Category: Personal

If Marty would not have broken her foot, the whole thing might never have happened.

I was sitting in the control room at work in Boulder on the Wednesday afternoon before Memorial Day Weekend of 2016, when the phone rang. I answered and was surprised to hear Marty.

“Well… I hate to tell you this, but I won’t be coming this weekend. I stepped in a hole outside of work earlier today and they think I broke my foot.”

I choked down my disappointment, imparted the usual consolations, asked if there was anything I could do, and hung up about 15 minutes later. Marty and I had been dating for about three months and it felt as if we barely got to see each other. If her foot was broken, it would probably kill, not only Memorial Day Weekend, but our summer plans as well.

Some of you reading this may wonder why I didn’t offer to go stay with Marty and nurse her back to health. Let me offer a five-word answer that many guys will respect implicitly.

Marty lives with her mother.

Two days later, my coworker Bethany and I were sitting in the drive-through line at Wendy’s just across the street when she asked me, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Why? You gonna come ravage me now that Marty’s laid up?” I asked, only half kidding.

“Umm, no. I was gonna see if you wanted to take Winnie.”

“You’re kidding!” I said. “You really want to get rid of her?”

“Yeah. I’m just too busy with work and school and Hallie and can’t give her enough attention. I think she needs someone who can spend more time with her.”

“Well… Sure… I will give it a shot. But you need to know that, if she works out, I’m changing her name. Winnie is what a horse does.”

“Ok. I don’t blame you,” Bethany said. We both ordered Baconators, fries and large frosties and went back to work to dine with our disapproving coworkers.

The next day, Bethany showed up with her daughter Hallie around noon. When she came in my front door, she handed me a small cat carrier that made noises that sounded like, “Errr! Errr!” I opened it, reached inside and muttered, “Ahh shit. She’s got longer hair. Sue’s gonna hate that.”

“Sorry,” Bethany mumbled in reply.

Sue was my kindhearted building manager from Texas. Four years earlier, I’d negotiated with her in order that some friends and I might give Katy a kitty for a Christmas gift. She told us we could, but he had to be declawed and have short hair. “If I get around a long-haired cat, I swell up like a hot air balloon,” she informed me.

In January of 2012, Ty came to live with Katy. He had short hair, but she never got around to mutilating his claws. Thank God Sue never pressed the point, probably because she fell in love with Ty along with the rest of us.

I gently extracted the fuzzy bundle from the too-small carrier, set her on my couch and waited. She immediately jumped off the couch and prowled around the room. It took her about 45 seconds to disappear.

It took Bethany about three minutes to disappear with her daughter. Two months later, Bethany would leave AINC and move on with her life, but my life with my new companion was just beginning.

That night, I sat on the phone with Marty and wondered. “How long you think it’ll take her to come out?”

“Probably a day or two,” Marty said. “Did you find her yet?”

“I think she may be in the closet,” I said.

“Go see,” Marty urged. I went to my bedroom closet and knelt down. I heard a small, “Err,” from the back of the closet. “I found her!” I rejoiced.

“See if you can coax her to come out,” Marty said.

“Maybe I should just leave her alone.”

“Yeah, but if you pet her and talk in a high voice, she might relax and come out.” Marty was the cat expert, having owned a few felines, so I took her at her word, reach my hand behind my dusty bass guitar and touched a furry, cat-shaped object.

“Errr,” she said and wriggled away from my fingers and behind the laundry basket.

“I think she wants me to leave her alone,” I said and went back to the bed.

The next day, I sent Katy a message. “Take a break from your Harry Potter erotica and come down. I want you to meet my new roommate. I think she’s gonna come out today.”

“I’m reading Alex Cross, you jerkface. DID YOU GET A CAT!?”

“Why do you sound mad?”

“I’m not mad. I was gonna give you Ty. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”

“Well, too late now. Bethany brought me her cat and I agreed to take her. Hey, when you come down, can you bring your extra cat collar with the bell on it? I may need it if she comes out. I’ll give it back to you when I get my own.”

Katy came down. We hung out for a while. She talked about Harry Potter. I talked about Breaking Bad. We both consumed a Domino’s cheese pizza together. In all that time, my new guest did not make her presence known once.

ON Memorial Day, Marty and I had one of our hours-long phone chats. At one point, I thought I heard a faint, “Err,” from the living room.

“Hey! Marty! She’s coming! I think she’s out!”

I sat bolt upright in bed, awaiting that happy moment when she would leap upon the bed and greet me. Instead, at the instant I sat up, I heard the sound of scurrying feet, followed by… Silence. It was the first lesson I would learn about my new cat. She did not respond well to loud noises, or abrupt movements from her human.

The next day, I went to the Woodlawn Vet Clinic and bought a cat pheromone diffuser. Brad, the friendly but quirky vet, told me that it would help relax the kitty so that she might become more comfortable in her new environment. “Don’t sweat it if you haven’t seen her yet. Some cats take up to a week before they trust their new owners.” I assured Brad that she was eating and using her litterbox. He told me that was a good sign and sent me home with the plugin kitty pheromone diffuser, which reminded me of one of those Glade dispensers that I used in college to impress girls when they visited me in my dorm room. Of course, back in those days, I wanted to get the girls excited. Now, I was trying to achieve the opposite result on a different species. I really was getting old.

Five days after Hallie’s former playmate became my roommate, I was sitting in my recliner listening to Megyn Kelly on Fox News (remember those heady days) when I heard a soft, “Err,” from the middle of the floor. Either Megyn had just received an unexpected guest on-set, or my new friend was going to give me another try. I sat statue still. “Err,” I heard a little closer.

“Come here, girl,” I said softly. “Come here.” I patted my leg softly and said, “Come here, girl. It’s okay. Come here.” I just kept speaking softly to her, careful not to move or speak too loudly.

Suddenly, she was in my lap in a flurry of legs and fur.

“Hi there,” I said softly. “Hi there, girl. Welcome. Hey there. You’re home now. This is your home. You’re safe here, girl. You’re okay. You’re home now. It’s okay. You don’t need to be afraid. You’re home. You’re safe.”

I just kept talking to her as my hands explored her back, her sides, her tail and her fluffy head. She in turn explored me with her nose, her face and her cat whiskers. She started to turn in circles on my lap, showing me her tail, then her head again, then her tail. And then I heard the noise that would never fail to fill my heart with warm joy, like brandy on a cold night. She started to purr. I knew then that she was my cat. In the moment when her body rubbed against my face and I felt her purr vibrating against my neck and shoulder, I knew that she was here to stay. She was the first pet I’d ever truly owned. She was, in every way possible, my cat.

Shortly afterward, she jumped off my lap and went to her food dish. She didn’t return to my lap again that evening. Later, when I was in bed and had hung up with Marty for the night, I said, “Goodnight, Mags.” I’d taken the intervening days since she’d come to my house and gone into hiding to decide on a name for her, choosing the criminal matriarch from the TV series, Justified. I put my sleep mask on and prepared to drift off to sleep. As my brain began to fill with welcome fog, I felt a “thunk,” followed by an, “Err.”

Off came the sleep mask. Again, my hands ran over her body, but this time, since I was in a prone position, she walked all over my chest and stomach, purring and sniffing as she investigated me. Eventually, she curled in between my feet and I put my mask back on. It was our first night together; the first of many happy times when I would drift off to slumber feeling her warm body near me, waking up later to her gentle nuzzles and good morning purrs.

As it turned out, Marty’s broken foot did not ruin all of our summer plans. She came down for a few days in July. As we came through the front door, I heard the customary jingle of Mags’ collar as she came to the door to greet me. Then, she saw Marty’s guide dog, Monty. That was the last I saw of her that night. The next night, Mags crept up on to the bed after Marty and her mongrel were asleep. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that, while she approved of Marty, she eagerly awaited the departure of that smelly, drooling beast.

So, summer drifted into autumn. Work continued to be a stressful place to be. My relationship with Marty felt more and more distilled down to an obligatory phone call filled with distracted silence. Donald Trump continued to transform the political landscape into a blight zone. Alicia married Mark, though it happened only after he fought a hard battle with cancer. The CCB felt less and less like a place where I fit in.

Through it all, Mags was there every night when I arrived home. She would greet me at the door, wait till I was inside with the door locked, then she would run and attack her scratching pad. I would drop my bag, have a whizz, wash my hands, then go sit in my big recliner. She would leap into my lap, sniff my face to investigate what I’d had for dinner on the way home, do some circles on my lap and stomach, then lie down for her nightly petting. Sometimes, I would doze off in my chair, or turn on a radio show or the news. She would stretch out full length, her body nestled in between my right thigh and the cushy arm of my chair. I would sit for a long time, just petting her or letting her draw warmth from me, until she either got hungry, or my bladder insisted that I break the spell. Sometimes, I would brush her and she seemed to love it.

It was around Thanksgiving, about six months after Mags came to live with me, that I noticed that her ribs seemed to stick out more than they used to. It coincided with another disturbing trend; Mags seemed to throw up more than usual after she would eat. Brad (the vet) told me that she might have kitty IBS, so he encouraged me to put her on wet food, which would be easier on her system. Six months later, her weight was still falling by a couple of ounces per month. I changed wet foods, but Brad advised me to keep her on dry food so that she might gain weight.

Still, Mags was as energetic as ever. In almost every way, she was the perfect cat. She never woke me from my sleep, but once she discovered that I was conscious, she demanded attention. She had no destructive habits with respect to my property. She always used her litterbox. She seldom growled (unless she saw another cat outside our window) and she never, ever hissed. She figured out early on that I was blind and realized that she would need to say, “Err,” or jingle her collar, whenever she wanted to alert me that she was nearby.

The only troubling thing she did was occasionally throwing up after eating. That, and she would sometimes bite my hand a little too hard in order to get my attention. Brad agreed with me that the aggressive nipping was not an aspect of her normal personality, but that she was trying to tell me that she didn’t feel well. Throughout the spring and summer months of 2017, she continued to lose weight and eat less.

Then came that fateful day in August of 2017 when I responded to an Email advertisement for a job position at Radio Talking Book in Omaha. I left Mags in Katy’s care and boarded a train eastward. The rest… Is history.

As fate decreed it, I was half way in between Lincoln and Omaha on the way to check out an apartment for rent with a driver whom I barely knew when Katy sent me a recorded message from the vet. She had taken Mags for a vet appointment in my absence. I thought of waiting until I returned, but I was worried enough about her declining weight that I didn’t want to delay, so Katy was my stand-in. Brad was off for the weekend, but his partner Lisa examined Mags. Recently, I found the recording Katy made for me and can transcribe Lisa’s words verbatim.

“Based on her blood analysis, it looks as if Mags has early stage renal failure. What we want to do is get her on a renal-friendly diet. She’ll need special wet food and dry food that will help to support her kidneys. It’s early yet and we really need to keep an eye on her, but for now, she’s still very healthy.”

I heard this news having already accepted the job in Omaha, knowing full well that a move was coming. It was the worst possible news at the worst possible time. Cats are very territorial creatures and relocating them to a new environment is exceedingly stressful. Moreover, I had to focus on getting my apartment packed and ready for an interstate move, along with training a new replacement for my current job in Colorado. Trying to ween Mags on to a new diet was going to be nearly impossible.

Looking back now, I think that my biggest mistake was not placing more importance on Mags during the month of September, 2017. I was concerned over her health, of course, but once I returned to Littleton and reunited with her, the old girl was energetic and high-spirited as ever. The first morning that I returned after the all-night voyage on Amtrak, I just wanted to sleep the day away. Mags would have none of it. It was one of the few instances during our time together that she actively woke me from a dead sleep with emphatic back-rubbing so that I could make up for leaving her alone for nearly five days.

The move did happen, of course. Brad shot Mags up with some kind of drug that had little to no affect. She seemed to know that something major was happening. She yowled in her carrier as I took my final Lyft ride in Denver, heading to DIA. When I took her out of the carrier for the TSA agents, I was shocked to discover that she had peed and pooped all over herself. This was very unlike Mags, who had always fastidiously used her litterbox. I could only conclude that the poor girl was terrified.

“We gotta get Hazmat in here,” the TSA agent grumbled as I scraped cat poop off of her hind quarters. After they checked her over, I had no choice but to place her back in her piss-drenched carrier before leaving the private security room. The sounds she made broke my heart. It was a yowling sound; a mixture of fear, anger, confusion and sadness. Maybe I was anthropomorphizing. It was a horrible journey for both of us, yet, there was nothing to be done as we boarded the plane and flew to Omaha. The guy in the seat next to me assured me that Mags was sleeping peacefully under the seat in front of me. But when we landed and I picked her up, she immediately began yowling again.

The first night in the Extended Stay America was a nightmare for both Mags and I. She erupted from the carrier in the bathroom, where I’d closed her in so I could clean her off as best I could. Then I fed her a can of Fancy Feast, which she vacuumed up greedily, which told me that whatever drug was in her system had not worn off. She drank down her water in big gulps, which was also very uncat-like. She tried to use her new litterbox, but it was strange to her at first. All in all, it was just overwhelming for her to process.

She began to issue forth with a new noise; one which I had never heard before. It was a low, keening sound. It was filled with trauma and betrayal, punctuated with a sharp question mark. “Why? Why? Why?” I had no real answers for her. Any explanation I could offer was merely a human construct. More money. Change of scenery. Who really knew? None of it was good enough for her. All through the night, she would wait until I had fallen asleep, then begin again with her yowling. “Why? Why?”

My spirit finally broke around 10 the next morning. Physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out, I lay on that cheap hotel bed and sobbed like a kid. “I’m sorry, Mags. I’m sorry.”

Later that afternoon, fortified with a cheese Runza, crinkly fries and a large Diet Pepsi, I returned to the hotel room. I lay down on the bed. Mags jumped up beside me, flopped down and fell into a heavy sleep. I dozed beside her for a time, then listened to a Broncos game with Marty. Later, I cooked some dinner, chatted with various friends and readied for my first day at my new job. All that time, Mags barely stirred, only getting up once or twice to use her litterbox.

That night, after a shower and a shave, I crawled into bed. Mags snuggled up beside me.

“Baby, I need you to let me sleep through the night so I can be awake for my first day tomorrow, okay?” I stroked her head and flank. She nuzzled me, then stretched out along my extended right arm.

The next thing I knew, it was 6:30, my alarm was going off and there was Mags, demanding her good morning pets and scratches as if it were a normal day in Colorado.

“Good morning, my girl,” I said with a smile. A good night’s sleep really can do wonders for both humans and animals.

We spent two weeks in that low-end hotel before moving to the place that would prove to be Mags’ final home. My parents helped me move in. At one point, Mom said, “I can’t find your kitty anywhere.”

I began calling for her, but didn’t hear the tell-tale jingle of her collar. “Ahh, shit! Did she get out?” I said. Finally, Mom opened the cupboard door beneath the bathroom sink and began laughing. “Mags! How’d you get in there?”

It turned out that Mags had a skill with which she had never acquainted me during our time together in Colorado. She had the ability to open cupboard doors and hide inside the cabinet. She couldn’t put her abilities to use in our former apartment because the kitchen cabinet doors were held shut by weak magnetic seals. The cupboards in my new apartment in Omaha were the old-fashioned kind, easily pulled open by human fingers or cat paws. It was not unusual for me to awaken in the early morning hours to the sound of thumping cupboard doors as Mags honed her burgling skills.

So, my new life in Omaha commenced. The brutal cold set in and with it, the loneliness. I had few friends in Omaha. Everyone whom I was closed to was back in Denver. My boss, Jane, and her deputy, Bekah were very warm and welcoming to me, but the deep pain of loss ate into me like acid. Denver had been my home for 10 years and it had been harder to leave it than I had imagined it would be. To get a picture of my mindset, go find the infamous ‘Deep Shadow’ entry from New Year’s Eve, two years ago.

Yet, through the physical and emotional cold, Mags was there. She would greet me every morning with her usual nuzzles and purring. Every night when I walked in my front door, I would hear her familiar, “Err,” from the bedroom. NO matter what task demanded my attention, I always took 15 to 20 minutes to talk to Mags and tell her about my day as I stroked her and fed her.

Finding a decent vet was a priority, of course. The first one I tried was recommended to me by my predecessor at Radio Talking Book. I took Mags there on a Saturday morning and was instantly turned off by the assembly line feel of the place. The guy who examined Mags sounded as if he couldn’t have been over 21. When I told him that Mags seemed to keep losing weight, no matter how much wet food I gave her, he asked, “How much are you feeding her?”

I replied, “Two cans of Fancy Feast a day.”

“Well… Maybe you should up it to three.”

I left in disgust. When they sent me the automatic Email survey, I gave them zeros across the board.

Alicia had recommended a veterinarian service called, The Completely Cat Clinic. It proved to be a bit of a jaunt from my place, but as it turned out, it was well worth the trip. Mags disagreed, of course, but cats are compulsively contrary when it comes to matters of medicine. Sharon listened attentively as I spelled out Mags’ history. After I finished, she said, “I want to do a full blood work-up on your girl.”

“Money’s a little tight right now. Can we do the bare minimum and I can try for a full panel after I save up a bit?”

“We’re gonna take care of you and Mags today,” she said matter-of-factly. “Let’s get her to feeling better and then we can talk about payment.”

I didn’t argue. Maybe it was charity. I can’t say for certain that Sharon and her compassionate staff treated any other patient with the same kindness. I only know that I was in no position to be supercilious. My pride ended at the doorstep of Mags’ welfare.

Sharon and co also sent me home with several kidney-friendly brands of wet and dry food. Over the next month, I tried them all on Mags, but she turned her tail toward all of them. The only thing she seemed to crave was Fancy Feast and Purina One kibbles.

So began two years of various treatments. We started with Vitamin B-12 shots. I tried to administer them myself in the comfort of our home, but my hands kept shaking and I only succeeded in annoying Mags by getting her coat all wet. I began taking her into the Cat Clinic at regular intervals so that they could administer the shots.

The treatments worked, at first. Mags began to eat more. Her energy was up. She stopped her aggressive biting. Once again, she became the sweet, loveable kitty who first came to live with me in Colorado.

At first, I took her for her shots about twice a month, but as time wore on, the shots became less effective. Soon, I was taking her in once a week; usually on Saturday mornings. The round trips with Lyft added up to a pretty penny. Eventually, I was forced to sign up with Share-a-Fare in order to recover some of the costs of transportation. But the vitamin shots were inexpensive, only tallying up to $28 a month. Mags didn’t care for the regular ritual of being loaded into the carrier for a quick trip to the vet, but it was well worth it. Slowly, she began to gain weight again. Instead of losing two to three ounces every month, she began to gain as much.

So life went for my girl and I for about 14 months. Then, sometime in the early spring of 2019, she began to lose weight again. She ate less and began to vomit more. She also started the aggressive biting again. Sharon agreed that the B-12 had lost its effectiveness and decided that it was time to put Mags on a steroid.

For the first few months, the steroid worked. Mags began gaining weight. She quickly returned to the 12-and-a-half pounds that she was when I first took her. By early autumn, she was a little over 13 pounds. I began to have the opposite worry. I didn’t want her to be an obese cat. That would bring with it a new host of health concerns, diabetes being the most obvious. I also began to worry when Mags stopped using her litterbox to pee in, choosing to go just outside of it. I wasn’t sure if the steroid was irritating her bladder, or if her refusal to pee appropriately was behavioral. Eventually, I had to lay down some old towels over plastic around her box.

One evening in late September after coming home from dinner with friends, I discovered Mags lying on the floor in the corner of my bedroom. I tried to coax her on to the bed. I heard her scratch at the post, as if she were trying to leap up, but she didn’t have the strength to make it. I scooped her up and placed her beside me. She seemed content, but the next morning when I woke up, she wasn’t there to greet me. I found her in her kitty bed at the back of the bedroom closet. She wasn’t interested in food or water.

A hasty trip to the clinic followed. We did the usual blood tests and Sharon threw in a free x-ray. While Mags’ blood looked fine, Sharon discovered a small spur on one of the vertebrate near Mags’ tail. She also found that Mags was severely constipated. She sent home a powdered laxative for me to stir into Mags’ wet food, but said that the bone spur wasn’t a concern yet.

“We may have to get her on some kitty Aspirin if the pain gets worse,” she said. I worried about this. I’d already discovered that it was impossible for me to administer any oral medication to Mags. She simply refused to take it and I didn’t have it in me to force a pill down her throat once or twice a day.

I took Mags home, dispirited and worried. I texted Joe as I rode in the Lyft. “Hey, buddy. Mags is really sick and I’m gonna need to monitor her closely. I’m going to have to cancel our weekend.”

Something about that trip to the clinic with Mags caused me to turn an emotional corner. While all of my previous efforts were tinged with hope, it now felt as if Mags was entering into her final descent. The collective weight of her mounting medical issues made me feel as if her overall condition was worsening. Sharon had confirmed that her kidneys were shrinking, and that there was no hope of them becoming more healthy. As I lifted her from her carrier and placed her on the bed, I realized that I needed to treasure each day I had with her. I didn’t know how many were left. I warned my coworkers that I might leave work early, or show up late, depending on Mags condition. They greeted this news with their usual beneficence. I don’t know what I would have done had I gone through the ordeal in a different job with coworkers who were less supportive.

Mags and I spent Thanksgiving together. I had several offers to attend dinners with friends, but all I wanted to do was stay close to her. She was eating more and her energy was up. I’d kept her on only wet food for a while, But Sharon had encouraged me to put her on a high-fiber dry food to keep her regular. This seemed to help, but her bad habit of peeing outside of her litterbox only got worse. One night, I brought a female friend home after dinner and we were greeted by the strong smell of urine when we walked in the door. I apologized profusely as I gathered her towels to take to the laundry.

On Friday, December 13, I bought her a second litterbox. I hoped that a change of scenery might retrain her to pee on sand again. That night, she seemed to take to it. I found leavings in both boxes. The next morning, I again awoke to discover that she was not on the bed. Again, I found her in the back of the closet. I called the clinic to see about a last-minute appointment, but they were swamped. Eventually, Mags did take some food and water and I thought she might rally, but she never left her kitty bed.

At seven o’clock Saturday night, I lost my resolve and called my pal Kevin. “Mags needs to go to urgent care. Can you take us?” As usual, Kevin didn’t say no. He was there in 30 minutes and we went to Urgent Pet Care.

As it turned out, it was all but a wasted trip. Emergency animal care is a very expensive proposition. They wanted to run more bloodwork and x-rays on her, but they also wanted nearly $700 for their trouble. I simply didn’t have it. In the end, they gave her subcutaneous fluids and an anti-nausea med and sent us home.

So began the longest day of my life. Mags went straight to her nest in the back of the closet. Save an occasional trip to her litterbox, she didn’t leave her bed. I tried taking her warm wet food and water time and time again, but she barely acknowledged it. Eventually, she turned away from her water and faced the wall. My heart sank further late Sunday night when I heard her breathing become labored and shallow. All I could do was lie there, petting her, talking to her, begging her to hang on through one more night until we could make it to the cat clinic.

Kevin picked us up Monday morning. I took her there and was surprised to find a waiting line. Apparently, there were a lot of people with sick cats waiting to be tended to. Yet, Annie took her and promised that they would make her comfortable until Sharon could take a look.

When Sharon called me later that morning, she was mystified. “We’ve got her on fluids and gave her another steroid. She’s eating, going to the bathroom and drinking normally. I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

“Sharon,” I said. “I don’t think Mags can keep doing this. Honestly, I can’t keep doing this. I just went through the worst weekend of my life and I just can’t watch her suffer anymore.”

“I understand,” Sharon said softly.

“I wonder if we shouldn’t just… Ya know… Exercise life-ending measures?”

“I can get it done today if you want me to, Ryan,” she said.

“No!!! I mean… I just want a little more time with her before we have to say goodbye.” There I was, standing in the hallway outside of my office, breaking down at the prospect of facing the loss of my closest companion. After a few moments I said, “I wanna try one more time. I’ll come take her home, but the next time she has a crisis, we should go ahead.”

Sharon asked to keep her overnight for further observation. The next afternoon, I left work early and went to pick her up. Missy, one of the vet techs, said Mags was resting comfortably and eating and drinking just fine. I got her home, let her out of her carrier and waited.

At first, Mags wandered around the apartment, occasionally letting off an, “Owww!” This wasn’t unusual. She usually behaved like this when she came home from spending the night at the clinic. I laid down for a short catnap. Just as I was drifting off, I felt her jump up on the bed. My heart leapt. I stroked her and scratched her head, telling her how glad I was that she was home again, rejoicing in the sound of her purr.

An hour later, I found her at the back of the closet. Again, she turned away from food and water. I checked three more times and always found her in her nest. When I pet her, she uttered a soft, “Oh.”

At 5:55 PM, I called the clinic. “Tell Sharon that I will be in at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Tell her… It’s time.”

My last night with Mags was an emotionally mixed affair. On one hand, I was devastated at the impending loss of my companion. Yet, the sorrow was embroidered by relief. I was glad Mags wouldn’t have to endure more trips to the vet, more discomfort, more periods of mild dehydration and malnutrition due to nausea. I lay with her on the floor in the closet, whispering softly to her, petting her gently.

“Remember that time you got so mad when I brought a dog home,” I said. “Remember how much you hated that hotel room? Remember how much you liked Katy? Remember all the nice stuff Jeanne sent home for you? You love that scratch box, don’tcha?”

And later…

“Thank you, Mags. Thank you for keeping me company for the last three years. Thank you for taking care of me on that Christmas when I was sick. Thank you for getting me through the move to Omaha. Thank you for being your sweet self. I love you so much, Mags. I will miss you so much.”

I went to bed that night thinking that I wouldn’t sleep. Surprisingly, I dropped right off. About three in the morning, I was awakened by the familiar jingle of Mags’ collar. I sat up and heard her scratching at the post of the bed.

“I’m coming, baby!” I scooped her up and lay her on the bed next to me. She began to purr and weakly nuzzle my hand. We lay together for a long time, me stroking her and she softly nuzzling my hand to encourage me to continue. Later, she gave me her ‘leave me alone’ nibble. I lay next to her, listening to her soft snoring as she slept, her back against my big pillow for the last time.

“Mags,” I sobbed. “If you can give me a sign that we should keep going… I mean… I just wish you could talk, girl.” No response.

An hour later, she jumped off the bed, went to use her litterbox, then went to the back of the closet again. I had hoped that her venture to my bed was a rallying point, but as it turned out, it was her way of saying goodbye.

I don’t have the wherewithal to write about Mags’ final trip to the cat clinic. Any pet owner knows what it’s like to show the ultimate act of mercy to a beloved animal. I will only say that, when the end came, Mags was at peace. I will also say that my tears were not the only ones falling as I bent and kissed Mags on her head for the last time. Sharon and the two vet techs were also emotional. How many times had they witnessed such a scenario, yet they still possessed the humanity to show their grief along with their patients’.

Since Mags passed away, coming home after work has been the hardest part. The thing I looked forward to most was my time with her when I first returned, followed by her nightly supper. Now, I come home to an empty apartment that is cold and baron. I sleep with her kitty bed each night. She’s still the last thing I think of before I drift off, and the first thing I think of when I wake in the morning. My hands trace the soft contours of her bed, remembering how she felt inside of it, her head propped on the edge, as she lay comfortably there. Sometimes, I still catch myself listening intently, swearing that I can hear the jingle of her collar. As I write this, I keep expecting to feel her gently brush against my ankles, or her front paws tap against my thigh. My afternoon catnap just isn’t the same without Mags to warm my feet. My nightly bath is lonely without Mags lying beside the tub on her folded towel, or leaning over the edge to take a drink.

Last Friday, I received a call from the clinic, telling me that her ashes are ready for me to come collect. I plan to go New Year’s Eve morning. I will be taking a friend with me for emotional support. The care package is waiting by the door, filled with uneaten Fancy Feast cat food, a baggie full of Mags’ favorite kitty treats, an unused electric kitty bed and several bags of Baker’s chocolates for the angels in human form who took such good care of my girl. Mags’ final resting place will be on the bookcase of my living room, right next to my clock, in front of a painting that my friend Kelly did for me.

I won’t argue the notion that parenthood is probably the most selfless job that an adult can undertake. Honestly, I never wanted kids. I don’t regret not having them. I just never saw myself as fatherhood material. But in the absence of children, I believe that taking care of animals is also a very noble, selfless job. Animals cannot speak for themselves. Therefore, as compassionate human beings, we are responsible for their welfare. If I had known that Mags was sick when I first took her in, I would not change a thing. I wouldn’t trade a second of the time I spent with her, even during the moments when she was sick. Mags taught me the most valuable lesson I’ve ever learned; how to love unselfishly, especially when the object of that love is ill. Making the decision to send her over the Rainbow Bridge was the hardest choice I’ve ever had to make, but despite the heartbreak of her loss, I feel it was the right one. I only wish that I could have spent just one more Christmas with her before she went away. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, but now, the shadow of her death will always dampen the holiday.

I have struggled over the years with matters of faith and spirituality. Yet, even in my dark moments of agnosticism, I believe in an afterlife. I used to imagine my entry into heaven as my landing somewhere familiar. I would picture myself standing at the front door of my grandparents’ home. I would walk in, and there Grandpa would be in his chair, waiting for me to plop down in his lap. From the kitchen, I would smell cookies baking as Grandma rattled dishes.

Since Mags came into my life, my view has changed. I now imagine my death as a time when I will go to sleep. I will drift off, finally achieving the peace that has so often proven to be elusive in life. Then, I will wake up in bed. My bedroom window will be cracked, the cool, crisp Colorado morning air bathing my face. Then, I will hear, “Err.” Mags will greet me with her usual nuzzles and good morning purrs, lying curled up in a ball as I stroke her fur. Every time I stop petting her, she will nuzzle my hand until I resume. It will be her way of telling me that I’m safe… I’m loved… I don’t need to be afraid… I’m finally, home.

Thank you for everything, Mags. Someday, I may have another cat, but I will never have another Mags.

Goodbye, girl. Goodbye.

Mags Marie Osentowski

Born: ?
Came to live with me: Saturday, May 28, 2016
Passed away: December 18, 2019

She wasn’t my pet. She was my family.

Well, here we are at the Christmas season again. Too much eating, too much drinking, too much spending and too much bitching from the Scrooge types who are sick of the same 10 Christmas songs being recycled over and over again by everyone from Bing Crosby to Lady Gaga. I wonder if said Scrooge types understand that the only thing more tiresome than Christmas music, which we’ve all been hearing since a week before Halloween, is them bitching about it. Probably not. It’s not that said Scrooge types aren’t self-aware, but rather that they don’t care about being self-aware.

Anyway, I don’t know what the hell that had to do with my topic, which is toys.

I ran across a YouTube channel called, RetroBlast, which is some nerd and his wife who review ‘80’s toys and the cartoons that resulted from Ronald Reagan and said ‘80’s toys. The guy (I don’t know his name) says that the “big three” toy lines that every miniature human with a developing penis either owned or wanted were Transformers, G.I. Joe and the Masters of the Universe.

As a witness to the events between President Carter’s unceremonious departure from the White House and the dismantling of the Berlin Wall, I can state unequivocally that this is a fact. I was big on Optimus Prime and his merry band of talking robots, as well as Cobra Commander and his incontinent hiss. All of my friends were also big on Transformers and G.I. Joe. Strangely, none of us collected the He-Man toys. Some of us watched the cartoon, but that was just filler until Transformers came on at four. Besides, you have to admit that, even by today’s standards, Skeletor was a pussy compared to Megatron.

My first Transformers toy came to me Christmas of 1984. Up to that point, I was big on toys called, Super Powers Collection. These were basically action figures based on the Superfriends cartoon. A Superman figure that could actually punch the air was cool, but a tape recorder that could be changed into a robot was way, way more awesome. I played with my Joker toy for about five minutes, but kept going back to Soundwave and his little buddy housed in his chest compartment, Buzzsaw. Buzzsaw was just like Laserbeak, but with a less cool name.

I forget the name of my second toy, or third, or fourth. I do remember collecting Cliffjumper, Megatron, Skywarp, Prowl, Brawn, Slag, Inferno, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Blitzwing, Ramjet, Ironhide, Longhaul, Shockwave, Blaster, Smokescreen and the entire Airealbots team throughout the years of ‘85 and ‘86. But my biggest prize was Jetfire, a huge jet that turned into a robot that stood at about a foot tall. Mom got him for me but said I had to wait until Christmas of 1985 to open him. But then, she bribed me by telling me that if I practiced piano every day for a month without complaining, she’d give him to me. I did it, and playing that stupid E-scale was never so painless. It was the first lesson I learned about how positive rewarding can work with a kid, as long as the reward is Jetfire.

I should testify truthfully that I tried to steal a few Transformers from my classmates at school. I pilfered Swoop, Bombshell and Windcharger, but I always got caught in the end. I wasn’t a particularly clever criminal.

I will also testify that my enthusiasm for the Transformers toys was directly influenced by my love of the cartoon. Yup… I was a product of those evil capitalists who wanted to sell toys to kids. G.I. Joe and He-Man were already around in September of 1984 when the first three-part Transformers miniseries hit the airwaves of KOLN-KGIN, the CBS affiliate that covered the cities of Lincoln, Grand Island and Kearney. He-Man was kind of meh for me. Even as a kid, I always thought that John Erwin sounded like a wuss trying to pass himself off as an alpha male. Duke, Flint and Destro were more interesting. For the first time, I saw cartoon characters engage in fistfights and gun battles. Of course, none of them were ever shot and or wounded by gunfire, but who cared. Imperial Storm Troopers never hit anyone either, and Star Wars was real life action, man! So why would it matter? Still, none of those characters impressed me as did Optimus Prime as he stood atop Hoover Dam and did battle with Megatron.

I have to stop my meandering stroll down memory lane to pay homage to the guys who did the voices of The Transformers cartoon characters. Most of the boys in my tiny 4th grade class watched the show, but the other guys could see the robots change into cars, planes, dinosaurs and even a handgun. I could only hear it. Thus, guys like Peter Cullen, Frank Welker, Chris Latta, Casey Kasem, Michael Bell, Don Messick, Dan Gilvezan and Corey Burton were the stars of the show to me.

Oh sure, I collected G.I. Joe toys as well. My love for them sprang up more in the summer of 1985. I had Cobra Commander, Duke, Quick Kick, The Baroness, Shipwreck, Flint, Ladyjaye, Zartan, Ripcord, Blowtorch, Airtight and all of the Dreadnoks. For Christmas of 1985, I got the Crimson Twins (Tomax and Xamot), as well as Perceptor and Redalert. I went through a love affair with the Joe toys for about nine months, but my affinity for The Transformers lasted for over two years.

Sidebar: My first stab at sex education came, not from the stupid, awkward lecture from the school principal and nurse, but from my futile efforts to place my Flint and Ladyjaye action figures in various positions that were meant to simulate copulation. It was a sorry effort that was also inspired by the cartoon series. If Bill Ratner or Mary McDonald-Lewis ever happen to stumble upon this blog, #SorryNotSorry.

My passionate romance with The Transformers officially ended at the premier of that accursed Transformers movie. The writers killed off Optimus Prime, along with most of the original toys that were scattered around my bedroom floor at home. I’ve heard tales of some kids crying in the theater. I didn’t cry. I was alternately mad and sad. As pathetic as it is to admit, Optimus Prime had been a major hero to me. He was a character that had unwavering morals, a strong sense of loyalty to his followers and a courageous mechanical heart. Sure, guys like Duke, Flint and Roadblock were American patriots, but Optimus Prime seemed to carry something larger with him. I can’t explain it, other than to say that he gave those of us lonely kids who felt empty something to look to when times got rough. Recess was full of physical and emotional bullies, but I took heart in knowing that Optimus Prime would be waiting for me when I got home, always ready to do the right thing. Sure, I took visceral pleasure in watching the Joe Team beat the crap out of those hapless Cobra troops, but Prime employed a measure of compassion toward the innocent. Decepticons were contemptuous and violent toward humanity, calling them names like, “Earth germs.” Prime always defended humanity, arguing that freedom was the right of all beings.

It seems strange to think that, of all the toys I collected, the Optimus Prime toy was not one that ever made it into my basket.

AND THOSE ASSHOLES KILLED HIM!!! They scrapped him and replaced him with freakin’ Judd Nelson, Robert Stack, Leonard Nimoy, the Micro Machines guy and… Orson Welles!? Citizen Kane as a planet-eating monster. What a way to go out. I can understand why Orson did it. He wasn’t getting a lot of other offers and he had to pay for his expensive wine habit, but why the hell would Leonard Nimoy take a voice role like that? He was doing just fine and Star Trek: The Great Whale Chase, was about three months from hitting the screens.

Anyway, I tried to keep up with the TV cartoon, more out of habit than anything, but Rodimus Prime and Galvatron were poor substitutes. Meanwhile, G.I. Joe brought Sergeant friggin’ Slaughter, a professional wrestler, on board to do battle with Serpentor. Cobra Commander was kind of a clownish terrorist, but he was fun and colorful. Serpentor, by contrast, was just boring. Think about it! Serpentor had the DNA of Vlad Tepes in his makeup, but he never got around to sticking Cobra Commander up on a pole.

In Christmas of 1986, I got Ultra Magnus and Kup. I also got the Cobra Night Raven. Galvatron was my last toy, given as my 12th birthday gift in February of 1987. I played with them for a time, but the magic was fading. By the summer of ’87, I was watching crime shows like The Equalizer, Mike Hammer and Simon and Simon. I had also been introduced to old-time radio and had quickly become a fan of The Shadow and The Green Hornet. The cartoons seldom got turned on and my toys were relegated to a plastic basket in my closet, eventually to be taken downstairs and stored somewhere in the basement. The surviving toys would come out again years later, when my little nephew Hunter discovered the same love of Star Wars and The Transformers that I’d had as a kid. Yeah… We’re getting too close to Toy Story territory here, so I’m gonna move on.

I think my parents had hoped that I would grow out of toy cartoons in the sixth grade as many of my peers were doing. Honestly, I didn’t fully turn my back on the show until early in the seventh grade when the whole Headmaster thing hit and I realized that reincarnated Optimus Prime had outlived his usefulness. My parents breathed a huge sigh of relief. Maybe I was gonna finally grow up and go out for wrestling and hit puberty. Their rest bit was short-lived, because about a year later, I discovered Star Trek on VHS, available for rental at Video Kingdom. Mom and Dad stood aghast at the fact that they had sired, not only a blind, chubby, reclusive middle kid, but a nerd as well.

I did, of course, buy the DVD’s of both the G.I. Joe and Transformers cartoons in the early 2,000’s. I humbly admit that it is my prerogative to break them out and sample them every now and again. They are hopelessly dated, of course, but I get a warm feeling when I watch them. You’re entitled to judge me if you want, and I’m entitled to tell you to kiss my fat Polish ass. I’ll tell you this… Optimus Prime and Megatron have aged a hell of a lot better than Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine one without the other.

I particularly admire the voice artistry of the actors I listed previously. Peter Cullen said it best when he spoke at some Comic Con panel or other. “The only way you can do a job like this is if you really, truly love it.”

It is interesting that, in hindsight, I find The Transformers to be more compelling than G.I. Joe. It’s also interesting that, of all the Christmas gifts I received during my childhood, the ones that stand out most in my memory are the Transformers toys, as well as the cassettes of old-time radio programs given to me by my grandparents at Christmas, 1987.

My final thought is that I find it odd that Transformers and G.I. Joe have gotten several major movies, while Masters of the Universe has not. Maybe the 1987 film with Dolph Lundgren did what Skeletor never could and killed He-Man, dead. Then again, if you look at how the modern Transformers movies turned out, maybe He-Man and Skeletor got the better end of the deal.

If only Cobra Commander had brainwashed Santa Claus, he would’ve had all of the kids saying, “Merry Chrisssssssssssssstmasssssssssssss!”

PS: If you guys aren’t able to read this blog in about two weeks or so, it’s because Steve Sawczyn, the guy who gets the bill, was a He-Man fan.

Nine years ago today, I joined Facebook. So what have I learned in those nine years?

I learned that Donald Trump is Hitler, and that Barack Obama was the anti-Christ.

I learned that parents love to post photos of their kids on Facebook far more than they love teaching them how to act appropriately in public.

I learned that Hollywood stands firmly with the #MeToo movement, even though they are the ones who sparked it.

I learned that Denver has a far superior public transit system to anything in Nebraska, but Nebraska has nicer coworkers.

I learned that the words, “None of you will share this,” is code for, “All of you suckers should share this!”

I learned that Breaking Bad and The Sopranos have aged far better than 24 and Lost.

I learned that Mark Zuckerberg is able to provide half-ass descriptions of photos for blind people, but he can’t answer a simple question from a senator about the definition of hate speech.

I learned that the death of a friendship may occur, not after an angry confrontation, but when one person suddenly realizes that the other person has blocked them on Facebook.

I learned that Rush Limbaugh was a conservative… Until he wasn’t.

I learned that the phrase, “It’s complicated,” really means, “None of your damn business.”

I learned that the term, “Fake news,” has evolved from one used after a Halloween prank played by Orson Welles to a verbal hand grenade selectively deployed depending upon whether or not Jake Tapper or Bret Baier is currently on the screen.

I learned that far more people will “like” this post if I include a picture of my cat. I don’t blame you.

I learned that America is as divided as its ever been, and that the Civil War was this thing that happened in another century.

I learned that the words, “Delete post,” are a lie. Nothing on the internet really ever goes away.

I learned that love is love is love is love, unless you happen to be expressing love for an unseen god.

I learned that a birthday wish hastily written on your virtual wall has taken the place of a card or a phone call.

I learned that a series of novels with a running character really should end after 10. It’s time for Lucas Davenport and Joe Pickett to retire.

I learned that a person’s true nature will emerge when they are hiding behind the anonymity of a keyboard or touch screen.

I learned that Star Wars should have died when Darth Vader did.

I learned that you can claim over 500 Facebook “friends,” yet be the loneliest guy in the world.

I learned that Barack Obama represented the second coming. I also learned that Donald Trump is a political genius.

PS: I know none of you will share this.

1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 3

2017 was the year of the deep shadow. It feels as if the entire world is on the edge of dusk; as if God’s great hand were partially obscuring the sunlight that warms us. Maybe that’s my way of saying that it feels like we’re living in the Twilight Zone.

In some ways, it does. If you had told me six months ago that I would be living in Omaha, Nebraska, I’d tell you that you needed a good, strong psychotropic drug. Yet, here I am, sitting in my apartment near 90th and Dodge while the gas heater fights off the draft coming in from my sliding glass balcony door wrought by a -20 wind-chill. Welcome to Nebraska winter.

It’s more than just my situation at hand. Everything around me feels as if it has a bluish hue to it. Strange that a blind guy would be using a visual reference, but then, we live in strange times. Maybe psychologists would call it projection. Perhaps I’m seeing the world through a tinted lens of sadness. I wonder…

Take one of my closest friends, Alicia. She just lost her husband to cancer after a two-and-a-half year battle. He went home to be with his lord and savior the Sunday before Thanksgiving. At one point, they thought they were winning the struggle, but their hopes were short-lived. I remember the rhythmic beeping of the life support apparatus in the background when she told me of his failing health the night before he died. I remember the high, keening noise she made when I spoke to her three hours after he passed. It is a haunting sound that I will never forget.

Rest in peace, Mark. I hope it’s Texas warm where you are, brother.

Then, there’s Marty. She continues to battle her M.S. She hasn’t had a flair-up in quite some time, but the reality of her health always lurks like a grizzly just outside the light of the campfire. Worse than that, Monty’s health is failing. It is only a matter of time before she is forced to send him over the rainbow bridge. She knows it. In his own doggy way, I think he knows it. She will be devastated when that fateful moment arrives and all I will be able to do is hold the telephone and tell her how sorry I am. Just words.

Talking about Marty makes me realize that I went through, not one, but two breakups in 2017. Most women think that guys have it easier when you break up with a woman. This is categorically false. You sit in a room across from each other, or on the telephone, and you say the words that transform your relationship from an active bond of energy into a sad, hollow place inside of yourself. If you pay attention, you can feel the air around you die as the relationship dies. It’s like feeling the coming of a snowstorm in late autumn. Things around you still live, but the air turns colder and you suddenly find yourself carrying the knowledge that something is dying. And somewhere in the night, you wake up and realize that yet again, it is a part of your own soul.

One of the two breakups to which I refer was an Irish girl who is a tactile artist. We ended it in her living room. She said, “Can you please leave?” So, I did. I left Colorado.

The reasons for taking this new job seemed right and proper at the time. More money. More responsibilities. Live on-air breaks. Granted, it wasn’t AM talk radio, or even FM radio, but it was as close to a dream come true as I ever could have hoped. Yet, if I boil down my motivations, I see in retrospect that I was propelled by greed and vanity. I had a fine life in Denver with a job that, while a source of irritation at times, was comfortable and afforded me a decent living. Why did I take an unnecessary risk and shuck the status quo like an old raincoat?

This isn’t to say that I hate, or even dislike my job. Quite the contrary. My job is, by far, the best part of living here in Omaha. My boss is the best boss for whom I’ve ever worked. She is honest, fair, personable and perspicacious. She is firm when she needs to be, but she belies the stereotype of the harsh, frosty female authority figure. My two other coworkers are both professional, but casual and friendly. I have very large footprints to fill in the wake of my predecessor and I think many of the volunteers doubt my abilities, but everyone has been encouraging and compassionate toward the new guy.

I’ll tell you a story about my boss that will illustrate my point. About a month ago, a sour old dowager (who has been reading for us for decades) came into the control room and used a tone with me that I will describe as, tart. I felt the hot anger rippling through me as she waggled her acidic tongue, but I suppressed it behind the veil of professionalism. My boss overheard a portion of her tirade and, later that afternoon, she called the cranky old spinster and said, “I don’t like the way you talked to Ryan. I won’t have it.”

This is significant because, in our industry, the first rule of order is that you never, ever piss off the volunteers. I don’t begrudge this reality. There are sound reasons for this. Next to the listeners themselves, volunteer readers are the life blood of a radio reading service for the blind. Without them, we simply couldn’t function. We can’t have them becoming angry because they might leave, and while they’re at it, they might trash talk us to other people, thereby poisoning the well of benevolence from the public. Too much of this would send a non-profit organization into its death throws. Yet, my boss had my back, thereby guaranteeing my loyalty to her.

No, the job is fine. The city feels wrong. You know that episode of Columbo where his wife gives him a brand new raincoat and he tries to wear it so as not to hurt her feelings, but he can’t get his murder-solving mojo to full strength until he chucks the new one and goes back to the old, rumpled one? Five minutes after he dawns the ragged old coat, he busts Jack Cassidy. That’s how Omaha seems to me. Something here feels wrong.

Denver was like my comfortable old winter coat; the one that’s missing the front zipper. It’s black and yellow. I call it my bumblebee coat. It’s not in the best shape, but it fits my ample torso nicely and it’s warm and comfy. It is part of me, just as Denver was part of my identity. I’m Ryan. I’m from Denver.

This may be a period of adjustment. As I grow older, it might be that change is more difficult for me to accommodate. Am I seeing my situation through a melancholy fog; a fog that might clear with the passage of time? It’s too early to tell. Yet, something deep inside of me doesn’t think so.

Denver was very easy for me to live and thrive in as a blind person. The buses all had automated stop announcements, so there was no question as to where my stop was located. They ran nearly 24/7 and covered the vast majority of the Denver metropolitan area. I know this isn’t cool for a conservative to say, but the light rail was a marvel to behold when you were on it. If I needed a gallon of milk, a checkup for Mags, a deposit at the bank or a patty melt with a slice of pie, it was all within walking distance. If I couldn’t walk there, I could take a bus or train to my destination. If the bus or train wouldn’t go, Lyft or Uber was available in spades.

Here in Omaha, I feel disconnected and isolated, like Woodrow Call in his tent set apart from his wranglers after Gus died. I do enjoy a measure of solitude, but I don’t like feeling like a compulsory hermit. There are no sidewalks near my apartment, so I am forced to walk in the street. The afore-mentioned bank, grocery store or vet are most convenient by Uber, which costs money. I have a friend who is willing to drive me around, but I hate imposing on his time. He works at night and sleeps during the day and I feel guilty intruding upon his rest so he can run errands for me.

My apartment is spacious, but it’s old. It smells old. The floor boards creek. The neighbors smell like pot. I wanted to get away from that when I left Colorado! The laundry machines in the basement are touch panel, which is rough for a fellow who relies on push-button appliances. My thermostat is inaccessible. The kitchen is big, but there is little counter space and not many cupboards. Right above my sink where cupboards should be, there is just a blank wall. Where are the cupboards!? Maybe they’re in the deep shadow. The few close friends I have nearby live in Lincoln, or in Iowa.

The other day, I took the bus home and the temperature was 1 degree. I got on the bus. The driver said, “How ya doin’?” “Cold, “ I mumbled through my scarf. “Well, it ain’t any better on here,” he said unapologetically.

The heater was, indeed, in disrepair. This marks the fourth time that an Omaha bus has either broken down or has been in some measure of disrepair since I took up residence here almost three months ago. When I complain to customer service, they seem apathetic. The drivers seem to reflect the same apathy, which is a result of low ridership and general community disinterest. Public transit is a service furnished by the city government through the financial generosity of the citizenry. As Thomas Jefferson observed, the people get the government they deserve.

I did my fair share of complaining about RTD, but they never would allow a bus to serve as a means of conveyance if the heater were broken in single-digit weather. They would view it as a health hazard, which it is.

Speaking of the government, one of the things I was excited about in moving back to Omaha was better rehab services. I helped fight for a separate commission for the blind in the late ‘90’s and celebrated with my Federation cohorts when we finally got it in 2000. It was doing very well when I left the state 10 years ago. I came back with the full expectation of receiving a major improvement in services. Colorado Vocational Rehab is substandard, to put it mildly.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other ideas. The Nebraska Commission for the Blind lost a major source of federal funding due to the reallocation of dollars for hurricane relief after Harvey, Irma and Maria all made their wrath known. This loss of funding, coupled with a federal law known as the Workforce Innovation and Opportunities Act, means that the Commission must now place more emphasis on clients who are either going to college, or who are seeking employment. Since I am already employed and only needed supplemental equipment and services helping me acclimate to the area, I am very low on the priority list.

I don’t blame anyone for this. I don’t even blame Mother Nature. This comes under the ‘shit happens’ heading. But the timing is lousy. I have a deep and abiding affection for the Commission. They, along with my parents, helped formed the solid bedrock of my positive philosophy about blindness. Yes, the NFB deserves a lot of credit, but it was the Nebraska agency that helped me connect with the NFB. It makes me sad that they are now struggling and that clients will now feel the result.

Meanwhile, rumors are swirling that Outlook Nebraska is seeking federal funding to provide tech and rehab training for blind people. I invite all two of you who read this to stop and ponder that prospect. A toilet paper factory that is one step removed from a sheltered workshop for the blind being paid by the government to train other blind people how to use their iPhones. This from the same facility that refuses to fire a blind married couple who blatantly flaunt the rules and go to the bathroom together, all in the name of, “enriching their lives.”

There was a time when I would’ve dismissed such a prospect as mere folderol. But then, I never thought that human beings with male genitalia would be permitted in the restrooms of the opposite gender, and that those who questioned such wisdom would be excoriated as transphobic bigots. This is the age of the deep shadow.

My closest in-person companion at this point is Mags. I am terribly worried about her. She’s been losing weight for the past 10 months or so. My vet in Denver (who knew both Mags and I by our first names) told me that she is in the early stages of renal disease. There is no cure for this. She could have surgery, but it really wouldn’t solve the problem. The move from Denver to Omaha was a tremendous strain on her. We were both miserable for the two weeks we spent in the hotel before my apartment was ready. I wonder if she recovered. She doesn’t eat as much as she should and sometimes, she aggressively bites me. This is a far cry from the sweet, affectionate kitty who first came to live with me Memorial Day weekend of 2016. All she wanted to do was cuddle and nuzzle me. She’s still that way most of the time, but she is growing thinner.

I took Mags to a new vet this weekend and she said that all we can hope to do is, “Support her kidneys as best we can.” Hard to do when she turns her nose up at any diet food I offer her. She’s stubborn. After all, she’s a cat.

I fear that, like Marty, I will be forced to make a fateful decision about her in the next year or so. The mere contemplation of this causes me to fight tears. Mags is a part of my heart that I never knew existed. She is mine. I take care of her and, in her own way, she takes care of me. When I drift off to sleep or wake up, I always feel her warm, furry body somewhere near my feet or shoulder. Despite the assertions of Walt Disney, animals are not human. Yet, in our interactions with them, we become more human. I am sure that Alicia contemplates this truth as she prepares to give up her own cat due to financial hardship in the wake of Mark’s death.

I spoke of my identity earlier. This brings me to the sad but necessary decision that I made a few weeks ago on Pearl Harbor Day when I chose to leave the Republican Party after 24 years of membership. You can read about my thought processes in a previous entry. I take no solace from this decision. I was proud to be among the ranks of the GOP. I am heartbroken at the steps they have taken (or not taken) collectively that have lead us to where we are now. I believe that Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan are both good men who are doing a thankless job and are saddled with a president whom they did not want, but that doesn’t mean they can’t show stronger leadership.

Other friends have suffered losses. A former coworker just lost his father over the Christmas season. My former mentor at AINC is pulling back from his volunteer duties because his wife’s health is deteriorating. He could be an exasperating old curmudgeon at times, but he was and is sharp as a razor and he taught me a lot while I worked there. My friends in Minneapolis have spent a lot of time in and out of the hospital this past year as their daughter is suffering from chronic health problems. Special thanks to Steve, without whom I could not maintain this blog. Another buddy of mine was going to move to Australia to be with his lady, until he discovered that her mental fruit basket contains only bananas. Dana isn’t as vivacious as she once was. I asked her, “Are you folding in on yourself?” She responded, “Like Goddamn Taco Bell.”

… She didn’t actually say that. But she would have four years ago.

A shock hit the Nebraska NFB affiliate in April when our spiritual leader lost her son to suicide. He had always been a troubled kid who grew into a troubled man and our hearts collectively broke for her. She is a rare individual of integrity, honor and kindness for whom virtually no one has a negative word to say. She did not deserve the shattering blow that she received. As a non-parent, I cannot imagine what it must be like to lose a child, particularly by their own hand.

Rest in peace, John Walker. I hope you are reunited with your father and that you now have the answers that eluded you in life. Your mother, whom you left behind, will be a long time seeking those same answers. I pray for peace, strength and resolution for her as she soldiers onward.

6 For there is a proper time and procedure for every matter, though a person may be weighed down by misery.
7 Since no one knows the future, who can tell someone else what is to come?
8 As no one has power over the wind to contain it, so
no one has power over the time of their death. As no one is discharged in time of war, so wickedness will not release those who practice it.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 8

I still miss Art. Nobody can listen quite like he can. I miss Katy and Marty. I miss my oasis of happiness at the Littleton Cafe. Happy New Year Becky, Oscar, Sam, Bonnie, Katrina, Dorothy, Ryan, Ariana and all the rest of you.

I even miss that wild crew over at the CCB. I realize that the Colorado Center For the Blind has its problems, but as I study Outlook Nebraska, I realize how important it is for blind people to take total control of their own destiny. The CCB can be a seething cauldron of chaos at times, but I feel toward it like some of those guys feel who become addicted to war and find that they miss Afghanistan when they get home. It could very well kill you, but while you were there, you never felt more alive.

So here’s to you Brent, Dan, Chip, Jenn, Dishon, Steve, Vicki, Martin, Carina, Maureen and all the rest of you. I hope the Christmas party was as good without my adult eggnog this year. Live the life you want. For tomorrow, you could be murdered by a nutjob with a pipe on the 16th Street Mall.

Sidebar: Lorinda, no offense, but I don’t miss you. You’re as ornery as that old acid-tongued dowager here in Omaha.

The news of my friends isn’t all bad. Martin and Carina have just become engaged. Congratulations, guys. Soon, you won’t have to fight and feel guilty about it. My pal Joe is in a relationship with a new lady and he seems to finally be content in Phoenix. I just had dinner with my friend Amy and she is mostly happy with her life in Baltimore. Katy was a beneficiary of my decision to leave as she took over my old job in Boulder. The results are mixed. She is glad to have a paycheck and she has learned how to use Windows to interface with their Linux systems, but she hates the four-hour round trip daily commute that I adjusted to in time. My buddy Wes relocated from Lincoln to Des Moines. Is he happy? I can never be sure. Is my friend Beth happy in Minnesota? I can never be sure.

I should give a mention to the only two friends I can claim here in Omaha, Amy and Kevin. They have gone out of their way to make me feel truly welcome since I arrived three months ago. Thank you for everything, guys. I should also mention that my dad came and picked me up last weekend so I could spend Christmas with the family. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to jump in the car with him instead of a bus driver, then debark two hours later at their front door.

Things are also mixed (as usual) on the socio-political front. Republicans control all three chambers of Government in D.C., but they have accomplished sadly little. They just passed a needed tax reform bill, but they have thus far lost the battle to repeal and replace Obamacare. Trump did seat a justice on the Supreme Court in the Scalia mold in the person of Neal Gorsuch, but for every battle he wins, he sabotages himself. If you doubt this, just look at Anthony Scaramucci, Mike Flynn and Steve Bannon. Trump’s iron-jawed announcement that the U.S. will officially recognize Jerusalem as the capital of Israel is offset by his abysmal handling of the crisis in Charlottesville. I don’t even want to talk about his diarrhea of the fingers on Twitter. Did anyone ever decrypt “covfefe?”

I believe that Donald Trump may be winning the short-term battle, but given his volatile nature, he will cause Republicans to lose the long-term war. Those of you who enthusiastically support Trump can and will argue with me. I’ve learned that debate with those who subscribe to a cult of personality is an exercise in futility. The only further point I will make is simply that, if Trump had shown more sagacity in his firing of Comey, he would not now have a Mueller probe to worry about. I don’t think self-awareness is his strong suit. Aside from that, I’ve given up on my bad habit of political forecasting. Let’s just see how the 2018 midterms turn out.

Then, we have pop culture.

In 2015, they killed Han Solo. Now, they’ve killed Luke Skywalker. The character of Princess Leia still lives, but we won’t be seeing her in the third installment, unless J. J. Abrams can commune with the ghost of Carrie Fisher. This means that the great triumvirate of my childhood is dead. Maybe Lando will make a return in the next movie, but I won’t hold my breath. When William Shatner, Patrick Stewart and Optimus Prime go, I may just hurl myself in front of a truck full of Omaha steaks.

The third season of Fargo was pretty weak in contrast to the first two. Katy and I got into a cop show called Bosch, but the books bored me and the show, while interesting, doesn’t give me a TV nerd chub. I do like The Man in the High Castle and would recommend it to those who like alternative history fiction. I also think Stranger Things has improved with the second season. I still refuse to watch The Walking Dead as I think it outlived its creative value around season…two.? Still won’t watch Game of Thrones. Fantasy’s not my bag.

I didn’t really read any book series this year that grabbed me as the novels of C. J. Box did in 2016. Much to Katy’s delight, I finally broke down and read the Harry Potter series. I applaud Ms. Rowling’s journey from welfare mother to best-selling author. The books are good, not great in my opinion, but reading them was time well spent.

As noted in a previous entry, I do highly recommend The Force, by Don Winslow. His drug epics, Power of the Dog and The Cartel are also good, though not as good as The Force. I have also introduced myself to the Cork O’Connor series by William Kent Krueger, as well as the Quinn Colson series by Ace Atkins. Both solid series worth the read, but again, they didn’t seize my attention and shake it as did Joe Pickett and company.

I consider my brief meeting with Mr. Box in March to be a definite high-light and you can also read about it elsewhere within these hallowed pages.

We had the usual parade of celebrity deaths over the past year. The ones I found notable included Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle), Tom Petty, Glen Campbell, Malcolm Young and Sue Grafton. Remember Higgins from Magnum, P.I.? He died. Remember Phil Leotardo from The Sopranos and Billy Batts from Goodfellas? He died. Special shout-out to the memory of Adam West, who went up to that great batcave in the sky last June. He was the only actor with sense enough to realize that Batman is a character who is best not taken seriously. Another piece of my childhood goes, “Pow!” Sometimes I think that being an adult is merely standing a deathwatch while the parallel mythology and reality of your childhood implodes before your eyes.

HOLY CRACKERS!!! I didn’t know that Della Street died! Rest in peace, Barbara Hale. I don’t know how I missed this one or I would’ve given her a proper Facebook send-off. The Perry Mason TV show and novels were more a part of my college years than my childhood. As a character, Della had very little to do but sit around and validate Raymond Burr. Still, she deserves a special mention here.

I find it more than a little pathetic that America is now outraged about sexual harassment and assault, yet many of the same people who are shaking their fists at the objectification and mistreatment of women loudly and proudly mourned the passing of Hugh Hefner. I think that goes under the heading of, paradox. It’s like the people who squawk about America’s violation of human rights while they simultaneously wept at the death of Fidel Castro.

A lot of people will never come out of the deep shadow. Victims of Hurricane Harvey. Victims of Hurricane Maria. Victims of Hurricane Irma. Victims of the California fires; even though I often wonder if California deserves any sympathy. Victims of evil in Sutherland Springs, TX, New York City, Fort Lauderdale, Portland and many other locations. I couldn’t fully enjoy my first day of work because it was overshadowed by the horrible blood bath in Las Vegas the night before.

Many careers died over the past year. Bill O’Reilly, Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey, Matt Lauer, Charlie Rose, Al Franken, Mark Halperin, Roy Moore, John Conyers and others. As you can see by this blog, I am wholeheartedly supportive of the changing culture with respect to sexual harassment. Yet, I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. The left always overplays its hand. Soon, the lines between a dirty joke in the workplace and unwanted groping will be blurred to the point where many men will be afraid to go near women. This won’t breed enlightenment or tolerance, but rather, latent hostility. I’m also waiting for some unscrupulous woman to falsely accuse a man of something and for the media to be complicit in his takedown.

Other careers have taken a hit. Mike Riley, though he’s merely been demoted to assistant coach. On the bright side, may the Frost be with you. Go Big Red! The former coach of the Giants; I don’t have the inclination to Google his name. Never screw with the Manning brothers. Vance Joseph should probably lose his career after this season of Broncos football. I haven’t seen a pattern of systematic abuse this bad since Joe dated Hope. Trevor Siemian and Brock Osweiler are both done in Denver after tonight. The jury is still out on Paxton Linch.

Hey, is Kirk Cousins related to Christopher Cousins, the guy who played Ted Beneke in Breaking Bad? I sure hope the former knows how to take a fall better than the latter.

Judging by the ratings, the entire NFL is in a death spiral. The kneeling controversy is merely the latest (if not the most prominent) public relations crisis. I nearly spat out my coffee in the control room the other day as I listened to one of our volunteers read an article in Sports Illustrated awarding Colin Kaepernick the Muhammad Ali profile in courage. This from the guy who is a mediocre player and who, paradoxically, is doing far more harm to the careers of many of his fellow African-American athletes by causing financial havoc. Does Kaepernick, a guy who wore socks with pigs on them to symbolize police brutality, really think that players taking a knee during the national anthem will change anyone’s views on racism and poverty in America? People who are middle aged like my dad will simply turn off the TV. The younger generation, represented by my college age nephew, are already losing interest in the NFL in favor of the UFC. How does Colin think this is going to end?

Did you know that Colin, who is outraged by oppression, is a big fan of Fidel Castro? Like Trump, I don’t think he is long on self-awareness.

Speaking of careers, I have no idea how anyone at United Airlines is able to keep their job. Same goes for Uber, who is hemorrhaging money due to lawsuits over sexual misconduct and bad business practices. I celebrated recently when I learned that Uber has finally come to my hometown of Kearney. If they last long enough, I’ll pay my parents a surprise visit next summer. I can’t believe Chipotle is still around. I haven’t tried their new queso yet, though I hear it’s about as appealing as toe cheese. I will say that one of the best things about being back in Nebraska is the proximity of Runza restaurants.

This entry is about as long as the list of charges against Harvey Weinstein. Let me wrap it up with an ironic story.

I was busting my hump writing this early in the week because I thought I was going to have some guests for the New Year’s weekend and I wanted to complete it early so I wouldn’t be distracted. Then, everyone canceled due to the brutal weather, and because all of our financial situations are about as dire as Roy Moore’s chances for a successful recount. Well… All except Wes, but he’s sick. Again.

As of now, Marty and I just listened to the Broncos wrap up their season with a squeaker of a loss to the Chiefs. I have a vision of Vance Joseph tossing in his sleep, mumbling, “5-11… 5-11… 5-11…” Marty and I will ring in the New Year telephonically, listening to the police scanner, thanking God we’re not the cops or Uber drivers. I can’t remember the last time I spent a New Year’s Eve alone. Some have been more raucous than others, but I’ve always had companionship. It’s a very fitting end to the year of the deep shadow.

God, please take your hand away from the sun. Please let the light back in. I know it is still out there. I am not lost in the eternity of night. But where is it? Where is the warmth of the sun?

-16 for a low on New Year’s Eve. -2 for the high on New Year’s Day. The wind just rattled my balcony door. Mags is meowing mournfully from somewhere in the apartment. Hours before this is published, five cops shot in Douglas County, CO. One killed. A family gets to forge the waters of 2018 without a husband and father.

Winter’s not coming… It’s here, with no end in sight.

Happy New Year. May 2018 deliver me from the deep shadow.

8 There was a man all alone; he had neither son nor brother. There was no end to his toil, yet his eyes were not content with his wealth. “For whom am
I toiling,” he asked, “and why am I depriving myself of enjoyment?” This too is meaningless— a miserable business!
9 Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor:
10 If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
11 Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?
12 Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
Book of Ecclesiastes – Chapter 4