1/4/24
Newsletter #541
The Crack of Dawn
During most of the time I lived on Kansas Avenue near 26th Street in Santa Monica, which was 1995-2001, I had a cat named Stevie that I inherited from my friend, Rick, who died in 1995. I’ve written of Stevie before. I loved Stevie. He got run over on Kansas Ave., right in front of my building, and I moved soon thereafter. As my friend Jane sadly informed me, “In a city, sooner or later, all indoor/outdoor cats will get run over.” So, I moved out of the city.
However, during the time I lived there, I was involved with another cat, too. His name was Spike, a name comically given to him because he was so little, but with a broken, bent ear, a closed eye, and what looked like a growl on his face, he looked like he was acting tough, like Popeye. Spike the alley cat. It was funny, sort of, when we’d occasionally see Spike in the back parking area. But then Spike began following Stevie home.
I kept my door open all the time to air it out. That’s how Spike had the opportunity, once he displayed the forthrightness, to sneak in and eat Stevie’s food. I came out of the bathroom and caught him – it was a 550 sq. ft. apartment – and the tiny, emaciated, fucked up little cat ran away.
Over the course of time – six months, maybe – Spike came back many, many times, each time a little closer, then a little closer still. And here’s the thing, Stevie didn’t like him. Be that as it may, Spike finally showed enough courage to actually come through my door, then into my apartment. I was sitting in my chair at the kitchen table, ten feet away. Stevie’s bowls were situated between us. Spike entered very slowly, very cautious, but saw that I wasn’t doing anything other than looking back. The little cat finally jumped up on my big easy chair, looking even tinnier, and was able to just sit there. I went back to whatever I was writing. After about a half hour Stevie came home. He saw Spike there and cut a wide swath, acting like whatever the fuck Spike had, he didn’t want.
I of course gave Spike food and water. Finally seeing him up close was a horror. He was really messed up. So I went to a nearby vet and was given a cage in which to catch him. I set the trap, put in the food and waited. Spike came back from wherever he had been, to what he considered “home,” and went right into the cage, because he now trusted me, and I caught him easily.
I took Spike to the earnest young male vet. Putting on gloves, he removed Spike from the cage. He said, “This is a very young girl cat, and very sick.” The name Spike now became even more inappropriate. The vet took a closer look, slightly reared back, and shook his head. He said, “Look at this.” He had a lighted magnifying glass on a stand. Magnified, inside Spike’s bent over ear were hundreds of tiny ear mites. The vet said, “This is terrible. And I’m pretty sure this cat has what we call Kitty AIDS. This cat needs to be put down. Are you paying for it?” I said, “Yes.” He put Spike back in the cage. He filled out a form. I stuck my finger into the cage. Spike looked unhappy, with his closed eye and bent ear. I said, “Well, this is what you get for trusting me.”
But leave it to Stevie, he knew from the beginning that Spike was too fucked up. He knew that whatever Spike had, he didn’t want.
It’s 4:43 PM EST.
The story of the misnamed cat.
God damn, that was sad. I'm glad you gave the little guy some comfort in the end.