Only On Sunday

He showed up at the kitchen door at the house in Guerneville in 1996. He could be cantankerous and at times a bit of a bully but I remember a time, a dark time, that his crackling meow, much like the sound glass might make in cracking, kept me in the here and now instead of the hereafter. 12 years he’s been with me. I have no idea how many years he’d been with himself before that. I’ve gone through many a trial and tribulation in those years; job stress, a near fatal car crash, the loss of my job, the near loss of my house and a long trip to Albuquerque that he hated every moment of, financial disintegration, a near loss of hope and through it all he’s been there.

He grew old, cast aside his bully ways, became something of a grandpa to the three sisters, the little kittens my kitten quite accidentally had. He had a stroke several months back and I thought we’d lose him then but he fought his way back. A little jerky in his walk, his meow even hoarser than before, a bit of a space cadet at times but he learned to get around, to climb up on the bed and settle down in his favorite spot.

But age will take you down, no one gets out of here alive. And I swore I wouldn’t let him suffer.

Booth went to Blue at 4:30 today. I am thankful to Dr. Walker of Cat Clinic for her kind and gentle ways and to Scott for the ride.

Gone to Blue. There is no more pain. No chance of suffering. He’s gone to be with Asher who he never knew, with Mooch and Feral who he tangled with from time to time, the Doubtful Guest and Smokey and Dinger who were all a little on the weird side and scared him a bit, with Puss and Pug, the Albuquerque cats who he never got along with well but respected their territorial rights, all cats who have crossed his and my path these last 12 years and Gone to Blue themselves. And I know Neb and Pink and Treacle will be there as well, though he may not find the company of dogs as enjoyable as those of the cats.

When it’s time for me to go, I want to go where they’ve gone.

To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver

Way back when I was getting-old as opposed to actually being old, 30 was this big-deal, black magic moment which, once past, meant you could no longer be trusted. I suppose, considering the rampant avarice and greed leading to the current financial meltdown, that was a prophetic idea.

I remember the several days leading up to that momentous event were fraught with anxiety mixed with a curious calm. Would the planet split open and swallow me whole? Would I cut my hair, don a suit and tie and go forth into the business world? Would my younger friends suddenly shun me? Would I be beamed aboard the starship and whisked away from this veil of tears? Though I fervently hoped for the latter, none of it happened. As the old saying goes, 30 came and went, not with a bang but a whimper.

50, now, was a totally different thing. Never mind 40. 40 I don’t even remember except for the fact that my hair went nearly completely white and I finally gave in to wearing glasses at 42. 50, however, was evil incarnate for reasons I’ve never explored. I couldn’t even say ‘50′ until I was damn near 52.

50 has not been kind to me.

60? 60 is proving to be a bit of a mixed bag of cheap tricks. First and foremost, I never ever thought I’d make it this far, all things considered. Now that I’m here, I find it both mildly humorous and somewhat pathetic. I’m certainly not where I thought I’d be, if I ever actually gave where I thought I’d be any thought. There are moments when I actually wish I was 2.5 years older so I could just do the social security thing and be done with this working thing but that probably wouldn’t work.

I hate being this old. I hate the aches and the pains and the growing sense of vulnerability. I hate that there is a 30 year old inside who thinks he can still do 30 year old things only to find that this 60 year old body protests. I hate that my hair, though still as long as ever, is thinning and that my teeth are getting loose in their sockets. I hate looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back at me. I hate that I can’t eat a big bowl of ice cream drowning in chocolate syrup, or extra extra hot chili, or any number of things I once enjoyed.

Is there anything I like about 60? I’m not sure yet, though I sense that there is. I smell something in the wind, perceive the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, though my natural pessimism tells me that wind, that light, is just that damn train again. Still, there are moments when I get a kick out of the idea of turning 60. Like maybe now I can just be a coot, an old fart, and finally get away with not giving a shit.

I’m still waiting for the starship, though. Sure do wish it would get here. Winter’s coming and I’m growing impatient.