| Almost fifteen years
ago, when I began dating Colleen McGarr, who’s now my
wife, she was living with a sleek black cat named Otis.
My first impression of Otis was that
he was an irascible cuss. My second impression, too. I mean,
if you went to pet him, he might allow it; he might even extend
himself to meet your touch. Just as likely, it seemed, he
might scratch and bite you.
(In what might be called a harbinger
of Otis’ indifference to social graces, when Colleen
first made his acquaintance, it was Christmas Eve ‘89,
Otis Redding was on the stereo, and a small black, abandoned
kitten was crying at the front door. She took him in, gave
him a bit of milk and not long after, he took a dump under
the Christmas tree. Who could resist that charming gesture?)
I suppose it would’ve been easy
to dismiss him as a jerk, an unpredictable psycho, and just
steer clear. But I had loved animals since I was a little
kid, and I was starting to love Colleen, so I kept making
overtures to Otis, while observing him carefully in hopes
of learning what made him tick.
Eventually, I started to get it, to
get him. Although cats are often painted with the broad brush
of being independent and aloof, most still have a desire to
be liked, to be petted, to connect with a human and enjoy
that sort of companionship.
Not Otis. He didn’t give a crap
if you liked him, largely because the heavy odds were that
he wouldn’t like you. As cats go, he was uniquely
misanthropic.
Maybe that seems too lofty a trait
to ascribe to a regular ol’ cat.
But what I also discovered in those
first few years of getting to know Otis was that there was
nothing regular about this cat. Of course, just about
all ardent animal lovers think one or more of their dogs or
cats or birds or horses or whatever is the best/the smartest/the
most special--part of the code is that we’re passionate
and nutty, right?--and if we don’t affix some over-the-top
superlative when the animal in question is alive, we’re
often likely to do so when that animal has died.
Guilty. Under close scrutiny, I recognized
that Otis was highly intelligent, by far the brightest cat
I’d ever known (and as far back as I can remember there
were cats in our house). I also came to understand that he
was not unlike a great writer, musician or comedian--whip-smart,
complex, enormously talented, idiosyncratic and sometimes,
a bit prickly.
My people! Indeed, I’d spent
a great deal of time around just this sort of personality,
first as an entertainment journalist and critic, then as a
talent manager. So I was not only completely comfortable with
these folks, I enjoyed them a great deal.
Even at the highest-maintenance moment,
it still beats spending time across the table from an unblinking
dullard.
So it was with Otis, whose talents
included problem-solving skills far superior to those of any
cat or dog I’ve met, and most humans’.
He also boasted a nice bag of (Stupid
Pet) tricks, including--when he was outside, wanted to come
in and people weren’t responding fast enough to his meows,
he’d jump halfway up the door, sink his nails into the
sill of the window and remain there, peering through the window,
as if to say, “Do you dolts not understand that I want
to come in? Now, open this goddam door.”
The capper here is that when someone
opened the door, he’d remain perched there, and ride
in all the way, before dismounting. Also, in the earliest
days, Otis and Colleen engaged in rounds of “cat boxing,”
which is as goofy and amusing as it sounds, but I lobbied
for ban on this, figuring we didn’t really need any activities
that ran the risk of making Otis a bigger nutcase.
Another talent that impressed me is
that, wherever he was, including roaming several blocks from
the house (he was an outdoor cat when I met him, an remained
that way), he would always come running when you called
his name. It was striking-- I’d never met a cat who really
came, dog-like, upon being called--and for the speed and athleticism
of his mad dash to the house; he resembled an Olympic sprinter
crossing the finish line as much as a cheetah bearing down
on a kill.
Speaking of which, for much of his
life, Otis was an enthusiastic and deft hunter--not to mention,
an inveterate brawler. These aren’t exactly among my
favorites pastimes, nor are they activities indulged in by
people who tend to be my friends.
Still, it was Otis’ hunting that
cemented our friendship, or at least reflected that, after
thinking it over, he’d decided that I was among the small
cadre of humans on the planet that didn’t suck.
In the very beginning of my relationship
with Colleen--and with Otis--they lived in West Palm Beach,
Florida, and I lived in Costa Mesa, California. After a few
years, they moved in with me. At that point, Otis had still
been pretty stand-off-ish toward me. Oh, sure, I was a decent
enough fellow to bite and scratch recreationally, but he was
largely indifferent to me.
When they came to live with me, I pretty
quickly took over feeding Otis and most of his day-to-day
care. I didn’t harbor any illusions that this was going
to transform the relationship, partly because if I went into
this enterprise with that sort of agenda, our feline friend--who,
I’’m convinced, could’ve qualified for Mensa--
would’ve seen right through such a gambit, and been utterly
contemptuous of it.
Who knows, maybe it was not trying
to win him over that won him over.
But he started warming up to me,allowing
me to do some sustained petting, and really seeming to enjoy
it. Hanging out where I was a bit more. Making it clear that
he might not be averse to playing with me, now and again.
And then the trophies started arriving.
I’ve long worked at home, and just outside the door of
my office there, one day there was a dead bird. It was unsettling,
but I understood the significance of the gesture. A few days
later, there was a dead lizard...then a dead mouse...then
another bird, and so on. This continued for a long, long time--years.
But you don’t have to know much
about cats to know this parade of carcasses meant that I was
in, that Otis had decided I was OK, that he wanted to be friends.
Apart from my newfound duties as a de facto coroner,
I was thrilled.
From there, the friendship grew and
deepened to a profound degree. He started following me around.
Sleeping with me (he’d been sleeping on the bed with
Colleen and me, but now he was snuggling up to me.)
Climbing up on my desk and staring at me--”lovingly,”
Colleen started saying--for long stretches, or napping there
for longer ones. Settling into my lap, if I was sitting somewhere.
This was more like it. I’d always
loved animals, tended to feel an instant kinship with them,
and generally speaking, they felt the same way. But I’d
spent some years not living with any animals, and wondered:
Had I lost my touch? Or was Otis just too tough a nut to crack?
Whatever was going on, over time, I somehow-- but clearly--had
melted his icy resolve. He, I dare say, loved me. And, boy,
did I love him.
Oh, sure the killing continued, as
did the brawling--which also meant an endless string of injuries,
and therefore an endless string of visits to the vet. This
guy was not just a scrapper, he was a fearless warrior. I’ll
never forget the afternoon in my office when I heard a crazy
commotion in the closet--only to discover Otis had somehow
cornered a pigeon that was at least his size; again, this
was in the house, in my office, inside a closet...
When he wasn’t kicking ass or
on a hunting spree, he could seem as carefree and playful
as the next guy. He routinely engaged in what we called “crazy
time,” that burst of nutty, unabashed high-speed hijinks
familiar to anyone who lives with domestic animals.
He loved sitting in the sun, rolling
on the cement, jumping up on a barstool when I was in a kitchen
rooting around in the fridge--his head peering just above
the counter, wearing an expression that clearly communicated
his expectation that there’d better be a snack in this
for him. Eventually, the ritual became his jumping up on the
barstool, and my asking “What’ll it be?”
Sure, much of this is standard-issue
cat stuff; nothing particularly extraordinary.
What did strike me as a bit more extraordinary
was the way he found ways to provide me great solace when
I was intensely sad.
For instance, when I lost my Dad,
then two years later, my Mom--and was devastated both times--he
behaved in all sorts of ways that couldn’t have been
more supportive and comforting if he’d managed to hug
me and whisper “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He helped me get through all sorts
of tough times and struggles--the fact that he’s not
around to help me navigate through the very rough waters of
his loss is my least favorite kind of irony.
I don’t see much point in recounting
how, as he got older, he contended with renal disease and
a host of attendant ailments--and unrelated ailments, for
that matter.
What may be worth pointing out, however,
is what a scrapper he was til the very end, a tough old bastard
who was not just resilient but fought back countless times
from serious illness or injury.
He had a singularly indomitable spirit,
a potent will to live. For Otis, even in the final days, the
spirit was still willing--it was always willing--but ultimately,
his body was not.
I gleaned big knowledge from that
little cat--he certainly rekindled my passion and fascination
for animals, and therefore is largely responsible for my creating
“Talking Animals”--and I suspect I’ll continue
learning from him indefinitely.
There’s no question I’ll
continue loving him forever, or that I’ll see him again.
Meanwhile, I hope that wherever he’s landed, he feels
fit and strong, and has resumed daily bouts of crazy time.
-Duncan Strauss
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