A Little G in a Big D

So just to bring everyone up to speed, Cato (pronounced Kay-Toe, named for the Inspector Clouseau character), our long-time cat, disappeared from our house on Christmas Day.

He probably ran out while we were loading presents in the car to take to Fort Worth, where we were celebrating the holiday. He tries to sneak out often but usually makes too much noise, or we catch him right away. This time we didn’t notice, though, and were not aware of his escape until we returned home much later that night.

A good five days later and there’s still no sign. We’ve pretty much papered the neighborhood with fliers, have called vets in the area and are in touch with local shelters; there is no good info yet.

We have reason to believe he actually crossed our neighborhood and ended up in a nearby creek/wooded area, where I’m told there’s known to be coyote activity. I’m actually about to head off on a walk now and may stroll over there. I doubt I’ll find anything, but maybe I’ll feel better after I look.

We’re not giving up, of course.

In my head I still do think of Cato as sort of “Michelle’s cat” — she adopted him as a kitten back when we were in college. But, I’ve known him the whole time, too, and together we’ve carted that silly black cat all over this country.

For the better part of several years (about eight or nine, I think) I’ve watched him go from an insanely hyper kitten to a lackadaisical, middle-aged cat who sleeps seemingly nonstop and loves to soak in warm, afternoon sun.

It’s cliché, I know it, but we think of him as our son — our “furry child,” a friend once called him. The “love” he gave us is probably nothing close to what a human gives, but it’s nonetheless unconditional seeming and really pure, to my mind. Simplistic (all we really do is give him food and water, petting here and there), to be true, but still pretty pure.

This has been a tough year for us, especially as cat parents. During the holiday last year, our other long-time cat, Grazie, got very sick and needed to be put down. We’d had her since getting engaged in Fort Worth more than five years back.

We didn’t want her to suffer, and as tough as the decision was to euthanize Grazie, we new it was right. With Cato, it’s the unknown that’s driving us crazy. I’m sure this sounds awful, but I almost wish I could find evidence that he was gobbled up by a feral canine, or hit by a car or something; at least then I’d know what happened. The thought of him still running around out there — cold, hungry and scared — is even more awful to me.

I hope he is OK, wherever he is.

And as I write all this, with Cato still missing, we have an interloper in the house.

A couple of nights ago, a neighbor who feeds strays called to say she’d been seeing a new cat recently she thought might be ours. He wasn’t. Sort of similar looking, but definitely not Cato.

What we found instead was a very, VERY sweet and very upset kitty who looks like he escaped, too. We’ve not seen any fliers for him, and I’ve called around the usual places to see if anyone’s asking after the little guy.

As we’d hoped someone would do with our sweet Cato if they found him, we’re taking this cat in hoping his kitty parents, should they care, come calling. I even took him to the vet today to get him checked out — fixed, remarkably healthy (no FIV or FeLV) and without any injury save a small cut to his tail.

He’s living in our guest bathroom now. The Bathroom Cat, I sometimes call him. The vet named him “Blackie” since apparently they can’t “admit a pet without a name,” but I don’t think it’ll stick. I’m afraid to name him anything because I don’t know if he’s staying.

Maybe his cat family with find him, and maybe we’ll find Cato, too. That’s the hope, anyway.

We’ll see what happens from here.

- gerry -

So, probably much to my mother’s chagrin, I’m not much of a practicing Catholic these days. Years ago I may have described myself as a “Cafeteria Catholic,” but of late, I’m barely that.

I try to keep things simple and abide, mostly, by the whole “Golden Rule” thing. And with that, I don’t just do it because I expect some sort reward (whether that’s in this life or whatever’s next); I just do it because it’s the right thing to do.

Having said that, there are a few “holdovers” I have from my old faith. I dig the whole patron saints idea, and I’m constantly amused by how specialized some of their causes are …

[a few of my favorites]

- St. Rene Goupil, patron saint of anesthetists (it is an important job, I guess)

- St. Isidore of Seville, patron saint of computers (and here I though they were just godless robots)

- St. Joseph, patron saint of ‘happy death’ (???)

- And my all-time favorite … St. Benedict, patron saint of poisoning (do you pray to him before or after swallowing the Ipecac??)

Seriously, though, I actually do believe in that stuff. For the last few year’s I’ve carried a little card and locket of St. Christopher (motorists) in my wallet (drivers in this town are terrible). My mom gave it to me. She also gave me a little card for St. Francis de Sales (writers), which I keep pinned to my desk. And lest we forget, I probably contact St. Anthony of Padua like once or twice a day, since I lose just about everything I own.

The other holdover I have is Lent. Every year, without fail (pretty much), I’ve given up something, as well as do the whole fasting and no meat on Fridays deal. Ironically, I’ve actually stuck to things more as I’ve grown away from the Church a little. Go figure.

The last few years I’ve really stepped up my game and tried to use the 40 days to “give up” really hard stuff. I think, honestly, that I enjoy the challenge. I don’t know for sure that I believe in the whole atonement aspect of the exercise; I just think it’s something to do. Hopefully that doesn’t sound as bad as I think it does …

So coming up with something this Lenten season wasn’t easy. A few years ago I gave up beer — that was tough. I don’t really drink any more, so I didn’t think it a viable option. I also thought about coffee, but I really cut back on that a while ago for health reasons (more on that another time), so I wasn’t sure it would be that much of a challenge, either.

And then it hit me …

Without a doubt, one of my bigger indulgences is what my local grocer defines as “Salty Snacks” and keeps in Aisle Five … pretzels, crackers, chips, etc.

Now I’m more of a tortilla chip person than straight up potato chip kind of guy, but that’s more because I’ve deluded myself into thinking that the former is somehow “not as bad” for me. Seriously, if I let myself go, dinner would likely be a bag of Cheetos … every … night.

My close friends, former roommates (and of course, Michelle) know all too well about my “salt thing.” I don’t do chocolate. I’m not a big fan of sweets. But, produce a box of Triscuits or bag of Snyder’s Sourdough Nibblers (my current favorite), and I’ll tear through without second thought.

And just in case you don’t take me seriously about the tenacity of my salt desires, let’s discuss what my good friend, Adam, might call my “secret shame” …

Tortilla chips and mustard.

That’s right … you heard me …

I’m not entirely sure there’s anything saltier than this, but I know, deep down inside, that’s why I love it so. I’ll do the same thing with mustard and crackers, but for the most part, a nice, corn tortilla chip (prefer white, but yellow if fine, too) is my vessel if choice for mustard intake. Funny thing, too, is that Michelle often wonders aloud how we go through mustard so quickly in this house.

Guilty as charged …

So, my friends, starting today, no more salty snacks. No more handfuls of pretzels. No more crackers and cheese. No more (sigh) tortilla chips and mustard. From here on out (or at least, for the next 40 days), if I need to munch, I’ll either suck it up and go without, or reach for the fridge crisper and pull out a carrot.

And what about yesterday? Well, I had to send off my salt cravings the right way, no? I give you, my “super secret shame” …

Crushed tortilla chips, mustard (two kinds!!), and hot sauce, for good measure — all eaten with fork, usually out of a bowl (have eaten out of a large mug before, too). I had some Cholula on hand (the most wonderful, saltiest substance known to man), but in a pinch, I’ve used Sriracha before. Now that shit is HOT … and salty of course …

So anyway, let’s see how it goes … I’ve been surprisingly good about the whole not drinking thing. Same goes for the lessening of caffeine intake. Both have done wonders for my blood pressure (again, I’ll get back to that in a later entry), so there’s no doubt a lowering of my salt intake will help tremendously, too.

Now I can’t lie, of course. Come Saturday, April 11th, I’m sure a big bag of pretzels will magically appear in my pantry. Hopefully, though, I’ll have learned a little moderation by then.

But I make no promises …

- gerry -

Earlier last week — conveniently, while I was penning my previous blog entry — I received the oddest call. It was seriously strange enough for me to stop what I was doing and try to remember, as best as possible, the verbatim conversation. Here goes …

[Please note: A few names were changed ... to protect the innocent, of course ... and because I don't exactly remember them]

Me: This is Gerry …

Young-Souding Lady: Hi Gerry, this is Francesca with Sweet Sassy Molassy Interiors. Just letting you know Gunther is outside and having a hard time finding your place.

Me: [pause]

YSL: Uhm, sir?

Me: [continued pause]

YSL: This is Gerry, correct?

Me: Uhm, ya. Gerry McCarthy with the Morning News … ?

YSL: You’re a photographer, right? Gerry?

Me: Uhm, ya, but I don’t know anything about this.

YSL: Well, Gunther is outside your place for the appointment. Can’t find your condo number, though. Anyway, he’ll do the eval today before we proceed with pitching a new design for your condo.

Me: Well, I don’t think you have the right ‘Gerry’ …

YSL: Hmmm …

Me: And what was the phone number on the account?

YSL: Sure — it’s 214-918-XXXX

Me: Well, that is my number … and my name is Gerry and I’m a photographer here in Dallas, but I didn’t contact any interior design firms — or whatever this is — and make an appointment.

YSL: [pause]

Me: And I don’t think my wife did, either.

YSL: Well, uhm, OK. Sorry about the … uhm … confusion? We’ll get it sorted out.

Me: OK [nervous laugh] You should call me back when you figure out who this other Gerry is so I can steal his identity.

YSL: [pause]

Me: ‘Cuz he sounds cool and if he has the money to hire you all, he must not be doing bad, right? [nervous laugh again]

YSL: Ya, uhm, thanks. Sorry for the trouble.

Me: [indistinct mumble]

** **

For the life of me, I really, really am curious who this other Gerry is. What are the odds? Similar enough phone number (they never called back, so I assume it was a misdial), similar profession, similar name. This is driving me batty.

Anyway, whomever this guy is, here’s my top 10 things I hope are true about him:

10. Can speak telepathically with animals.

09. Knows at least three totally useless but nonetheless cool languages, like Ket, Modern Gutnish or Esperanto.

08. Hardly watches what he eats or drinks, rarely visits the gym yet still looks like the human embodiment of Thor.

07. Rebuilds old cars and reads up on Physics and French poetry … for fun.

06. Once bested a man in a bar-fight using cunning and a bowl of pretzels.

05. Manually meters and focuses everything …

04. Owns all the old Time-Life Home Repair and Improvement Series books … but just for show, because he already knew how to do that stuff, anyway.

03. Has personally rescued about a half-dozen small pets, children and elderly women from every manner of catastrophe, from falling into a frozen lake to alien abduction.

02. Full. Luscious. Head of Hair. It’s shiny, too … and strong.

01. Has beaten every living president (and two dead ones) at arm wrestling. Twice.

** **

That’s the dream, anyway.