Thursday, October 27, 2005

posted by: copernicus on 10/27/2005 02:00:00 PM
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Cassidy Little Two-tone Catfish
10/27/95 -- 07/17/04
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IN HONOR OF HIS 10TH BIRTHDAY, I AM RE-POSTING THE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
(hopefully this picture will load after netscape decides to stop being retarded)


I've always hated when they say "based on a true story", so.....
OUT OF RESPECT FOR THE SIGNIFIGANCE OF HIS PLACE IN THIS UNIVERSE, IT WILL BE FOLLOWED BY THE STORY OF HIS DEATH.....UNEDITED

--LITTLE THE CAT'S RAMBLING OBITUARY--

Little was a 17 pound alley cat who took shit from no one, regardless of species.
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As a kitten he liked to hunt bugs and butterflies, sleep under the covers at my feet and root through the trash while I slept.
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As an adolescent he grew up in the alleys of the University of Kansas and became one tough little shit.
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He was still unneutered as a 6 month old (I wanted him to get laid before his nuts came off), and I was about to leave KU and go to the suburbs. Moving day came and Little was no where to be found. I had to pack up my shit and move out that day, and my goddamn cat wouldn't come home. I drove all over the neighborhood calling him for hours(he thought he was a dog and would come when I whistled) but could not find him.

2 of my friends still lived in the same house, and said that they would put him inside and call me when he came home. He was going to get hungry at some point.

6 days passed and I thought he was dead. No one had seen him, his bowl was untouched and my searches came up empty. I put an ad in the 2 local papers, and even got the lady to print that one testicle was white and the other orange.

Nothing.

On the 7th day he showed up. He was muddy -- it was dried solid in clumps all over him, had a few scratches on his face and ears, multi-colored hunks of fur and flesh stuck in all his claws and the biggest shit-eating grin you've ever seen on a cat.

It was his first spring, and he'd spent a week fighting and fucking. I hope he enjoyed it.

He got a bath, some first aid, his nuts cut off and and a move to the suburbs.
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This big, stocky alley cat now had the run of a neighborhood full of birds, bunnies, squirrels, mice and fat, pampered housecats with no claws. He had no substantial competition and was now "King of the Suburbs".

My neighbor wasn't happy that there was now a big, fully-clawed cat roaming the neighborhood, until he saw Little in action. The word spread quickly amongst the small woodland creatures in the area that there was a predator on the loose. A new hunter had claimed the spot at the top of the food chain and he was dangerous. Birds, bunnies, squirrels and mice were his victims. He was racking up kills and he was indiscriminate.

The neighbor realized that Little was keeping away all of the animals that were eating up his garden. The neighbor now liked Little very much and would leave him treats as thanks for his protection.
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Little was not afraid of dogs.
Every dog he ever met, he'd kick it's ass in the first 2 minutes just to get his point across. The dogs always learned that he was in charge and then they could be great friends. He'd even sleep next to the dog after just a couple of weeks, as long as the dog knew who was boss.

Out of respect, there's one dog Little never dominated. My friend's Bull Mastiff named Saint was part of the scene when Little was just a kitten. Saint was 4 years old and about 140 pounds. He was huge and muscular, like Spike on Tom & Jerry. Saint WAS a saint. He could take your hand off with one bite if he wanted to, but he was the coolest, calmest dog I've ever known, and HE HAD MAGIC POWERS. Saint was not of this dimension. Those who knew him would say the same.
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One night, a few months after our move to the 'burbs, I was sitting on the back porch with Little. He was asleep in the Sun on the table. Suddenly, with eyes still closed, his ears perked up. His eyes opened and he picked up his head, stood quickly and faced East, concentrating.

After about 3 seconds from the time he opened his eyes, he bolted off towards the East and around the house out of sight.

"Hmmm" said I, "that was odd."

"YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP! AIEE AIEE AIEE AIEE AIEE!" A 5 pound Pomeranian comes flying around the corner at top speed fleeing frantically from 17 pound Little who is chasing him like a cheetah, swiping every few seconds at the Pomeranian's back leg, making it kick the back of it's other leg and trip.
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He knew how to use a doorknob. He understood it's purpose. When he wanted to go out He'd stand up on his hind legs, stretch out and bat the doorknob with his paw, look back at you and say: "Mwow".
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When we'd have people over for dinner we'd have to put him outside. If we'd left food out on the table he would have gone for it when we left the room. 8 of us sat down at the dining room table and prepared to eat our meal. Little came to the big glass door that looked into where we sat and scratched to be let in. He knew we could see him and wanted to come in for dinner. He scratched for a few minutes and went away.

He came back with a robin.

If we weren't going to let him join us for dinner, he decided that he'd just go catch his own and eat it right there at the door where we could all see him. And he did. He sat right there and ate his catch.
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One night I'm at my apartment, Little is at my Mom's.
Mom calls me frantically: "A squirrel got into the house! It climbed up the curtains and I can't get it out!"

Me, the smartass son: "Wow, that sucks. What are you going to do about that?"
Mom: "That's why I'm calling you, you little shit, help me!"
Me: "Where's Little?"
Mom: "Asleep on my bed."
Me: "Open all the doors, go get him, show him the squirrel and step back."

Mom did as I said, and according to her, Little immediately scaled the curtains, batted the squirrel off of the curtain rod and both of them went out the back door at full speed.
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Little was also not afraid of possums. If you're not in an area that has possums, please allow me to fill you in. They are about 20 - 25 pounds as adults, have rows of razor-sharp teeth and enormous claws equally as sharp.

Little used to bring home his kills, and when I started finding adolescent possums at the back door I got worried. He's already tough enough to take on a not-quite full-grown possum, but a full grown mother possum could kill him.

That's what happened.

He went down fighting in the toughest battle of his life.

When I found him, he had cuts on his face and head, bite wounds to his right and left lower back and a sliced open belly. His bowel was protruding. All 4 paws were bloody, and there was blood around his mouth.

The vet said that out of his 20 claws, 8 were missing. Not just broken off, but torn out by the root. He left 8 claws embedded in the hide of that possum, and still had it's blood in his mouth. He may have even killed that possum.

He got away somehow. My neighbor found him first as she was about to mow her lawn. She saw him sleeping in the grass and went to say hello. She saw his intestine hanging out and ran inside to call me. Little got up, walked across the yard, and was still tough enough to jump a 5 foot chain-link fence and crawl under our deck to his favorite cubby hole. Then he laid down to die.

The vet said the wounds were probably 12 hours old, and that flies has laid maggot eggs on his exposed intestine.

The first thing I had the vet do was give him pain meds while the prognosis was determined.
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After he was gone I drove to my Mom's. I'd know for years that when he died, I would bury him in my Mom's garden. That's where he was happiest. That's the place where his life transformed from the alleys of a college town to the sweet life in the suburbs.

I found the 150 pound chunk of pink glacial rock I brought home from the lake and put on Mom's flower garden years ago. I rolled it out of the way and dug on that spot. That rock is now his tombstone.

There will be no running out and getting an animal to replace him.

My buzz is wearing off, I gotta go fix that.

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AND NOW, THE STORY OF HIS DEATH.
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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 seal of a tomb breaking.*

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 hot.....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. Let's just call him '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.