A Fat Cat

We have a 16-year old cat, named Benjamin, which means he’s over 100 years old in human years. You can see that he is getting older. He’s got a cat belly that hangs down, he has trouble going up and down stairs, and sometimes when he meows nothing comes out. Despite all that, I want to age like my cat.

If I was like Benjamin as I got older, this is what a typical day would look like for me:

I would sleep until someone gets up to give me some food, and if no one is downstairs before a specified time each day, say 9:00, I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and yell, “Hey! Hey you! I’m HUNGRY so come and feed me. I know you’re up there, so come give me some food. A little water would be nice, too, preferably without hair in it. Hello? Are you listening? Hello?” At that point, having expended the energy I have before breakfast, I would go lie down again and wait for someone to get up. Maybe I’d even go back to sleep again.

When someone finally got up to feed me, I would run to the table and sit down with great expectations for the morning meal. However, once the food was brought and I realized it was the same thing I had for the last 4,357 days, I would start complaining. “This is it?” I’d say. “This is what I’ve been patiently waiting for?” I’d look from the plate to the person who brought the food a couple of times, give it a little stir with a fork, maybe give it a little sniff, and then just sit there for a bit. “You know, you’ve given me the same thing every day for the last…” (Being old I wouldn’t remember how many days it had been) “…month and I’m tired of this” I’d say.

When it became apparent that I wasn’t going to get anything else, I’d start eating. After a few bites I would go sit on the couch and talk loudly, to no one in particular, about what was going on in my world. “You know, I really didn’t sleep that well last night. You left me down here all by myself all night, and my bed isn’t the most comfortable thing I’ve ever been on. Then I have to wait FOREVER for my breakfast and you give me the same old, BORING food. Well, I’m not going to eat that slop!” After looking around and seeing nobody listening to me, I’d go back to the table, eat some more food, and drink my orange juice. After going to the bathroom, I’d probably go back to sleep, being tired from all that eating and complaining.

Around noon, I’d get up and eat a little lunch, drink some water, go to the bathroom again, and then I’d walk around the house talking to myself. “Why does it always seem like no one is around? Where is everybody? Hello? IS ANYBODY HERE? Hello?” I’d suddenly stop, overcome by a horrible thought. “Oh my gosh. Maybe it’s me! Maybe nobody likes me! I’ve become a crotchety old man. What am I gonna do?” After realizing that was crazy talk, I’d walk around the house once or twice more, mumbling something unintelligible, and then I’d go back to sleep. What else am I going to do all afternoon?

After sleeping for most of the afternoon, I’d somehow force myself to get up. As soon as I saw another human, I would run to the table, waiting for my next meal to come. If they walked past me, I’d yell after them, “Hey. Hey you! I’m hungry here. Can’t you see I’m waiting for some food? Don’t you just ignore me and walk away! Hey…HEY!” Thinking quickly, I would go after them and endear myself to them. I’d go sit close to them and in a soothing voice I’d ask them how their day was, how things were going. I’d stare intently into their eyes, waiting for their answer. If one wasn’t coming, I’d put my hand on their leg until they gave me their attention or pushed me away…whichever came first. Then I’d go back to the table and wait for dinner, elbows on the table, sour face in my hands.

After eating, I’d get myself cleaned up and then I’d go to bed, having dreams of being a young, frisky guy again. I’d be scoring an amazing goal or getting the game winning hit as the crowd went wild – until I realized the noise was just my thunderous snoring that woke me up. I’d turn over and then sleep until someone came to give me breakfast and we’d start all over again.

If I live to be as old as Benjamin I’ll probably have a belly that hangs down, I’ll have trouble going up and down stairs, and there may be times where nothing comes out when I speak. As long as someone brings me some food, I should be okay.

Broken Dreams

I’ve recently been watching the “When We Left Earth: The NASA Missions” TV series that was originally on Discovery Channel. The series goes through NASA’s quest to put a man into space and ultimately to get a man to the moon after President Kennedy’s 1961 speech in which he said that the United States should land a man on the moon by the end of the decade. When I was a mere eight years old, I was allowed to stay up late that July night to watch Neil Armstrong be the first man to walk on the moon. Luckily for all of us, it was summer so Mom let us watch history being made.

Many moments of the different missions stand out to me, but one thing that really touched me was when the Apollo 13 Commander, Jim Lovell, spoke about the moment he realized that his dream of walking on the moon was never going to happen. Even though he had been looking forward to being one of the few men to actually walk on the moon for years, he had to let that dream go. He was disappointed but couldn’t dwell on it because he had to focus on getting back home alive.

I never had to make a decision between living and following a dream in my life, but I have had to let some dreams go over the years. After all the hoopla over the moon landings, there was a time I wanted to be an astronaut. My first watch was even a glow-in-the-dark astronaut watch, where the second hand was an astronaut floating around in space, similar to the one below:

How cool is that? However, I realized I could never be an astronaut because just spinning around in circles in my front yard practically made me sick. I mean, if doing the washing machine spin cycle in the front yard makes me puke, I don’t think I’m going to make it into space.

When I was younger, I thought it would be cool to be an actor. Then in fifth grade I decided to be part of a play and I had two small parts. One was the narrator at the beginning of the first and second scenes, and the other was a small part where I was on stage in a group where I didn’t have any lines. The narration part was easy, I just came out and said the name of the play, who it was written by and set the first scene. We did it in front of the younger grades for practice, so I came out, gave the name of the play and who wrote it and then started setting the scene and…went blank. I stood there, repeating “The setting is…” multiple times, while the little kids started laughing. From off to the side, my teacher gave me my line and I finished with a very red face. I realized then that if I couldn’t recite a few lines in front of a few little kids, I could never get up in front of a large group of people and deliver a bunch of lines.

I used to love to sing, too. I was in the Glee Club (yes, it really was called that) and really liked it. Then my voice started changing and I got really self-conscious about how I sounded and that was the end of my singing career. It was over before it even started. Remember Peter Brady when his voice was changing? I could relate. There was also the whole thing about getting up in front of a group of people and performing…with all of them looking at me.

Being on the small side, I used to dream about being tall when I got older – especially if I ended up being taller than all my brothers. When I was in about 6^th grade and was starting to get better in baseball, I imagined myself being like 6’4”. When I was in 9^th grade and most of my friends were growing way more than I was, I imagined myself being 6 feet tall. By the time I was finishing high school, I would have been happy to be 5’9.  Seeing as both my parents were short, 4’11” and 5’5”, I never really had a chance to make 6 feet tall.

Even though I wasn’t very tall, I dreamed of being a professional baseball player from the time I first put on a baseball glove. Up through 10^th grade, I truly believed I had a chance to make it to the major leagues. Then I started thinking about how I was one kid, in one small town, in one small state, and I realized I was pretty good, but not that good. That was probably the only dream that hurt to let go of. 

Not all my dreams were crushed. I have an incredible wife, two awesome kids, a good job and I live a decent life. Those are all dreams that came true. Oh yeah, I may not be writing books, but I am a writer with this blog! And I didn’t even have to choose between a dream and life.

Dream A Little Dream With Me

I’ve been reading a book called “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak, and one of the main characters has a bad dream every night. The story is set in Germany during the rise of Adolph Hitler and the poor little girl, named Liesel, saw her brother die while on a train going to live with a foster family. They are then forced off the train at the next stop where the boy is unceremoniously buried. Liesel understandably does not want to leave her Mom, the only family she has left. Every night she dreams of her older brother dying in their mother’s arms.

I can relate to Liesel having nightmares. When I was a kid there was a time where I had a nightmare almost every night. I think part of the reason I did was because I had such a vivid imagination. The things I dreamed about sometimes were a whole lot scarier than anything that was on TV back then, and at that age I had never seen a horror movie. OK, I have to admit that up to about age 12, when Miss Gulch turned into the wicked witch in “The Wizard of Oz”, I was a little freaked out. I think it was because she reminded me of someone I knew, maybe a teacher.

The main nightmare I used to have started when I was about nine years old. A man, whose face I could never see, with a black leather hat and a black leather jacket with a high collar, would come out of the closet holding a big, sharp knife in his right hand and he was coming to get me. I could tell that knife was really sharp, just by the way the little bit of light in the room twinkled on the edge of it. And even though I couldn’t see his face I knew he had an evil grin on that shadowy face. The funny thing is, I never thought that the evil man was coming after my younger brother who shared the bedroom with me. Nope, he was just after me.

It also didn’t matter if we left the closet door open or closed, I still had the same vision of the guy coming after me. If it was open, he just slowly appeared; first his shadowy face, then his leather clad arm and then that big sharp knife as he stepped out of the closet. If the door was closed, the door would slowly and almost noiselessly open, and then the guy would slowly appear as when the door was open. I did the only thing a kid could do against a closet creeper – I screamed and then I ran. In the blink of an eye, I was out of bed, out of my bedroom and up the hallway, running to safety. Usually, one of my parents caught me before I got far up the hallway.

However, there were a few times, they weren’t quick enough. As added detail, let me tell you that we had a dog back then and we put a board across the divide between the living room and the dining room to keep him in the dining room at night. On one occasion, I ran up the hallway into the living room, jumped over the board, jumped over the dog and went out the door into the back half of the garage where there was a door to the back yard. My three older brothers (the "three middle ones") had a bedroom in the front half of the garage and caught me before I went out of the house into the yard. Where I was going, I have no idea, but I’m glad they stopped me before I got out.

My poor parents had no idea what to do with me. They asked me if someone at school was picking on me (Of course not, I got along with everybody). They asked me if someone in the neighborhood was hurting me (No, nobody touched me because of my older brothers). Unless you counted my own brothers, nobody laid a hand on me or threatened me. Besides, they didn’t really hurt me, at least not enough to rat them out at this time. I think my parents really thought there was something wrong with me, that maybe I needed some professional help.

I also feel bad for my younger brother who shared the room with me. My yelling and screaming startled him out of some peaceful, happy dreams and there were a few times he even decided to run with me. One particular night probably scarred him for life. He was sound asleep, all nice and snuggly in his bed when the knife appeared out of the closet, followed by the faceless man in his leather ensemble. I started my usual nighttime routine and, woken up by my screaming, he started to follow. However, on this night his feet got caught in the blankets and he couldn’t get out. I looked back and saw him thrashing around to get loose and yelling helplessly – he was trapped! It was every boy for himself, and I was out of that room and starting up the hallway. I don’t know who was louder, me or him.

Those nightmares stopped after a while, I don’t really know how long it was, and there was a little more peace at night. Over the years I’ve had people tell me to “follow your dreams”, but in this case I just have to say, “Thanks, but no. I think I’d rather live.” Disney may be able to make your dreams come true, but I think I’d much rather leave them behind. The dreams I had as a young boy, like Liesel’s in the book, are just not worth pursuing.