THE GROOVY GRAY CAT & ME

     When I was 15, the curious Gemini clown, the little person in a cat suit, burst into my sad world as an angel might on what i had chosen to be my last night on earth. My young heart had taken as much pain as it could handle alone.
     On July 31, 1977, at 4 a.m., I first saw her, a six-week-old kitten pursued by a vicious, war-torn tomcat. After rescuing the frightened gray/yellow raggedy muffin waif & thinking my mission complete, I half-heartedly tried to shoo her away. She wouldn’t be welcome at home by my beleaguered, bellowing dad. But she knew. She was my sister, my heart & soul, the stray kitten angel who would carry me safely through that dark crisis & beyond.
     So I scooped her up & she confidently took her rightful place on my shoulder for our walk home. We never looked back.
     I hid her in a small chicken house Dad gave me to use as my space, a room I eventually dubbed, “Pandora’s Box.” The practical chore of feeding & caring for her was enough to keep me interested in living, since no one else knew about her * she depended solely on me for her livelihood.
     Pandora was a skinny, hungry creature. I’d sit for hours watching her play. She’d gnaw on my fingers, an old petrified cookie & especially on paper of any kind – her favorite. She loved to sit on my typewriter & swat at the keys or grab moving pens & pencils. No paper or book was safe from her.
     She had to be involved in her poet friend’s every activity, even if it was to curl up & sleep in the top desk drawer or chew up an autographed letter from novelist Jane Aiken Hodge.
     A month after she came home with me, Dad found her by accident. She poked her curious face out the window one evening while he was gathering eggs in an adjoining chicken house. By then, she was so much a part of me, if he’d banished her from the place, I’d have gone with her, with only the clothes on my back. Dad understood & Pandora was allowed into the house & into our lives.
     She never ceased to delight us with her clownish antics. She brightened the lives of everyone around her, human and animal. She was never idle. She stuck her face into the aquarium water three times before understanding land mammals can’t breathe under water. When I cleaned house, she’d jump on my back from no where anytime I bent over to pick things up off the floor. And she loved to pounce on piano keys during practice --- loved helping me play & making noise of her own.
     Eventually, years & miles separated us. I tried moving her around with me, but a year of living away from her original home made her unhappy. I decided to let her live with Mom & Dad, where she had become a beloved member of the family.
     Overnight, at 15, she became old. After an ear infection, which left her deaf & affected her balance, she howled for three days. But, in her usual way, she suddenly adjusted completely, staggering around following me, her eyes bright & eager for life as the night I first met her.
     She was as charming in old age as she was in youth. Tears filled my eyes with love & bittersweet joy the day I walked into the kitchen & found her old, think, ragged, heat-seeking body curled up so perfectly in the frying pan on the stove, enjoying the pilot light’s little bit of heat.
     On her last day, I knew the time was near to let her go. I took her outside to play, her favorite treat. She didn’t play, but sat, paws curled, & slept contentedly in the sun. The next day, with more love in my heart than I have ever held for any human, I took her to the vet to the last time, wanting her death to be easy --- fast & painless. It was my final gift to her --- a deep sleep to send her gently into whatever beatific life awaits stray kitten angels who have accomplished their missions.
     When my time comes, I hope I’ll see her again. Maybe we’ll become a constellation of stars twinkling & glowing as bright as her eyes, forever a 15-year-old boy & a feisty curious kitten riding proud on his shoulder, walking eagerly into the future 000 a beacon to light up the dark nights of other desperate hearts, to guide other sad souls through their nights of lost hope into morning, where a lifetime of love & happiness will embrace them in the golden dawn.

 

The Burning Bed
for Connie Star

it’s not just a book
on her shelf.
one hardly notices it
visiting with her
in her living room.

after half a lifetime
of being beat on
by parents, brothers,
husbands & lovers,
of being a martyr to
their frustrations & failures,

The Burning Bed is not
just a book
on her shelf,

it’s a promise...

 

maybe i would & maybe i wouldn’t!

Connie is 50something,
a psychic advisor in the Bible belt,
a big, bold, beautiful, bawdy woman
with no apologies to anyone for it.

she shares a birthday
with Queen Elizabeth I,
replete with long red hair and attitude
to match.

i was visiting Connie one weekend.

as i prepared
to take a bath she decreed
from her living room throne,
“Don’t use the washrag
on the side of the tub...
it’s been somwhere
you might not want
to put your face!”

 

from michael's
new book

cosmic children