OCTOBER, 1991, CHICAGOI received a phone call that afternoon from my
then-girlfriend Dara, taunting me about a purchase
she'd just made.
"You won't guess what it is, but I can tell you this:
Paxton (her other cat) doesn't know what to make of
it."
Later on that evening, I cruised down to her apartment
to take a look at this new surprise. And there,
peeking out from beneath the table cloth, I saw two
huge, green eyes staring up at me.
This was my introduction to Duncan, aka The Dude.
Activities for Duncan in the Chicago building ranged
from wandering the halls - he was never allowed
outside - chasing rubber balls down the hallways, and
generally knocking a lot of crap over. Graceful, he
was not, we discovered, but there was a spirit and a
heart in that little runt, purchased for $4 outside of
a supermarket, that anyone who ever came in contact
with him instantly recognized.
Duncan was a Chicago resident for 3 years before we
packed up the truck and headed down south,
Nashville-way. He and his brother Paxton braved the 8
hour ride in the truck by hunkering down in the
covered litter box (sans litter) and just staring
straight ahead, certain that life was now to be lived
in this cramped, loud, moving metal box.
We moved our shit into our small, 1 bedroom apartment,
where Duncan was now treated to an entire sunroom that
he quickly commandeered, refusing to let his brother
sleep a wink in it. Both of the cats were now allowed
outside, but only supervised, on our wooden stairwell,
for maybe 5 minutes at a time. But hot DAMN, that 5
minutes was fucking FREEDOM!
I headed out to LA 1 1/2 years later, leaving Dara,
Duncan, and Paxton behind so Dara could wrap up a job
she was waist-deep into. About 2 1/2 months later, the
three flew out west, on the same plane as Lionel
Richie(!...I mean...?). I snagged Dara at the gate
(ahhh, remember pre-9/11 days) and we headed to
baggage claim, where we saw our 2 cat carriers sitting
alone by a doorway. I peeked my head into one of them,
and there was The Dude, and man, did he let out a
wailing, welcoming meow.
And so we made our home in our 2 bedroom apartment in
West Hollywood, where our good friend Joel - who lived
across the hall - would regularly visit and pay homage
to The Dude, even though it always left him in a
massive sneezing fit.
No matter how long we would be out of town, be it 2
weeks or 1 day, when we'd return, Duncan would make
sure to take a chunk out of our noses or chins,
followed promptly by kisses and licks: ALWAYS with the
kisses and licks. He actually learned himself how to
kiss with his lips and not his teeth. Handy for when
you're impressing drunken houseguests, to say the
least.
4 years ago, we moved to the North Hollywood house,
and Duncan and Paxton were now allowed to go
supervised into their own backyard. He mostly sat on
the concrete or wooden deck, and eventually, once we
realized they were not interested in exploring new
worlds beyond our wooden fences, they became
residents with in and out privileges.
In December of that year, we noticed Duncan was
walking funny. It turned out that he had Chronic Renal
Failure; his kidneys weren't functioning properly.
This sent us into a panic. Would we be losing him? We
would pump him full of subcutanous fluids 2
times/week, and never once did he complain. In fact,
he seemed to love the extra attention and how the
fluids would make him feel. I think he especially
liked it because I would have to say the word
"subcutaneous", and really, that's a funny fucking
word.
Flash-forward 1 1/2 years later: One day, Dara notices
a tiny bump beneath Dude's skin on his left shoulder.
Aspirate tests came back: Cancer. Oh no! we thought
again. Are we going to lose him?(If you sense a theme,
you win!)
The doctors recommended aggressive operations that
would leave Duncan a tripod; an amputee. We hemmed and
hawed and cried a lot before making the decision.
Finally, after consulting The Dude, who probably
proceeded to eat food and hang around, we thought,
let's do it.
At this time, Duncan was traveling many miles in the
car to various vets - sometimes 45 minutes at a chunk,
and we'd noticed that he would instantly stop
panicking whenever the jazz station was playing. None
of that new agey, John Tesh crap either: Duncan dug on
Miles Davis, Charlie Bird Parker, and Dave Breubek.
Needless to say, he survived the operation, and not
only fully recovered, but Dude seemed to have more
energy than ever. He'd race around, thup-thup-thup,
chase his brother, head out to the yard, jump up onto
surfaces we were trying to utilise, etc. He'd battled
and won once again. We even christened him "Brave Sir
Duncan" 6 months to the day after his operation.
Yes, that sounds like something you'd read in Cat
Fancy, but I never said I *wasn't* an unmarried, 550
pound guy living in a basement apartment.
Last year, before Labor Day, we found new, small lumps
on Duncan's other shoulder. Tests showed, yup, the
cancer had relocated. Oh no! Are we going to lose him?
In December, Duncan headed into chemo and radiation
treatments, treating every car ride and treatment like
it was just a walk in the park, grooving to quintet
and big band music. The tumor growth had slowed
drastically. We knew his time was limited, and we
promised ourselves that we wouldn't let him hang
around if he wasn't happy.
But the little bastard STAYED happy, doing his normal
shtick. Up until about 6 weeks ago.
The tumor was growing and inhibiting his remaining
front leg's mobility. He could still get around at
first, but as it grew, he depended more and more on
"Mom and Dad taxi". Weird thing: His attitude? ALWAYS
up.
Unfortunately, about 10 days ago, moving was nearly
impossible for him. He was losing his appetite, eating
small portions of baby food, only if coerced. We knew
time was drawing close.
By yesterday morning, Duncan was gaunt, sad, and
tired. It was time.
Today at noon, surrounded by his family, in his own
backyard, with birds chirping beside him in the trees,
Thelonious Monk gently playing on the stereo, Duncan
peacefully and bravely moved on to his next great
adventure.
The Dude abides.
