Of cats and men

"Ordinarily, the death of a cat means little to most men, a lot to fewer men, but to me, and that cat, it was exactly and no lie and sincerely like the death of my little brother." - Jack Kerouac.

Two friends, husband and wife, owned five cats. One of the cats died this week. His name was Fezzik, named after a character in "The Princess Bride," and he was a particular favorite of the man.

And the man, who is big and bearded, and likes flannel shirts, is bereft. The man is expert in the use of power tools, and can make things out of wood.

If his dog died, people would understand, but they do not understand because Fezzik was a cat, a small thing who could not be reliably trained to retrieve dead ducks, or guard the home, or shake hands on command.

But the cat napped with the man sometimes, and purred, and rubbed against his hand.

My wife and I have two cats, Maggie and Jack. Jack is named after American author Jack Kerouac. Jack is a gray striped cat, not too big, and not too bright. I speak French to Jack because Kerouac and I both spoke the language as children.

Jack sleeps next to my ankles on cold New England nights, and meets me at the door when I come home.

My friend Geoff, co-owner of the late Fezzik, has discovered that people take the death of a cat much less seriously than they do the death of a dog. It bothers him, and I dug out the Kerouac quote at the top of this column to make him feel better.

Say, "My dog died last night," to your co-workers," and they will melt in sympathy. Co-workers of both sexes may even hug you.

Say, "My cat died last night," and the needle on the sympathy gauge will plummet toward "E." This is particularly true if you're a man.

If you're a man, loving a cat is truly the love that dare not speak its name.

If we love a cat, we men, we lie about it.

"Oh, yeah," we say. "My wife has a cat."

Then, we go home, take off our work boots and lie on the couch, and then cat lies down next to us, and we rub his belly until we both drift off for a nap.

I live in an urban area. I should be walking a pit bull with a spiked collar. My friend Geoff, who lives in a leafy suburb, should own a lolloping Labrador retriever named "Skipper." I do not have a pit bull. Geoff does not have a Labrador retriever.

We are Cat Men, and the cat sleeps on our stomach when we read. And we pet the cat's narrow, chisel-shaped head, and it purrs.

As pink is for girls, and blue is for boys, so, in the popular mind are cats for women and dogs for men. And I've owned dogs, and hunted with dogs, and loved dogs, but I have a cat now, and he touches his nose to mine sometimes, and slits his eyes, and it is enough.

Walk softly around the big, hairy man who has suffered the loss of a favorite cat. The man is hurt, and he's angry, and he is nothing like a "crazy cat lady," and he can break your nose.

© 2021, Creators