his own freedom to what he wanted.  My backyard presented some problems, though.  The fence was complete shit.  Rotted out 2x4s caused fence boards to fall out.  Gaps at the bottom lead into the neighbours yard, so allowing complete freedom meant Monkey had to don a harness then have a tether attached to him.  While he had "complete freedom" outside, that freedom was reduced to a small radius around a corkscrew spike in the yard, strategically placed so Monkey could hang out under one of the bushes in the backyard.  This was troublesome only in the fact that Monkey constantly got tangled up and I'd hear him wailing for help.  Later on, I would attach a couple eye screws into my deck and the shed in the corner of the yard and run a "clothesline" across and attach 12 feet of line for him.  Now Monkey could wander the width of the yard, just short of getting through the gap into the neighbours yard.

Finally, a couple years ago, after a decade of watching the fence continually deteriorate, the neighbour and I had a new fence installed and after so many years of dragging the leash around and getting tangled, Monkey had true freedom to roam the yard.  Nowadays, at least three times a day, like a diligent security guard, Monkey will walk the grounds and piss on everything to ensure that everyone knows that this is HIS yard!

I have no regrets about anything to do with Monkey except maybe introducing him to a small stream out of the bathroom sink as, to this day, he insists that I turn on the tap so he can drink.  He still has his dish, but he prefers it straight from the source.  Often times, he will nearly trip me going up the stairs, racing me to the bathroom so he'll be ready for me to turn on the tap.  Another bother that I regret is buying the weeble for him.  It's a toy that wobbles with treats inside. Ideally, a cat is supposed to knock the toy with his foot to knock out treats.  It's supposed to engage the cat and make them think, which it did for the first week or so, then Monkey got wise.  At first, he'd knock the shit out of it, forcing two or three treats to come tumbling out, but then he got lazy and for the last five years, he simply cocks his head to the side and scoops the treats out with his tongue.  I think this practice has caused some damage to his shoulders which will likely get arthritic in his old age.  Even now, he walks with some labour, but I can't take the toy away from him.  Whenever I've tried, he just whimpers and won't eat.

I remember the first time Monkey ever saw snow.  He raced from the front of the house to the back, as the snow fell.  He was like Chicken Little running about, yelling "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  It was hilarious.  In later years, he'd accept the snow, and hate it as much as his daddy does.

A month later would be Christmas.  Normally, at the time, if I left any room, he'd accompany me, but on Christmas Eve, he remained in bed, while I snuck downstairs and into the garage, where I had this new addition to the household.  I placed it in the front room and returned to bed.  Christmas morning, we came downstairs and he glanced to the right, then turned left to head into the kitchen.  He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that something was different, turned and went to investigate.  I raced back upstairs to grab a camera, but in the three seconds I was gone, he'd already managed to tear off the feather that hung below the apparatus and there were feather's strewn everywhere.  A huge mess, but this remains one of his favourite "toys" despite the base being void of its carpet and the wood severely carved up.

Forever, it seemed like we did everything together, which includes watching wrestling.  You may think it's only me watching while he sleeps beside me, which does happen, but he also enjoys watching the action unfold in the ring.  His favourite wrestler is A.J. Styles and if a match begins and Monkey isn't present, he gets audibly upset with me that I didn't tell him A.J. was wrestling.

He's a smart cat.  Very smart, except when he vomits.  I believe he thinks it's helpful if he avoids the linoleum, opting instead to toss up on the carpet.  Now the carpet looks like a faded Dalmatian.  Later in his years, he's come to realize that this bothers me, so he's taken it upon himself to hide the evidence.  He does this by either pulling a flyer over the spot or he'll pull a corner of a rug over the blemish or one time he removed a dish towel, normally slung through the handle of the oven and pulled it into the front room to cover his mess.  I can't be upset with a cat that is that intelligent.

Monkey is a very smart cat, that I can guarantee, but he does have his quirks.  He doesn't like having his picture taken.  I see photos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram where cats are all posing nicely for photos, but Monkey's reaction is like that of a primitive tribe in the jungles of Peru, who believe their soul is being stolen with every click of the camera.  That's why a majority of my photographs are of Monkey while he's asleep.  Although, looking at these two gems, which are among my most favourite pics, he is quite animated when asleep.

This blog is really dragging on, but I can't gush over this little fella enough.  I've had some really tough goes of it in my shitty life.  Years ago, when I got fired from a job, I turned to the comedy of Christopher Titus, who remains one of my favourite comedians.  His life was tough too and he taught me to stick to my guns, so-to-speak, 

and weather the storm.  Another time, I had an accident at work that resulted in my breaking my back in three places.  The accident also caused me to break four and a half teeth in my mouth, all of which require extraction and I was horrendously ashamed, but a similar thing happened to Bert Kreischer when he was just a kid and he muscled his way through it, which gave me the courage to do the same.  Bert is one of my most favourite people on the planet and though he's been rude to me any time I've interacted with him on Twitter, I still love and respect the guy.  Everything else shitty in my life, I know I'll be alright because I have this fuzzy little face looking up at me, with nothing but love in his eyes.

Everyday, I look at Monkey and I tell him "I love you too much."  I believe this statement is accurate.  He's getting up in age.  He just celebrated his twelfth birthday yesterday and I realize that though he is still my baby boy, he's in the twilight stage of his life.  I may not have many more birthday's to celebrate with my little boy and the thought of coming home to an empty house, truly breaks my heart. 💔  During a recent bout of anxiety and depression, I seriously considered suicide for the first time.  Not today, but one day when Monkey is no longer here, I don't know how I will survive.  No comedians joke will be able to pull me through that funk.  But alas, there is some hope.  I've been seeing online, as of late, that there are cats out there that are living well beyond what was normally considered a normal lifetime.  Norman, who I mentioned earlier, lived to be eighteen years old.  Another cat I saw online, lived to be twenty-three years old.  Recently, I read of another cat who'd just passed away at the age of twenty-eight.  Can you believe that?  I'd happily clean up Monkey's vomit for another sixteen years.  By that time, it'd be both our time to die naturally.

When I had announced to the world that I'd gotten a cat, I said, "I call him my son and he calls me daddy."  I've never said that I owned him or really said that he's my cat.  I've always referred to him as "my boy" or "my son", both of which confused a former workmate, who assumed that my boy was a human child, whom I left at home alone while I worked the nightshift.  "Where's your sons mother?" he asked once, to which I replied, "I don't know.  I assume she's living on a farm somewhere."  I never did fess up that my boy was of the feline variety.

Monkey is a big dude.  Ten or twelve times the size he was that very first day when he curled up on my chest for a nap.  I love everything about this kid, especially that little pink nose. 🥰  This is us.  Two peas in a pod, never to part.  He will always be my number one.  He will always be my best friend.  He will always... Always, be my little boy.

Flight of the Bumblebee

 

It's been said that a bumblebee should not be able to fly.  The span of it's little wings, is too small to actually allow the insect to gain flight, yet every spring and throughout the summer months, the bumblebee can be seen flying all about, gathering nectar from the flowers and trees and spreading it's seed throughout the neighbourhood.  The insect should not, by scientific terms, be able to fly, yet it does, the reason sloughed off, citing "It flies because it doesn't know any better."

Growing up, I had all kinds of dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up.  At a young age, I had a million ideas running through my head as to what a young Jeff could become in the world.  Dreams at such a young age, can be priceless.  Many people, wanna be a police officer or a cowboy or even an astronaut.  I never had any dreams like those.  Mine were more, I don't know, for the age bracket, they were dreams that were a little outside the norm, but if endorsed or guidance would have been provided by a parent at such an age, who knows the prominence one might achieve in life.

At a young age, I remember drawing a lot.  I was always drawing up buildings and alike.  I can remember receiving compliments from people, my mom included, encouraging me to make more pictures.  One friend of the family even mentioned "You're going to make a fine architect one day."  I'd never heard that word, architect, before and began telling everyone that I was going to grow up to be an architect.  Until another family member, likely my father, but my mom had an equal hand in discouraging me from some things, like this.  Until about twenty minutes ago, I thought their intensions were malicious, but it may have just been their way of protecting me from disappointment in life.  Either way, we'll never know.

I remember wanting to be an architect, but was told there was too much science involved and I wouldn't be good at it.  I wanted to be an actor (not a movie star, like so many kids say), but I was told that I had a face for radio, not a TV screen.  I may have even mentioned that I wanted to try out for football (real football 🏈, not that soccer bullshit), but I was told I was too small and would probably be killed.  That last one sounds legitimate, actually.  I would not fair too well against those mastodons.

At one point, I actually went off to collage to study Film History and Production.  I was one of the first first year students to get into that film production class, as it was usually held over for second year students, at the University of Regina.  A terrible school for studying the artform as their equipment was obsolete, even then.  After applying to many schools, the University of Regina was the only school I could get into.  It was a wasted year, to say the least.  What I do recall from that era, was my dad introducing me to one of his friends or family members, including the fact that "Jeff is in university for..." he paused, glancing over at me, "I don't know.  Some kind of bullshit." He rolled his eyes with true embarrassment and I turned away, heartbroken.

I never returned to school the following year.  The University of Regina was a lost cause.  I knew that, but lacked the resources to go to a better school, but a year of neglect and shitty grades, would've prevented that, anyway.

I often wonder about the road not taken.🤔What if this? What if that? What if? What if? What if?

What if my parents had embraced my ideas as a young pup?  Steer me in the direction of honing my skills to help shape me and better prepare me for the disappointments that were sure to follow me in my quest for betterment.

What would be different?  Everything.  Would I be in a better place?  Who the f*ck knows?  Chances are I wouldn't have the great friends and acquaintances that I do.  While not the picturesque friendships that movies and TV would have, but they're awesome people, all the same.  I definitely wouldn't have my boy, Monkey.  I can't imagine a life without that furry little face staring up at me.

Nature versus Nurture is a common debate.  Nature dictates that a being is already wired for a certain behavior.  That it's a natural instinct to follow a certain path in life, without any outside influence.  Nurture suggests that if a being is influenced by an outside factor or it's environment, that it can be coerced or guided into a life path.

I don't recall receiving much praise or support from my family growing up.  I was an accidental pregnancy, while my sister was not and boy, was I reminded of that fact much throughout my young life.

My dad was an alcoholic.  Later in life, after he had passed, I came to peace with the whole ordeal.  I call it "Jeckyll and Hyde".  When my dad was sober, he was the best.  When he was drunk..., look the f*ck out.  Maybe, and I'm just surmising here, but perhaps because I was an accidental pregnancy and viewed as "the reason his life was shit", is the reason, subconsciously, that my life was somewhat sabotaged as an infant.  That's just being passive aggressive.  Blaming others for my own shortcomings, but wouldn't the same be suggested of his motivations?

I could have taken control of my own horse and carriage and steered myself in whatever direction I deemed best, just as he (my father) could have done anything to follow his dreams, as well.

By all accounts, the bumblebee should not be able to fly, but it does.  Does it do so, because it isn't aware that it should not be able to?  Or did the bumblebee receive more hugs as a larva?

Just look at that face! No matter what bad decisions I've made in my shitty life, I don't regret ever bringing this little dude into my life.  My little angel, Monkey. 🥰 

Dedicated to my little boy,
Monkey.

The Reality Has Set In and It Doesn't Look Good

For two days, we lived vicariously through the thoughts of "what if"?  Can you imagine how different our lives would be?  How much better the lives of everyone we care about would be?

To clarify, the big lottery, the Lotto Max, had it's $55 million jackpot won by a single winner, located right here in Saskatoon.  As an avid and faithful customer of the lottery, I always have my fingers crossed, but am greatly skeptical when I hear a jackpot has been won.  Especially, when it happens practically in my backyard.  I'm not being cynical, but rather, I know how shitty my luck is and when a big prize, like the afore mentioned $55M, I am almost certain that the lucky bastard who won, will not be me.

However, for two days, my workmate and I have been dreaming about the what ifs.  Dreaming of what we would do and how and where and all the dreams that are associated with a vivid imagination.  All fun and games, but in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "Seriously... What if?"

In the days leading up to this exciting news, I've been overwhelmed with feelings of deja vu.  This rarely happens to me, but when it does, something good usually follows.  I was coming home and thinking about how I would renovate my house.  I've had grand illusions of how I would change things up in my humble abode.  Of course, I'm not the only person I was thinking about.  I would take care of my family, too.  Though I'm a single fella, I'd take care of my sister's family.  I have a nice plot of land, just south of the city, that I've had my eye on for awhile.  It's a blank slate, ready for me to move in and for the right budget, build my forever home.  Then, to the east of that I could parcel out a portion for my sister and her family to build a house, too.

Then there's my mom.  She's done SO MUCH for me in my short shitty life.  She's so helpful and generous, that if nothing else, I wanted to win that money to take care of my mom for the rest of her life.  Get her a new car, something safer than what she's driving now.  She'd live rent free, as I doubt she'd want to move again.  Basically, I wanted to give my mother a life of no more stress or worry.  Nothing but clear sailing.

That was two days of bliss, but like all good things, it came to an end.  I checked my ticket and unless I have another that I'd forgotten about, I'm afraid that I have to remain satisfied with the freeplay that I'd won, in place of the fifty-five MILLION DOLLARS.

What sucks most is... I'm forced to stay employed at the place I'm at.  Nothing would have made me more happy than to walk out of that place, head held high and never looking back.

So now reality has set in.  My life is as shitty now, as it was before.  The only ray of light is my cat, Monkey.  For richer or poorer, he's right here, by my side.  I'm so lucky to have that cat.  Most days I feel so overwhelmed and disappointed in how my life turned out, but then I look at my little boy, looking up at me with those gorgeous eyes, I thank the powers that be, who brought that little tabby cat into my life.  Now if those same Powers That Be, would get their heads out of their asses, and award me with a major jackpot, I'd be perfect!!

The Magic of Christmas

 

I remember it was the last day of school, before the Christmas break.  I was riding the school bus, and it was snowing.  Lovely big poofy snowflakes, covering the street and the windshield.  I was so excited for the Season to commence.  There was a true feeling of magic that filled the air.  Intoxicating, in a way, as it filled my thoughts with what might become of things over the next week or two.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I realized that the magic that comes with the Christmas season died for me.  When I stopped looking toward the end of December with wonderment in my soul.  That feeling of good will being expressed from one person to another, without any expecting anything in return.  Being nice, simply for the act of being nice.  I'm not sure when that all died for me, but it's gone.  Missing from my life and I think it's something that I'd like back.

I remember the week after my birthday (which is November 29th), our family would venture into the city, to purchase a Christmas tree.  This was the first step in creating happy Christmas memories.  The tree would come home with us and spend the night in the bathtub for all the snow to melt off.  The small restroom would be flooded with the smell of pine and spruce.  The next day, the tree would be raised in the corner of the living room and we'd all take turns placing our favourite decorations after my mother had strung the coloured lights.  Of course, I'd be pushed aside by my sister and my mother, as they've done my entire life in regards to everything, followed by the claim that "You're not doing it right!"  Once complete, the tree would be the sole source of light in the living room and whether I played a big part or not in it's decorating, I marveled in it's glow.

Next would come the colourfully wrapped gifts, but because we didn't have a lot of money, growing up, many of the gifts were wrapped in the very same paper, presenting in a somewhat monotone collection of gifts.

Many Christmas' were rung in with Christmas spirits, only it was never the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future, but more so of the alcoholic brand.  Many o' Christmas memories were speckled with arguments and fights, really instilling that Good Will vibe into people.  I don't think that growing up in an alcohol-infused family is what killed Christmas for me.

If I had to guess, it may have been in high school.  There was an event, shall we say, that split up our family.  I moved out of the house, because I no longer felt safe in that environment.  It's a long story and perhaps I'll share it one day, but not today.

I remember being at my aunt's house when I was given a gift from my sister.  It was a T-shirt which I was quite displeased with and threw it back, claiming it wasn't good enough.  The next gift came a week later and it was something else that flipped my switch and I threw that back, too.  It was then that I realized that I was being a supreme asshole.  That a gift is something that someone sees and hopes that the recipient will like.  Having it thrown back in a fit of rage, has to be heartbreaking and from that point on, I changed my tune, as it were.  I would come to accept that second gift, which was a cassette of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet.  I wasn't a fan of Bon Jovi, but whatever.  It's the thought that counts, right?

In the years and decades since, I've treated the gift exchanges as just that.  I don't honestly care if I receive a gift or not.  The only real gift I get that warms the cockles of my heart, is when I am able to purchase a gift that the recipient shows genuine affection and appreciation for.

Nowadays, Christmas is an occasion for my nephews.  They're young and I don't know if they understand the true nature of what the Christmas season is supposed to be about, but when I'm able to give something that truly brings wonderment to their face, it's magical.  This isn't something that I've gotten from them in a few years now.  In an effort to not create jealousy between the two boys, I try to purchase similar gifts.  I believe that the younger of the two boys, emulates his older brother and by giving similar gifts, I'm avoiding any jealousy or unwanted tension.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see, this year, but the strategy hasn't happened in the last couple.

Christmas is for the kids.  Maybe that's what happened to me.  I grew up too quick.  The magic was lost due to too many birthdays.

When my little boy, Monkey (*Monkey is a cat, for anyone who doesn't know), came to live with me, that first Christmas was the best.  He was asleep upstairs in bed, while I snuck downstairs and placed a cat tree in the corner of the front room.  I returned to bed and we slept the night away.  In the morning, we came downstairs and I acted all bewildered and confused, while he investigated the new item taking up space in the house.  I ran upstairs to grab my camera, to take a photo of him playing with the feather that hung underneath, but by the time I'd returned, Monkey had that feather ripped off the underside of the tree and pieces of feather was strewn all around the room.  The boy works fast, but seeing how much joy he was having with that cat tree, warmed my heart.  That was the magic that I'd lost so many years before.

Nowadays, Christmas is a struggle.  I can't find that magic that I so desperately crave.  I'm a single fella with just a cat at my side.  Maybe I need something else to fulfill my life.  Maybe a special someone who possesses that magic...  Or maybe, magic is just and illusion.