Pussy Magnet

For a guy allergic to cats, there never seems to be a shortage of them in my life. Despite the fact that exposure to cat dander triggers potentially life threatening asthma attacks in yours truly, I can't get away from the walking fur balls. A litany of bewhiskered feline drifters comes calling at our house fairly regularly. A few years ago, one that we named Jager had a litter of kittens, all of which we later had spayed and neutered. Two of this family remain, a female named Boots and her brother Gray-Ray. (Jager, and my favorite of the litter Cletus, disappeared into the woods surrounding our house and never returned.) This sibling pair is tolerable, if not actually quite loveable for outdoor, semi-wild cats. Periodically, a loner will swing by and try to "take over the pride" through bullying and intimidation. One such cat, a male we called Blackbeard due to the black "soul patch" on his chin--and the fact that he was a marauding pirate of a cat bent on stealing the "booty" in the food bowl on our front porch--took a ride in the country with me not once, but twice before he finally took the hint that he was not welcome here.

Another drifter has made himself a permanent fixture recently. A handsome white cat with a black toupee and matching tail, Steve (as named by Alex) is here to stay. Our dogs have tried to run him off, as have I, but to no avail. Alas, I have given up. He is fairly nice and although Boots hates him, Gray-Ray doesn't seem to mind him much. Steve is a remarkable cat. The other day, I saw him take a dump in the yard that was so big it could have been mistaken for one of our St. Bernard's landmines. He didn't bury it like most cats, either. No sandbox, mulch pile, or any effort to conceal it whatsoever. No sir, he was proud of that pile. It almost looked like it could have been human. I imagined what my neighbors might have thought had they heard me yelling, "For god sakes, Steve! Don't shit in the yard. I just mowed!"

I think all pets should have human names. Yesterday I saw that cat stalking a mourning dove in the driveway. I threw open the kitchen window and shouted, "Steve! Don't you eat that bird!" Think of the fun you can have shouting at a crowded dog park, "Keith! Quit licking yourself!" Or, "Stop sticking your ass in Keith's face, Joyce!" When people ask me for tips on naming their pets or children, I always advise them to pick a name that they won't be embarrassed to yell in anger in a public place. Of course, our St. Bernard's name is Princess, which can be a little awkward when she's doing something like, say, chasing a helpless puppy at a local park. "Princess, no! Don't eat that Yorkie! Bad Princess!"

I hope that Steve will the last wayward cat to stumble across our homestead. But I doubt that will be the case. Alex is already planning to name the next one Bob. Let's see: "Bob! You pissed on my patio chair didn't you?!" Yeah, the neighbors will have a field day with that.

Twenty Years

In May of 1990, some 250 or so young people graduated from Hannibal High School. However, our commencement took place in the wrong decade. We were children of the 1980s. We listened to Guns'n'Roses, Duran Duran, and Young MC. We wore acid-washed jeans, parachute pants, and in some unfortunate cases--leg warmers. (Not me!) Girls' hair rocked bangs big enough to shroud archeological treasures. Boys sported the timeless "mullet" (business in front, party in the back.) We witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Iran-Contra Affair, and the advent of the personal computer. Our beloved St. Louis Cardinals made three World Series appearances during the decade. Our red-headed stepchild of a sports franchise, the St. Louis football Cardinals flew west to Arizona. It took 18 years for anyone to notice that they were gone.

Last weekend, the class of '90 held its 2o year reunion back in that "white town drowsing" on the banks of the Mississippi River. Several of us toured the high school building before the official festivities and heavy drinking commenced on Saturday evening. Memories that had long since faded into oblivion were made suddenly vivid again as I showed my family the "Senior Star" that adorned the floor in the main foyer of the building. I laughed as I recalled making my brother Blake and other freshmen polish the star with toothbrushes as a rite of massage that I hope hasn't been since banned as a form of "hazing." Our tour group explored the three floors of the building with a child-like enthusiasm that none of us remembered having twenty years prior. Nostalgia isn't a strong enough word for what we felt. It was more like stepping into a time machine and being transported back to 1990 for a few glorious minutes. It was, in short, pretty damned cool.

But of course, seeing old classmates that evening was the real reason for coming home to Hannibal. I saw, embraced, and laughed with people I have known since I first came to town in 1980. That's right--I've maintained some close friendships for thirty years now. That's pretty damned cool, too. The capacity for human beings to instantly rekindle decades-old friendships after years of being out of contact with one another amazes me. I can't convey with words how much it meant to me to be reunited with so many very dear friends after so many years apart. (I would call you all out by name right now, but there are far too many of you to list here.) Which helped me come to a wonderful realization: I am truly blessed to have so many good friends. As time and distance isolated us from one another since the glory days, it would have been understandable to feel more like aquaintances rather than real friends upon seeing each other again. But not so for the class of '90. Real friends have the ability to pick up right where they left off--even after twenty years of not being in touch. Two decades apart is nothing that a few shots of Jagermeister can't fix.

I just want to thank the organizers of our reunion for their hard work in throwing this shin-dig together. Dawn Tate Weber, Shelly Taylor Bode, Lisa Sheffield Pemberton, Amanda McBride Brown, Lori Landrum Mueller, Matt Kirby, and everyone else who contributed to the weekend's success: THANK YOU!!! And, thank you to all of my very good friends who made me laugh so much that I woke up in the middle of the night with back spasms. (Hey, we are getting a little older, you know.)

Long live the members of the class of '90. But just in case our livers can't hold out much longer, let's get together again sooner rather than later.

Fourteen Years

Aside from the births of Barack Obama, Jeff Gordon, and Bill Herrin, August 4th is truly a special day to me because on that date in 1996, a certain girl from the big town of New London, Missouri entered into a legally binding contract to love me forever--for better or for worse. Poor Bethany. Was she duped? Hoodwinked? Deceived? Bribed? Blackmailed? Bamboozled? I choose to invoke my Fifth Amendment Right to not answer these questions.

One does have to question Bethany's judgment though. Why would an apparently smart and obviously attractive young woman agree to marry me? She's tall, fit, and sexy while I am none of those things. Why would she settle for me, when she clearly could have done much, much better? Was she dropped on her head as a child? Her standard answer to the question of 'why?' is, "I was drunk." She lies.

For better or for worse. Lately, she would probably label life with me with the latter. My astute wife has pointed out that since I've become a "real writer" I've begun acting like one. She's noticed that I'm moody and prone to angry outbursts of late. I reply with, "Yes, but what's new about that?" Nevertheless, she is stuck with me, so she makes the best of it I guess.

To my wife, I would like to publicly say thank you for putting up with me for fourteen years. I don't deserve someone as good as you. That isn't to say I don't deserve to be loved--just perhaps loved by a crack whore or a woman with three teeth and an affinity for chaw. Yet here you are, still with me after having had ample time to come to your senses--or sober-up. If your mom did drop you on your head, then remind me to thank her for that.

I love you, Mrs. Naughton, more than a moody writer could ever put into words. Happy anniversary.