(A number of years ago now, my father asked for us not to send him gifts or cards on his birthday.  Instead, he wanted us to write short stories about memories from our childhood.  I was busy writing/producing We Outran the Sun when he had his most recent birthday, so this story arrived a bit late.  It recounts an altercation I had with a childhood pet, a cat named Ashes.  Hope you enjoy.)

I don’t get into fights.  I’m just not that guy, never have been.  The closest I’ve come to being in a fist fight include: 1) a falling out with a friend named Nathan in 4th grade, which ended with me pushing him into a urinal and 2) being punched in the stomach (also in grade school) after I fouled a guy named Evan while playing basketball during recess.  Fights usually end quickly if one of the combatants is covered in urine, or can’t breathe because his diaphragm is temporarily paralyzed. So it should come as no surprise that the only confrontation to give me a bloody nose was with a cat.  That’s right, you read that correctly: a cat.

(Eva and Leo as kittens for Halloween, note the name tag on Leo: Ashes)

My sister Stephanie and her husband Phil recently brought home two kittens, who were promptly named Candy and Pumpkin by my young niece and nephew.  The day Eva and Leo first met their beloved pets, Steph and I talked on Skype.  She had brought her laptop out to the barn in their backyard, where the kittens will be spending most of their time.  Eva and Leo were much more preoccupied than usual, and justifiably so, walking in and out of the frame occasionally, holding or pursuing a cat.  The excitement (and joy) in the air was palpable – if not for the cats, certainly for the kids.  At one point during our conversation, Steph turned to Leo and told him not to pick up the cat by its head.  Which reminded me of my own childhood experiences with cats.  When I was very little, we had a kitten named Taffy (note the similarity in name to Candy).  I made the mistake of picking up Taffy by the tail.  Taffy scratched the daylights out of my arm, and I was not allowed to play with him for an unspecified amount of time.  Now Eva and Leo have been kitty crazy for quite awhile, and both of them dressed as kittens for Halloween this fall, in adorable costumes made by their grandmother.  Each of these candy crazed kitties had a name tag on their costume. Eva went by the moniker of Snowflake, while Leo assumed the nom de chat of Ashes.  Ashes happens to be the name of the second feline to reside at 10893 Lowell Road (Taffy having a rather short life span), and the adversary who would give me a bloody nose.

Ashes eventually mellowed as he grew older, but as a kitten he was rambunctious and rather high maintenance.  Decidedly an outdoor cat, his natural habitat included the few acres around our house, as well as the small box in our garage where he would sleep at night.  But a significant compromise came about when it was decided that he could spend time in the basement of our house.  Not permanently, to be sure, but more on a visitation basis.  The basement had not been remodeled, and therefore Ashes and his fur and claws were less of a threat to the furniture, carpet, and whatever else my mother thought would be damaged. As kids, we spent a lot of time in the basement; both the television and all of our Legos were in that room.  A large, open space with red carpet and faux wood paneling, it housed my father’s record collection.  We would play those records and dance around the basement, bouncing around to the tunes of The Everly Brothers and The Four Seasons.  I’m not exactly sure what Ashes thought we were doing when we were dancing, but it did not, shall we say, have a calming effect. His eyes would dart around the room, following us.  Then suddenly he would latch on to one of us with his claws and bite our knee.  Like a puritanical parent from the 1950s who caught their kids listening to Elvis, Ashes vehemently showed his disapproval.

(I’m holding Ashes on the left, with my sister Anni on the far right, circa 1986)

We eventually learned to put him in Stephanie’s room if we wanted to listen to those records, but not before the bloody altercation to which I’ve been alluding. Dancing around the basement on a summer afternoon, probably listening to “Poor Jenny” by the Everly Brothers, I suddenly caught a glimpse of Ashes with the crazy look in his eyes that he would get before darting up to bear hug our legs.  In an instant he was on the move, and I quickly turned to run away.  I didn’t get very far.  I ran into the wall.  The wall had a ledge, where the faux wood paneling ended and the windows began.  I don’t remember how old I was when this happened, but I was at the age where my face (specifically, my nose) was exactly the same height as that ledge.  Before I was able to process what had happened, blood was streaming down my face.  Ashes had retreated somewhere to calm his nerves, I’m sure pleased that the immoral songs of The Everly Brothers had been turned off, and I had my first and as yet only bloody nose.

I suppose what I’m saying is, I got beat up by a cat.

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