It has now been 10 days since we last saw Buddy, and the light of hope that he might still find his way home has all but been extinguished.  We’ve hung countless signs, logged a zillion miles on foot searching for him, put an ad in the paper, visited the humane society, and tracked down every lead any neighbor suggested.  This morning the Muffin got rid of Buddy’s litter box.  We are no longer cat owners; we are cat mourners.  As such, this will be the last post about our Buddy.  If you’re asking yourself right now, “Is Carole really writing a eulogy about her cat?” the answer is IT’S MY BLOG AND I’LL DO WHAT I WANT.

Prior to Buddy I never considered myself what you might call a “cat person.”  My aunt bought me a cat when I was about 13; he was a fancy, expensive Persian cat with long white hair and the personality of a wet mop.  A little aloof, a little too independent.  He was lovely to look at, but beyond that, not much good.  So after that cat, I never really gave the idea of having another cat much thought.

Fast forward to 2005.  It was Muffin’s last year of his three-year graduate program, I had cervical cancer, we had no money (which is what happens when you have cancer AND no health insurance), I was going through major depression, and to top it all off, Muffin would be spending the next three months in a location five hours away, finishing up his clinical rotations.  I felt about as low as I could possibly feel, and I knew there was no way I could handle everything else going on in my life without another living being in our apartment.  So one Sunday afternoon Muffin and I decided to make a trip to the humane society and see about getting ourselves a pet.

We knew that a dog would be too high maintenance an animal for us, with Jarrod gone and me working 40 hours a week, so we decided on a cat.  When we went to the humane society we were amazed at the number of adult cats residing there, untouched, while throngs of potential pet owners clamored around the cages of the itty bitty kittens.  We decided right then and there to adopt one of those adult cats, that despite their age, had plenty of love to give.  We asked the humane society officials for a young-ish adult that was playful and affectionate, and they brought in Buddy.  We only had to play with him for a few minutes to know he was the cat for us.

When I think about what Buddy meant to me, I will always remember the way he lifted my spirits in a time that was so dark, and the way he gave his love and affection to us without reserve.  There were many nights while Muffin was gone that I would lay in bed wondering and worrying about my future, and Buddy was a quiet, warm companion that always made me feel better.  Buddy was our baby before we had babies, and for that reason will always occupy a very special place in our hearts.

I don’t know what happened to Buddy.  And while there are several unpleasant thoughts I have about what might have become of him, I like to imagine this scenario instead:

Maybe somewhere nearby there lives an old woman, an old woman who lives all alone.  Maybe she was incredibly lonely and longing for a little companionship and a little comfort.  Maybe late one night she heard a faint meow outside her back door and opened it to find a cheeful black and white kitty cow, who was looking for a scratch behind the ears and a bite to eat.  Maybe the old woman was delighted, scooped him up, and brought him inside.  Maybe she made him a warm bed and fed him fresh tuna and milk.  Maybe he is sharing with her the love and affection he shared with us once.

It’s probably an unlikely scenario, but if that is what is happened to Buddy, I can live with that.

One afternoon when I was hanging “missing cat” signs, a passerby stopped to inquire about Buddy, and finished by saying, “Well, it could be worse.  At least it’s not a person that’s missing.”  Personally, I have always found remarks like that completely insensitive, and also sad.  Sad because people that say things like that have clearly never known the kinship of a pet that becomes just like a member of your family.

Wherever you are, Buddy, please know that you were part of our family, you are loved, and will always be missed.

Disclaimer:  This post contains heavy CAPS LOCK.  But dudes, it totally, totally needs it.

Buddy Watch 2009 has been continuing full force since I last blogged.  Yesterday afternoon Michael finally discovered that Buddy is missing, and his sad little face prompted me to ramp up our recovery efforts.  So Michael, Jenna, and I took to the streets hanging up even more fliers, knocking on neighbors’ doors inquiring if they’d seen or heard anything and just outright calling his name.  I am pretty sure the most heartbreaking words I will ever hear were uttered by Michael as he called out, “Buddy!  I love you!  Come home, please!”

Our local humane society is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so I put the kids in the car today with the intention of arriving at the humane society as soon as they opened.

And on our way there, who do we see?  BUDDY!  Running through someone’s back yard and then across the street.  I pulled the car over immediately and chased him and he ran right under someone’s deck and hid.  I knocked on the door to inform the home owners that I would be crouched by their deck making a complete fool out of myself, but no one was home.  After a few minutes of sweet-talking it was apparent he wasn’t coming out, so I decided to shift tactics a little.  I dropped the kids off with Jarrod’s parents and stopped by our house to pick up Buddy’s cat carrier and his bag of food, thinking that the old familiar sound of his food bag shaking around might coax him out.

I spent a good half hour trying to get Buddy out from under that deck and actually got as far as picking him up and heading for the cat carrier, but he scratched me and ran back under the deck.  Funny, I thought.  Buddy has more black splotches than I remember.  I guess it’s just been a while since I’ve seen him. I also thought it a bit odd that he didn’t want to come right to me and in fact regarded me as a stranger.  He must have been really spooked by a wild animal or something, I thought.

The shaking of the food bag wasn’t doing the trick so I swung by home once again to pick up some more enticing bait… a can of salmon.  I returned to my post, opened the salmon, and awaited Buddy’s emergence.  While I was waiting, a nice-looking couple walking a golden retriever passed by, and I explained that I had a missing cat named Buddy who was hiding under this deck right here, and together they exclaimed, “Oh!  It’s Carolicious!”  I tell you, Internet.  My fame knows NO BOUNDS.  By the way… hi you two!  Nice to meet you.

After another hour or so I decided to call it a day, surmising that at least Buddy was alive and well.  Perhaps when Muffin got home we could try again.  In the meantime, I decided to pass my contact information along to the neighboring house so that if Buddy turned up again they could call me.

I knocked on the door and explained my situation to the young woman who answered, and she asked to see a picture of Buddy.  I produced one, and she took one look at him and said, “Gee, he looks just like MY BLACK AND WHITE CAT.”  Gulp.  As it slowly sunk in, I apologized to the woman and told her that I had just spent the better part of two hours trying to coax HER CAT out from under the deck nextdoor.

Just to sum up here, not only did I not find Buddy, not only did I waste two hours of my life trying to trap a cat that doesn’t even belong to me, but I now have dozens of fliers hanging up all over town featuring a cat that looks just like another neighborhood cat.  That seems REALLY USEFUL.

Defeated, I returned home, threw my keys on the counter, and checked to see if anybody had called about the cat.  Nope.  And it was just as I was shutting the door behind me to get in the car and go pick up the kids that I realized my keys were still on the counter.  Could this day get any better?

Answer: No.

First I called my in-laws to see if they could come let me in with their spare key.  No answer.  Outside with the kids, I figured.  So I sat on the steps and called Muffin, not because I thought he could help at all, but just because I was miserable and I would feel much better if I could make someone else miserable, too.  Muffin told me that he had, at some point, hidden a spare key amongs the rocks in the backyard.  Heartened, I ran into the back yard and began furiously scrambling through the rocks looking for the spare.  And scrambled.  And looked.  And scrambled some more.  See, it’s one thing if the location of the spare key eludes criminals, but it’s another if it also eludes THE OWNER OF THE KEY.  After digging at least a foot into the ground I finally unearthed the key only to discover that it would only open the door SIX MONTHS AGO, BEFORE I CHANGED THE LOCKS.

I plopped down the on the steps and was about to start crying.  My cat was still missing.  I just wasted a bunch of time and energy trying to catch a cat that didn’t even belong to me, not to mention getting my hopes up that I had found Buddy.  I was locked out.  I was hungry.  I had to pee.  This just plain SUCKED.

It was then that our neighborhood handyman, who has been doing some work on our house, rounded the corner.  A kindly older man, he smiled at me understandingly and said, “What’s wrong?  You look like you could use a shoulder to cry on.”

So I sobbed out the whole story, from Buddy’s disappearance to the attempted capture of the Buddy look-alike, to locking myself out, to the hidden key for our old locks… everything.  And our handyman smiled compassionately, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “I know just how you feel.  My mother died last night.”

GOD, LET THE GROUND OPEN UP RIGHT NOW AND SWALLOW ME WHOLE.

Here I am, THE BIGGEST JACKASS IN THE WORLD, bellyaching about my lost cat and my locked-up keys when the man right in front of me has a serious problem.  What’s wrong with me?

No, seriously… what?

Sometime in the wee morning hours between last Thursday and Friday our Buddy cat disappeared.

At first we chalked it up to just another Buddylicious adventure.  After all, he has taken off on little jaunts for a day or two at a time before, and has always returned safely.

But by Saturday afternoon there was still no sign of Buddy, and we began to get worried.  Since then, we’ve canvassed the neighborhood on foot, including Buddy’s favorite marshy hunting grounds, posted fliers, and talked to neighbors.  This morning I spoke to Buddy’s veterinarian, who assured me she’d call if someone brought in Buddy.  While dropping fliers off at the city hall bulletin board I even coerced the city’s highway maintenance crew into keeping an eye out for Buddy and they agreed to either return him to me if they found him alive, or contact me if they found him… otherwise.  The humane society doesn’t open until tomorrow but you can bet I’ll be on the phone first thing in the AM.

Ever the incurable optimist, I am still holding out hope that our beloved Buddy will return safely to us.  Our vet even assured me that cats have been known to come back home weeks or even months after disappearing.  But I am also a realist, and within short vicinity of our home I have seen racoons, coyotes, and other creatures that would certainly enjoy snacking on a kitty.  In the alternative, Muffin adds, hopefully, that perhaps a nice family thought Buddy was a stray and has taken him in.

I’m keeping Buddy’s food dish full and trying to go on as if he is just off on another one of his larks and will come home soon.  And while I know some of you may have grown tired of Buddy’s “air time” on this blog, I ask that you put that aside, do me a solid, and say a prayer to whatever God governs animals, or at the very least put out some positive vibes for us.  Come on… you know you would miss Buddy’s “letters,” wouldn’t you?

Come on home, Buddy.  We miss you!

What up, beee-yotches?!

It’s B-U-Double Dizzy, your cat in the hood, all up in this hizzy.  Dude, it’s been way too long since I threw in my dollar and two cents on this trick-ass blog, so here goes.

What have I been up to?  Well, I don’t know if y’all heard, but my mom, she like, MULTIPLIED or something because now there’s some miniature screaming, pooping version of her crawling all over the damn place.  This little chica is always up in my grill, grabbin’ fistfuls of my fur and trying to put her slobbery mouth all over me.  I got news, muchacha… I ain’t havin’ it!

Since this new barrel of monkeys arrived the ‘rents care about me even LESS, if that was even possible.  Um, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m like, ADORABLE.  Somebody adopt me.  Please, please, please adopt me.  Or adopt that little time-suck my parents call “Jenna.”  Or even that older one whose favorite activity is to poke me with sharp things.

If you guys can hear me, forward this shit to the animal authorities.  I’m being neglected… help!!!

Wait a minute… I just heard that sweet, tinkling sound of Friskies hittin’ my chow bowl.  I guess they do love me, after all.

So let’s table the whole adoption deal.  FOR NOW.

Laters,

Buddy

Many, many years ago when I was a kid there were these fun cartoons on television that profiled an adorable little rodent named Mickey Mouse and his colorful cast of friends, including girlfriend Minnie, duck pals Donald and Daisy, dog Pluto, and dog?  Wolf?  Long-eared creature?… Goofy.  They even spun these fantastic cartoons into an entire “land” of Disney.  Remember that mouse?

Anyway, if you don’t have kids you probably haven’t noticed that Mickey and his friends?  Not on television anywhere anymore.  Maybe in some iteration, but not the oldy goldy cartoons of my youth.  Gone.

As such, Michael has no idea who Mickey Mouse is.  For this reason, he was a bit confused when my parents, after a trip to Disney World, returned with a Mickey Mouse t-shirt for him.  I tried to explain and showed him a book or two, and he seemed to accept that there once existed a humorous mouse who wore white gloves.

Now we skip to the part of the story where our cat Buddy (affectionately known by the Muffin as “douchebag”) leaves a dead/partially eaten mouse on the doorstep.  I am unaware of this fact, so when I hear Michael open Buddy’s cat door, as he frequently does when he hears Buddy meowing to get in, I think nothing of it.  A few moments later I went to tell Michael that it was time for lunch, and what do I see?

Michael, playing tenderly with a half-eaten mouse carcass.  He looks up at me, grins widely, and says, “See, Mommy?  It’s MICKEY MOUSE.”

Walt Disney would totally not want his cryogenically frozen head to be thawed if he knew this is the kind of world he would have to face.

Como estan, bitches?

It’s B to the U to Double Dizzy up in his hizzy and I want to know what the hell is GOINZ ON.  Things have been pretty chill here around my crib, especially because my pops went out of town on business and left me here in charge of the little missus and that kid that’s always hangin’ around.  I was looking forward to having a little peace and quiet without pops around to kick my butt, but all I got was naggin’ from morning till night from my mom.  She’s all, "Get back in the house.  Quit scratching the couch.  Don’t bite the baby."  Then she started rambling on and on about when is your dad coming home, I didn’t sign up to be a single mom.  I mean, shit!  Can’t a brother get a little R & R up in this beyotch?

So I went for a little vet visit the other day, which is cool with me because my vet lady is FLY.  And you know she be LOVING the Budmeister, and she’s all, "Ooh, you’re so slim and trim, you look AWESOME."  Turns out I’ve lost three pounds since I was in last year, probably because my parents quit caring have started letting me out at night so I can blow off some steam.  I love to go out at night because, HOLLA!  I love the night life, I like to boogie, YOU FEELING ME, DOG?

I go out at night and get into scrapping and hunting and all kinds of ill shit.  The other day I left a mouse the size of a chihuahua on the front step.  Oh snap!

Anywayz, I just wanted to let y’all know that everything is copasetic here at Chez Karnofski.

Peace out!

-Buddy

I realized today that it’s been a while since I graced you with some commentary between Buddy and the Muffin. So here you go, everybody… Christmas has come early!

“Buddy, I don’t understand where your penis even is. Do you have one? Carole, can we look up cat genitalia on the Internet? Because I, for one, am EXTREMELY CURIOUS.”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t believe that Buddy is even a dude. Hey Carole, what if we found out Buddy was actually a girl?”

“Here comes Buddy, Michael. Pick up your stick.”

“I know a certain kitty kitty who is about to get BITCH SLAPPED.”

S’up, bitches?

Meow, meow, and all dat shit. How y’all been? Things have been pretty chill around here lately. That chubby thing my parents brought home a couple of months ago has finally learned who the freakin’ boss is around is here (B-U-Double Dizzy… holla!), so I’m finally able to snooze in peace at night without his squawking and sniveling waking me from my delicious, black-and-white splotchy beauty sleep.

The other day the kiddo was just marinatin’ in his baby rocking chair with his chubby, delicious little paws hanging off the sides and I thought, Hmm. I know I’m not SUPPOSED to gnaw on the baby, but just a little NIBBLE couldn’t hurt, right? I parted my lips, inched in for a succulent bite, and then BAM!!! My mom squirted my ass with that annoying pink water bottle she keeps by her at all times in case I get on the counter, bite her feet, scratch on the couch, or any other kind of ill shit. Broad is always cockblocking me.

The best thing, though, is that my parents have finally come to their senses and started paying me some attention again. The petting has been few and far between since that thing came to live with us. Good thing they’ve picked it up again, because dude was THIS CLOSE to taking off and going to live with Grandma again. At least she feeds a brother some wet food now and again, you know?

So things here are copasetic for the time being. Stay cool, yo.

Honey, will you give Buddy a treat? He hasn’t had one yet today.

“Yeah, I’ll give him a treat, alright. Treat him to a nice kick in the ass! Put him in a football tee and punt his ass right through the uprights.”

(Buddy runs beneath the newspaper and hides.)

“Hey. Dipshit. We can see you. Buddy! Can I read the sports section when you’re done with it?”

S’up bitches?

I know it’s been a while since I rapped at ya. Shit has kinda jumped off here in the last couple of weeks and between dodging this screaming…THING my parents brought home and licking myself, I’m kinda booked.

It all started a few weeks ago when my parents left, unexpectedly, for like, five days. It was cool for a little while because I could totally turn the party out, sans parents, all day and night. Rock and roll all night long, party every day, that’s what I always say. You feelin’ me? It was all fun and games until Fawn, the neighbor tabby, brought over some bad weed. Before you know it, the coffee table’s busted and the cops are on their way. So anyway, it was all good for a day or two and then I actually started to miss those crazy parents. Luckily grandma stopped by to refill my food dish and clean out the shitter, so I wasn’t completely neglected.

I was so relieved to finally see their car pull into the driveway, and that’s when I saw him. It. THAT THING. The strangest looking cat I’ve ever seen, all fleshy and hairless. I gave him a greeting sniff. He actually smelled quite lovely, kinda like baby lotion and milk. Pretty appetizing, actually. Just as I was devising a way to fit his fuzzy head into my mouth, he freakin’ shrieked at me! And my mom, she comes and picks him up and starts loving on him! Now whenever I start yelling like that all I get is a shot in the hide with a squirt bottle. What’s up with that? So I just slinked away and hid under the bed for a couple of days. Take THAT, mom and dad.

I was hoping that maybe we could send this kid back to wherever he came from. But he’s still here. And all that cool furniture my parents brought home that I used to sleep on? The changing table, the crib, the bassinet? It turns out it’s for the kid.

So I’m getting even. How, you ask? It’s simple. I flip my water dish. As soon as my mom fills that sucker up, I push it around, sloshing water everywhere, and then I flip it over. My mom and dad have tried putting the dish on a sticky mat, moving the dish entirely, and even putting my water in a big ol’, heavy pot. But I can still move it! Just imagine how pissed they’ll be when they discover that the constant wetness on the wood floor has ruined part of it. Ha ha! Serves them right.

In the meantime, while the kid is sleeping, I think I’ll go take a few good sniffs and see if I can eat his fingers and toes without waking him.

I’m out!