Luna enters our world.

In 2018 we sadly said goodbye to our two oldest feline friends. Hugo and Nadia both departed the planet at the age of 16, and as noted previously, their absence impelled our feral adoptee Mila to opt for a degree of self-domestication.

Nearing middle age (circa 7 years old), she's generally sedate and perfectly content to kick back and survey the scene without undue motion.

Now for something completely different. This is Luna, and the 1117 East Spring Street Neighborhood Association welcomes her to the house.

Luna is around 8 months old, and recently was brought to Access Veterinary with a broken right rear leg by a family who couldn't care for her any longer. Our friends Dr. Smock and Dr. Rowland repaired the damage; Luna has a pin in her leg and is currently equipped with a plastic head guard to prevent her from tearing the sutures.

Hopefully she'll be as right as rain in three weeks, and we are delighted to give a kitty a home. It's a serendipitous reboot to our household cat program, and we're grateful to the docs and their excellent team at Access for letting us know Luna needed us.

For the first three or so weeks, Luna gets to camp in this nice tent. That's because she cannot wander the house unattended owing to the danger of jumping on tables and furniture, and possibly reinjuring her leg. Diana set up Luna's perimeter.

Luna isn't tremendously happy with being restricted to quarters.

Job one is to wait until the incision is healed so she can be relieved of her head gear. Then it's a matter of grinding out the weeks until she can be set free to roam.

Will Mila approve? Stay tuned. I'm already exhausted, but the house feels like a home again.

R.I.P. Miss Nadia, our spark plug gourmand comedian and longtime feline companion.

Our cherished friend Miss Nadia cashed out her ninth and final life on December 20, while we were in Bamberg during the Munich trip. Our human friends and diligent cat-sitters Karen and Jeff were with Nadia at the end, for which we're extremely grateful.

People don't come any better than those two.

Nadia was 16, around 80 in human years. She'd suddenly lost her appetite in early November, and for a cat whose life revolved around food, this was a warning sign. After a couple of visits to the vet, the collective decision was bad teeth, which implied extensive oral surgery. We knew there were risks. Although weakened, Nadia seemed to make it through this ordeal fairly well. She was getting better, but there came a sudden turn, and she was gone.

We were asked to consider a necropsy (an autopsy for animals), and agreed. It showed the blood work lab results to have been errant, somehow missing a metastatic cancer stemming from Nadia's thyroid issues -- a phenomenon rarely triggered, but fast-moving and deadly. Of course, had we known this, there'd have been only one sad course of action. As it stands, Nadia died peacefully at home. We can only hope she wasn't in too much pain.

In 2018, we said goodbye to both our elderly cats, as Hugo's death preceded Nadia's by 10 months (he also was 16). Ironically, Hugo passed away just prior to our return from Portugal in February. What are the odds?

At any rate, let's not regret Nadia's passing. After all, we'll be eternally thankful for having experienced her amazingly out-sized personality.

Nadia didn't walk into a room, but sashayed, exaggeratedly shaking her butt and announcing her presence -- and the imminent need for a tasty morsel. She was an epic chatterbox with a startling array of sounds and noises that might have led the untutored to believe a duck or squirrel had wandered past. I'm unembarrassed to concede that Nadia and I had daily conversations, during which I'd harangue her and she'd answer, or sometimes vice versa.

I'll miss those. She was a receptive sounding board for my writing ideas, and never once advised me to tone it down. 

With Nadia and Hugo both gone, there no longer exists any need to separate them, which we'd done for behavioral reasons seven or eight years ago. The interior doors have been thrown open, and our second-floor-only feral refugee Mila (circa seven years old) has the run of the whole house.

Following Hugo's loss, Mila abruptly executed a quantum leap in terms of opting for a degree of domestication, and now that Nadia is gone, she's done it yet again.

Mila sometimes spends the bulk of the night on the bed with us, which is amazing given that she essentially refused to be touched by human hands prior to March of 2018. She'll never be a lap cat, and that's fine. We're just beginning to witness the range of her distinctive personality, and it's fascinating. 

Uncharacteristically for me, it's taken all this time to gird up for the task of reporting Nadia's passing and eulogizing this wonderful creature, who brought so much mirth and joy into our household. It's been a month, and maybe I'm still a tad numb. Life's about death, and speaking candidly, there's been too damn much death in my life these past couple of years.

However, when we sign on to be adults, we accept the conditions of mourning. As noted, lamentations for the departed are another way to celebrate their lives, and make no mistake: Nadia had one hell of a rollicking, exuberant life. We probably won't see the likes of her again.

And yet ... yesterday we heard about a injured kitten in need of a home. After all, serendipity forever lurks beyond the shady corners of our conscious lives, and kismet inevitably awaits. 

I'll keep you posted.

Thanks for asking, Delta Air Lines. I'm happy to tell you how likely I am to recommend you to others.

Hello Roger,

We wanted to follow up on the opportunity to share your feedback regarding your experience on your flight from Atlanta (ATL) to Louisville (SDF) on February 22, 2018. We are committed to providing exceptional service on every flight and understand that we didn’t meet those expectations with a delayed arrival.

Please know that we are committed to providing exceptional service on every flight, and we appreciate hearing from valued customers like you. We ask that you share your thoughts regarding your recent flight experience by completing this short survey.

How likely are you to recommend Delta Air Lines to others?

Thanks for “reaching out” to me, Delta Air Lines.

On the evening of Thursday, February 22, we left Atlanta for Louisville roughly on time, to be informed by the captain that arrival at SDF might actually be a tad early.

This was welcome news. We’d already been awake for more than 20 hours since rising to depart Porto, Portugal for Amsterdam and Atlanta, and gratefully, we hit the runway in Louisville at 11:35 p.m., a full 20 minutes early.

Then we exited the plane – at 12:35 a.m., after waiting an entire hour for a gate to debark, which was explained to us by the captain as a case of other flights being diverted because of fog (with heavy rain predicted after midnight), and with one plane apparently sitting at our arrival gate with almost no workers present to move it out of the way.

He never explained why someone decided to park a plane at a gate where another flight would be due later that evening. If there is any justice in the world, it was an ex-employee.

We got to the car just as the rain started. The way back to New Albany took a bit; we were so long getting off the flight that the storm had moved in, and effective visibility on the interstate a few yards, with a speed of 35 mph.

A little after 1 a.m., we were home, where we rushed immediately upstairs to check on our elderly cat Hugo.

Wait – I forgot to mention that we’d been informed by the cat-sitter that our elderly cat Hugo didn’t look well, and the hour spent on the tarmac was vivid in my mind as we sadly found him lying dead. The circumstances strongly suggested that he passed after midnight. The faithful little guy tried to wait for us, but Delta had other ideas, so listen carefully, engorged multi-national corporation.

Neoliberalism and monopolies being what they are, and Louisville’s connections with Delta being pervasive, we have little realistic chance of boycotting Delta in the future. To claim such would be unrealistic, and I’m not in the mood to shake my fist at you.

Just know that I’ll never, ever forgive you for whatever staggering levels of incompetence led to a plane being parked where it shouldn’t have been, and for sitting on the ramp for a full hour, knowing our cat needed us, and being unable to get to him in time.

Fuck you, Delta Air Lines.

In the future, every time I authorize a payment for a flight, I’ll pause just for a second to honor Hugo’s memory, and I’ll look at the Delta logo, and I’ll repeat, perhaps as many as 16 times (his age): Fuck you, Delta Air Lines.

If it is humanly possible to “hate” a corporation, then be aware that I hate Delta Air Lines’ guts. Apart from that, the flight was just dandy.

Sincerely,

Roger

P.S. I see that there was no oval to be blacked in with my response to the question of whether I’d recommend Delta Air Lines to others.

The proper reply: I’d rather drink Miller Lite; if you know me, you know exactly what this implies: Fuck you, Delta Air Lines.

SHANE'S EXCELLENT NEW WORDS: Can a dog's idiom mean two entirely different things?

Someone asked me about our cat Hugo's passing, and without thinking, I tossed back a bon mot:

"That feline led a dog's life."

First things first: maybe it's best for me to avoid humor when I'm jet-lagged ... and what the hell is a bon mot?

bon mot

bän ˈmō

noun: bon mot; plural noun: bon mots; plural noun: bons mots

a witty remark.

synonyms: witticism, quip, pun, pleasantry, jest, joke

origin: mid 18th century: French, literally ‘good word.’

I had no sooner uttered the words "a dog's life" than the raging doubts started. When we speak about a dog's life in this sense, do we mean it was a good existence (my intended connotation) or a bad one?

Actually, it can mean both such lives -- perhaps depending on when the speaker was born.

Noun: dog's life (plural dogs' lives)

(idiomatic) A miserable, wretched existence.

(idiomatic) A life of indolence where the individual may do as he or she pleases, just like a pampered dog.

Usage notes

Originally the term referred to the hard life of the working dog: sleeping in a damp barn, chasing rats and other intruders, living on scraps, etc. Today, however, it has in some circles acquired the completely opposite connotation indicated in sense 2.

I looked at a few other explanations off-line, and it seems that in the late 1990s, the view remained intact that "a dog's life" implies a short and unhappy one. Since then, the "pampered" definition seems to have gained ascendance.

We miss Hugo a lot, and maybe the truth of the matter is that he was a perfect exemplar of a "(house) cat's life," with the dogs having nothing whatever to do with it, whether indoors or outside.

A few more thoughts about the passing of Hugo.

Rest in peace, Hugo (2002 - 2018).

On Sunday morning, it occurred to me that there was more to say. 

---

Coming home from a journey overseas hasn't been this profoundly bittersweet since my father's death in 2001.

Hugo -- to many of you the No Tolls Kitty -- died Thursday night. He was a little bitty tabby with a huge personality. There is a stillness in the house, though it's safe to say our hearts are full with memories of a life well lived. For all intents and purposes, Hugo's presence spanned the entirety of our lives together as a couple; conversely, we witnessed most of his life.

These were fruitful, loving times.

Speaking personally, and risking the analogy in this time of flooding, Hugo's final act was a dam-breaker. I'd gone two or maybe three years without crying, through the passing of so many people close to me -- mentors, my close friend Kevin, and even my mother. I trudged through, mourned silently, and kept control; it wasn't really a conscious effort at being robotic, but it's the way things went.

Well, so much for dry cheeks.

The torrent has been loosened, and these past three years of upheaval properly registered. Kleenex stocks have risen to an all-time high.

What's more, a cosmos that adores irony has struck again; Hugo has gone, and on Tuesday at long last I'll come to the final settlement of my NABC divorce. We went to Portugal to eat Francesinha sandwiches and grilled octopus, and to drink Super Bock and Tawny Port, and now I've returned to the end of multiple eras ... and with the forthcoming Pints & Union pub project alongside my business partner Joe, to new beginnings.

On Friday morning I awakened to these sea changes, with a song playing in my head: Queen's "The Show Must Go On." Indeed it must, whether good, bad or indifferent. So it will, in this case mostly positively, though never forgetting what came before. That's because we can't deal with the future without understanding and honoring the past.

Thanks for the memories, Hugo. You made our world a better place. Crossroads can be confusing, but only momentarily. A flip of the coin can lead to new opportunities, or into eternity.

Our paths have diverged, but I'll never forget you.

Rest in peace, Hugo (2002 - 2018).

No tolls ... circa 2011.

ACT I, by Diana

The early days ... circa 2003.

Stories can seem too personal to tell, but I find myself moved to expose a rare moment of vulnerability, and to share a deeply personal story of my first maternal relationship.

As some of you know, I passionately work with folks who cope with serious symptoms of mental illness, and I cannot express how much my life has been touched all the more for it. A case in point came on a very rainy September day in 2002, only three months after my mother passed.

As typical, I arrived early to work, second only to the receptionist (and my neighbor) Creighton. I immediately was greeted by one of my clients, who was obviously very distressed; he was holding a soaked backpack and seeking urgently to see me. I proceeded to let him inside, out of the rain, and guided him to my office to offer some support.

He unleashed a torrent of information about how a woman from his apartment complex had been evicted, taking with her the cat which had just given birth to kittens, but leaving behind the newborns.

The other tenants, trying to be conscientious, had attempted to care for these feral souls through the warm months, but only one kitten from the litter had survived. Now he was five months old.

This brave little beast had been brought inside my client’s home during the previous night because of the first cold rain of the season, only now the kitten was deemed by the client to be possessed by demons -- and needed disposing of.

My client knew the command was a symptom of his illness, and he wanted the kitten to be removed from his existence right away. So it was that a malnourished, flea-infested, dirty, scrawny, timid, buff tabby landed on my desk, and my client quickly exited the premises with much relief.

In keeping with my personality, this turn of events wasn’t a problem. There’d be a solution, and I would find it. I began making community calls to shelters, vets, animal activists, etc. I sent e- mails to cat lover co-workers and friends.

By lunch … nothing.

It is noteworthy that Creighton was a friend as well as a co-worker, and she’d been keeping a close watch on me since my mother passed away. Throughout the morning, Creighton gently suggested that the male kitten’s chances were slim, repeating a mother’s words: “things happen for a reason.”

They do. It took until afternoon, and this placid being sitting on my desk never moved, watching in peace and solitude, waiting, until I accepted his offer of life companionship.

On that day in 2002, the drive home cost me close to $500 to get the kitten cleared to enter my apartment safely. At the time, $500 seemed like a million dollars, and yet it taught me that the return can be vastly greater than the initial investment.

On Thursday night we lost Hugo, the abused and disheveled kitten -- my little gay opera singer. I am devastated but so grateful to have been witness to most of his life’s entirety. It’s such a gift having pets.

---

ACT II, by Roger

The lion in winter ... February, 2018.

We returned from our wonderful trip to Portugal to discover that our beloved cat Hugo had left us. At some point on Thursday evening, he curled up on the floor and passed away at 16 years of age. That’s 80 in human years.

Diana already has related the story of how Hugo originally found his way to her as a kitten. Shortly thereafter, when I came onto the scene, her new companion cat wasn’t always sure about the suitability of a freshly arrived boyfriend.

This undersized, emotive, though ultimately gentle creature immediately fashioned himself as Diana’s protector. In Hugo’s mind, he was a mighty lion, not a tiny tabby. Granted, I had him by at least 250 pounds, but the truth is he had me -- by the heartstrings.

Diana and I would be in bed, and at some point I’d look up to see Hugo perched vigilantly on the dresser, bearing the famous cold glare later deployed to such great effect in his best known role, the No Tolls Kitty. I knew I’d have to work to win Hugo over, and eventually he relented, except one thing never changed: he remained Diana’s right-hand feline, from start to finish.

One way I endeared myself to Hugo was by diligently curating his litter box, where he spent as much quality contemplation time as any American male, albeit without magazines, a cell phone or an ashtray.

The litter box was Hugo’s refuge and sanctuary, and perhaps the springboard for his eccentricity … and boy, did Hugo have an outsized personality far out of proportion to his diminutive stature.

For one, no cat ever was more proud to display his immaculately groomed butt.

Often at night we’d hear Hugo shoveling industriously in the litter box, followed by what we imagined were conversations with ghosts of cats past in this century-old house, or maybe the performance of uncommonly tuneful arias from his previous life as a stage cat in the opera.

Hugo made regular, watchful patrols of the upper floors, and having learned early on to push nearby human buttons at every opportunity, he delighted in repositioning his water dish to trip us nocturnally.

Never a lap cat strictly speaking, Hugo nonetheless functioned as Diana’s personal space heater during the cold weather months. Once she was settled, he’d find a sweet spot on her side, and as long as she didn’t move, neither would he.

As Hugo transitioned into his dotage, the elemental quirks became even more delightfully crotchety. The pale fluffy fur that attached to every surface like Velcro got thinner. He slept much more, and he hung closer than ever to Diana. We commented about how he seemed needier.

I grew up in the country, and I’m still convinced that animals know the cosmic score the way humans did once, before we became sophisticated enough to imagine we might stave off mortality. With the approach of spring, I think Hugo sensed the bell beginning to toll.

We’re sad, and we’re grieving, but we also know that once those first few challenging months passed, Hugo enjoyed as loving and rewarding a life as any cat ever has on this planet. His own stay here ended where it should, right at home, amid comforting and familiar surroundings.

Goodbye, Hugo.

Cats keep rodents in check -- well, except for this one.

And then there were two.

Since 20011, the oldest and youngest house cats have departed for that great litter box in the sky, leaving Hugo (below; the No Tolls Kitty) and Nadia (above). At roughly 12 and 11 years of age, respectively, they've both raced past me, into their sixties. Nadia is noticeable graying. As the missus often has pointed out, it's gratifying to share in their life spans; both were rescued at a tender age, and they're part of the family.

The article here resonates because of its reference to evolution in the form of reward for feline work performed v.v. rodents. In all the time Nadia's been with us, she's managed to kill exactly one mouse. In fairness, we haven't had many mice over the years, but lately, she's been particularly inept. She seems to be playing with the mouse, not making a sincere effort to dispatch it.

We've concluded that the one and only successful kill was no kill at all. It must have been accidental homicide.

Why cats never became man’s best friend, by Gwynn Guilford (Quartz)

Dog lovers will find it baffling that cats are the world’s most popular pet. After all, they’re passive-aggressive, emotionally unavailable, and known for their chilly independence—traits that at most qualify felines for the role of “man’s best frenemy.”

It turns out, though, there’s an evolutionary reason for this tense relationship. That is, cats are in many ways still wild.

“Cats, unlike dogs, are really only semi-domesticated,” says Wes Warren, professor of genetics Washington University and co-author of the first complete mapping (paywall) of the house cat genome—specifically, that of an Abyssinian named Cinnamon.

Comparing the DNA differences between house cats and wild cats, Warren and his colleagues found that where the genes of domesticated kitties and wild cats diverge has to do with fur patterns, grace, and docility. The latter are the genes that influence behaviors such as reward-seeking and response to fear.

The divergence likely began some 9,000 years ago, after humans had made the shift to agriculture. Drawn to the teeming rodent populations that gathered during grain harvests, wild cats began interacting with humans. And because cats kept rodents in check, the researchers hypothesize, humans likely encouraged them to stay by offering them food scraps as a reward. These early farmers eventually kept cats that stuck around.

“Selection for docility, as a result of becoming accustomed to humans for food rewards,” write the researchers, “was most likely the major force that altered the first domesticated cat genomes.” In other words, the ones that stuck around were the cats with those genes that encouraged interaction with humans, thereby making those traits prevalent in what became the global domestic cat population.
As intriguing, though, is what didn’t change in human-friendly cats during those nine millennia. House cats still have the broadest hearing range among carnivores, which allows them to detect their prey’s movement. They also retain their night-vision abilities and the ability to digest high-protein, high-fat diets. This implies that, unlike those of dogs, their genes haven’t evolved to make cats dependent on humans for food.
This indicates only a modest influence of domestication on cat genes, compared with dogs, say the researchers. In fact, according to recent research on canine genomes, dogs became man’s best friend back when humans were still hunting and gathering—between 11,000 and 16,000 years ago. Their typically more omnivorous diets evolved as human lifestyle shifted toward agrarian living.
So why have kitties stayed wilder? The genome-mappers theorize it’s because house cat populations have continued to interbreed with wild cats. Also, humans’ “cat fancy”—meaning, our fanaticism about creating weird cat breeds—only began in the last 200 or so years.
They came for the mice, stayed for the food scraps, and whenever it suited, kept cuddly with the cats from the other side of the granary. In other words, not only are cats still mostly wild, but they pretty much tamed themselves. Maybe that means humans are “cats’ best friend.”