Saturday, July 17, 2004

posted by: copernicus on 7/17/2004 07:34:00 PM

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Cassidy Little Two-tone Catfish
10/27/95 -- 07/17/04
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If I could fend off the image of his head sinking into the palm of my hand as his heart stopped, I'd be ok.

He saved my life, so I took off my shirt and dug his grave.



My hands are still caked with mud.

3 shots of bourbon, 4 beers, 3 hits and counting.....

*An exhale so slow and deep that it could have been the broken seal to Tutankamen"s tomb.*        
 
This is it.

The moment of his death.

My girlfriend cried when I told her. I lose composure every 90 seconds or so and sob for the first time since my father died.

He saved me. That little bastard saved my life one day. I was 20. My father had just died a month prior to his 51st birthday. I left my home again and moved in with my mentor John. He was 8 months younger, and a few years older, if you know what I mean. My father died and John made his living room my bedroom. I moved in a few weeks after the funeral and I finally began to catch my breath. As I have attempted to convey earlier, he helped me rebuild my shattered perception of the universe, and he did it without mercy. I owe him my life.

My father died in January 1995, and after a few months of locking myself in my room in the basement with a regular diet of kindbuds, scotch, and Vicodin, I left the discomfort of home and moved in with John that Spring.

Suddenly I was immersed in art. I don't mean that I started to appreciate museums; I mean that I found myself surrounded by artists..... Not some band who gets a hit song and claws their way to a Coke commercial while their name is ho.....I'm talking about art uncompromised. Art for the sake of creating art. 3 a.m., beer, pain-killers and kindbud grown from seeds purchased at the Cannibis Cup in Amsterdam "Hey let's grab paintbrushes and attempt to symbolize the place of Man in the Universe on my kitchen walls" type of night.

So now I sit here, 4 beers, 3 shots of bourbon and 3 hits of kindbud later thinking about that November when my friend Ryan brought home a kitten.

We all shared a house, four 20-22 year olds in a college town, and Ryan brought home a kitten: "My brother's cat had a litter, and I took this one....., I think I'll call him Cassidy."

Me: "Cassidy is a girl's name, and besides, you have to let an animal earn it's name like Native Americans do. For now he's 'Kitty', and we'll see what names fit in the coming weeks."

It was down to:
"Cassidy" -- After the Grateful Dead song of redemption and salvation in the eyes of a child (Eventually chosen as the name for my niece).
"Little" -- He was small, but had an enormous head, ears and paws.
"Two-tone" -- He was orange and white, but John noticed that one testicle was entirely orange, and the other was totally white. Thus: "Two-tone".
"Catfish" -- A favorite of John's, due to his tendency to root through the trash when no one was looking, we decided that he was a bottom-feeder by nature, thus: "Catfish". But "Little" was the one that stuck, and officially it became "Cassidy Little Two-tone Catfish".

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Ryan brought him home. But Ryan had a dog. An aggressive Border Collie named Cody who was jealous and protective of Ryan.
The little kitten hung out in my apartment. We bonded quickly.

John brought home a girl one night from the bar. She saw Little and said: "Aww, how cute! Who's kitten is that?"

John said: "Ryan's, but he's quickly becoming Jamie's."

John saw how fast Little and I had bonded, and that Little had chosen me as the human to be most trusted.

Little came into my life when I had lost all ability, or desire to care.

I buried him today. His blood is on my khaki cargo shorts, and the mud of his grave is beneath my nails.

He bestowed unconditional love at the moment I lost all faith.

I held his guts in my hand while he looked up into my eyes expecting me to make it better.

I loved him like a son.

And I can't stop crying.



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This is what I'm listening to at the moment:

"When you have no one, no one can hurt you. 
 
In the corners there is light that is good for you.
And behind you, I have warned you, there are awful things.
 
Will you miss me when I burn?
And will you eye me with a longing?
It is longing that I feel,
To be missed or to be real?
 
When you have no one, no one can hurt you. 
 
Will you miss me when I burn?
And will you close the other's eyes?
It would be such a favor,
If you would blind them.
 
There is absence,
There is lack,
There are wolves here,
Abound.
 
You will miss me when I turn
Around. 
 
When you have no one, no one can hurt you."
 
 --The Palace Bothers--