knowing.

I know you, George.

I know you by the sharp pang I feel when you plunge your teeth, all ten of them remaining in your mouth, into my shin as I'm moving too slowly in the morning as you wait for your Friskies. I know the three canine teeth especially, and I'm always surprised by your strength. By your fearlessness.  Your...assholery. I know that your crooked grin is from fighting valiantly as calicivirus ravaged you, your mouth full of sores and your organs shutting down. You survived because you are a fighter, and you finally submitted to allowing a human's assistance.

I know you by the hoarse series of vocalizations you give me and I know what they all mean. I know that one is a plea to go outside---one that, until just a month ago, went unanswered. You are an inside cat. Inside is safe. One means you're hungry. One means that you're needing attention. One means you're incredibly annoyed with the canine attention you're receiving. Each one demands an immediate reply. It's why, although you're named for a few men that your character echoes---you're known around here as "King George."

I know the feeling of your fur and your paws as you walk across the bed, and eventually, settle in beside me.  You aren't as heavy as the other boys, and you don't ruffle the covers. You're careful and precise.  You spent a lot of time outdoors before we found you, you know how to maneuver unnoticed. You are svelt and weightless.

Outside---that's new, and it's because I know we're near the end. I know that, because I know you. I knew immediately when things changed for you. And I realize that once upon a time, you reigned as an outside Tomcat, errr---intact---and no human told you what to do. So watching you roll in the dirt and feast on grass and scratch the palm tree---I know that's not the virile Tom you once were, but it's a compromise, King George, and that's all we have in the back yard. I watch over you like the secret service, and I know that you hate that. I won't compromise here.

You are named George Harrison Ford. Your name hails from two men---George Harrison, the subtle, but insanely talented Beatle who went largely unnoticed and asked for so little. And Harrison Ford---handsome, usually playing the hero and weathered in just the right way.

You found your way to my mother because you were dying, and for ten years, you have let me know you---despite the fact that you were reluctant to be a people's cat. And I thank you, George. And here we are now.

In the next few weeks, you'll ask me to let you go, and I will do that for you. I believe the biggest gift we give each other is know well enough when to say goodbye.

And I'll know.  Because I know you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic.

The biggest Skeptic 

Long Time No See

It's what my dad says when he sees someone after a massive gap.  Sometimes, if he's feeling especially feisty, he just says what he feels, "I thought you were dead."

It's what you can say when you're 85 and people excuse you for honesty.  I'm not there yet.  I still lean on some semblance of polite small talk.

It's what happened the other night when I pulled up in my Chevy---oh, not that THAT Chevy. Not the Nova. I guess...I guess I owe y'all some backstory.

Long time, no see.

The Nova taught me how to focus. She taught me how to use my hands and fix things.  She taught me how to steer into a skid (a few times). She taught me how to drive without electronannies. She taught me how I shouldn't trust a speedometer, or a gas gauge. She taught me how to rewire around fusible links. She taught me how to sweat it out, to fight, to push, and to endure.

And her last lesson was how to just let go. She sat for a long time after my ex ruined her. I pieced her back together with the help of my friends, but she really needed a new start, and she had taught me everything I was going to learn from her.  Except, well, that one thing.  I wrote a big, emotional ad and I put it on Craigslist, and I said "no" to a few people.  And then it happened.  Some guys pulled up, they drove her, and they left with her.

I realized I was never going to finish that car.  I realized that I didn't want to.  She was, to me, the car from high school.  The silly old Nova that gave me my first lessons about installing an engine and replacing motor mounts and adjusting a carb.  She wasn't the lessons I needed...right now.

So, here we are.

Wait, there's actually more.  My new job started expanding my travel, and things got intense, and with the travel came pet sitting like crazy, and my gorgeous Jaguar was sitting around costing a fortune while I was in San Fransisco ALL THE TIME. So I traded it for...drum roll...a Chevy.

And now we're here.

I parked my Chevy at my new 2nd job. Why the 2nd job? Because with all of the travel comes petsitting. And with petsitting comes people in my house that don't handle the dogs the way I do, and there's vet bills.  Petsitting plus vet bills means...second job.

I found myself small talking with these people...thinking of my father and his honesty and wishing instead I could be talking to him and spending the time with him---with my family and loved ones. But here were are, here I am, like so many of us. 2 jobs, debts. The new American dream.

The disintegrating American dream---is it because we're bad planners and big purchasers? I don't know, kids. I'm skeptical, but I can't say. I've done nothing but reduce and let go. What I can say, is that my next "Long time, no see" to my family will be well earned and followed with a sigh of relief.

Also, blog readers...
Long time, no see.

Happy Trails. Long May You Run.

-Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic