All Creatures, Straight and Small

When I went to church with Mama Sunday morning, I looked around the crowd and almost immediately spotted a friendly face from my past. It hadn’t changed much since we were in high school. And she saw me, too. Even with my grey hair, she knew it was me.

After the service, I tracked her down to say “Hi”.

“I looked up there and saw you and said ‘Oh-my-God!’ How are you?” she said and asked, all the while looking like she was seeing a ghost.

We didn’t have long to chat. She had to go fetch a two-year old from the nursery.

She told me I didn’t talk like them anymore; I sounded like a Northerner. I told her I just talked like I talk.

Then she inquired about my marital status.

“You’re still not married?”

“No. But I have a long-term partner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We’ve been together for 7 years.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

“Not unless the laws change.”

She looked a little confused at first, and then said something to the effect of “Silly me. I wasn’t thinking. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“So do you think it was a choice or were you born that way?”

“Born that way, I guess. I never had any choices to make.”

“I want to talk with you about that.”

Leave it to Bridgette to get to the heart of the matter.

That’s where we got cut off so she could go gather up her youngest and let the nursery folks go home. She recruited her oldest (12 or 13 and a very handsome young man—her family has such good genes) to exchange contact information.

Well, Bridgette, I actually did have a choice, but it wasn’t the one you were asking about. I had to choose between living a miserable, loveless life of deceit and falsehood and living one honestly, one where love and happiness were possible. That’s really the only choice I’ve made.

I can appreciate women aesthetically, but I have never been sexually attracted to one. And God knows I tried. All through high school and then college, I tried my best, but it didn’t work. I was looking at the boys all the while.

I went into a depression the last year or two of college, and it didn’t go away until I realized that there were plenty of gay people out there that fell way outside the stereotypes, lived normal lives and were happy. Until then, I only had very negative representations of gay men to see my future in. And I didn’t want to be one of those people.

Turns out, I didn’t have to.

My first partner and I were together for 5 ½ years. He got sick and died suddenly of a massive septic infection in his lungs. He had been acting like he had the flu, and they think he may have swallowed some vomit into his lungs. Once a lung infection goes septic, it’s a 50-50 chance of survival.

Rich didn’t make it. He died a little over 12 years ago, June 20, 1995. We had been out to dinner with a couple of friends to celebrate my 30th birthday just a few days before.

He was only 27. But the time we had together I cherish and hold close to my heart. Tall, lanky red-headed ball of fire that he was, he was also my very first real love.

Most people would say that our lives were boring, but I was never bored. He was a flute virtuoso and built harps. I gladly subsidized Isis Harps (his DBA) through it’s short existence. We were going to conquer the world, me and him.

In the meantime, we lived in our own little world. It was the first time I was ever truly happy and fulfilled.

Shannon and I have been together for 7 or so years. We found each other at critical times in both our lives and have grown a relationship that has survived my inherent crankiness and his inherent crazy. I’ve held his hand more than once and coaxed him back from psychosis, a supremely dark place where he doesn’t know who I am or even who he is.

Still, he knows to rub his head against my belly for comfort when they have him tied down in the hospital. And when he comes back down to this plane, he knows who loves him.

He’s my baby, even though he’s over a decade older than me.

Bridgette, I hope this answers some questions. I’m really not that much different than you.

God made me the way he did, and I spent too many years fighting it. Fighting it only brought me misery and grief. Once I embraced the person that God made and put here for who-knows what purpose, I found happiness and joy again.

In the end, I am one of God’s children. I have to have faith that he knows what he’s doing.

My life is not one I would have chosen ahead of time. It would be much easier to be a nice straight guy with a wife and kids. Being gay is not a life many people would choose voluntarily. I certainly would not have.

In the end, it comes down to a toss up of being happy and fulfilled in this life or living it in misery.

I chose to run to the light. To joy. To yet another incarnation of the bounty God offers us all.

I just had to figure out which way to run.

Mass Appeal

This morning, Mama and I went to the church I was raised in for the first time in at least 15 years. (15 years for me, that is.) The building and location are new (they out-grew their old one), but the people are mostly the same, except for the ones who've died, grown up and had kids of their own and the miscellaneous other additions. The service was a bit more staged than it used to be, but then, it didn't used to broadcast on TV and radio. And consciously or other, they're marketing to a particular demographic that has served them well over the years (younger couples with families yet to raise) while not alienating the older core of the congregation.

And before anyone takes issue with the word "marketing", consider this: what is evangelism other than the marketing of an intangible product? Billy Graham has been doing it very successfully for decades. And as people have been exposed to ever more complex and technologically sophisticated media, the shape of evangelism has changed. The message might stay the same, but the manner of presentation must change to continue to appeal to a contemporary generation.

And lets face it: the great evangelists of our time have never shied away from a bit of showmanship. They know that it fills seats, and ministering to an empty chair ain't doing nobody any good.

Like life, this piece ended up somewhere other than where I intended at the outset. For better or for worse, this is where it ended up: a harmless side-trip.

I probably wasn't ready to write about the other thing yet.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy-Jig

I leave tomorrow morning to return to Austin. It's a long drive, but I'm looking forward to the solitude. 10 days of people, people everywhere has taken its toll, physically and emotionally.

I require a fair amount of "alone time", and at home in Austin, that's not a problem. Shannon likes to watch his crime shows in the evenings, so I make my nest in the study and either watch PBS or write or work crossword puzzles. Sometimes all three.

I've missed my crosswords most. I usually work several a day (only the good ones though: NY Times, Boston Globe, Philadelphia Inquirer and Washington Post Sunday puzzles and the Wall Street Journal's Friday one), but I've only gotten to two since I've been here.

The trip started with me, my sister and her zoo on the road for 15 hours, then became 5 hour daily commutes from my boyhood home to the hospital in Memphis with a car full of passengers and hours in a busy inner-city hospital where solitude is not an option, and finally became reunions with countless relatives and people I had known growing up. I'm pretty much peopled out.

Suzanne, my older, is not going back with me. Probably just as well. As tends to happen when we spend too much time together, she's gotten her nose out of joint towards me. We don't always see eye to eye over things, and in the decade or so that I've been letting her know when I think she's out of line, she hasn't liked it much.

I've logged over 2000 miles since we left Austin, and still have 750 to go before I'm back home. But home is where I need to be. Home with Shannon and Amanda, our uber-whiny miniature cat. Home where I can sit and think or do nothing while Shannon watches his shoot-em-ups in the next room.

Home where I belong.

In Memoriam

Alfred D. Morgan

September 20, 1938 - July 24, 2007

Daddy passed from this earth at about 10:00pm Tuesday night. Or rather his shell did.

His condition deteriorated even more rapdidly on Tuesday, and by the middle of the afternoon, I could not feel his presence in the room any more. He was already gone.

We made the decision to withdraw life support and contacted the closest family members.

He left in peace, surrounded by his family. We sang "In the Sweet Bye and Bye" and "Amazing Grace" as he slipped away.

He was not in any pain, thanks to the palliative care team of Methodist University Hospital.

I have many pages of hand-written journal that I will post as I am able. I have traveled 1600 miles since Friday morning, which seems like a month ago from here. I have visitation later today and the funeral on Thursday. By then, it will seem like a six-month leave, I'm guessing.

Pray for my mother, if you pray. She went on her first date with him at age 15 1/2, and they married 3 years later. December would have held their 45th anniversary.

As for me, I'll muddle through and collapse once I'm back home and have the time.

I won't say "Rest in peace." Instead, I'll just say,

"See you on the other side."

Walkin' in Memphis

Daddy’s gone from bad to worse. He has kidney failure and is in a hospital in Memphis waiting to see if he can get a liver transplant. Waiting, for him, means mostly sleeping. Mama says he’s very tired and very weak.

I'll find out soon enough for myself. I’ll be in Memphis sometime tomorrow night. My older sister and I are leaving in the morning and will get there after the last visiting hours, but we’re going to stop by the hospital and see Mama before we head on home 2 hours away.

Daddy was fine when I talked to them last week, and today I got a call at work. “You need to call home. Your father’s in the hospital.”

I started shaking so badly that I could hardly hold the phone. I hung up and just sat at my desk for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. My first decision was to go home and call Mama from there where I would have more privacy. Then, I pulled my boss out of a Board of Directors meeting to tell her: “I’ve got to go home. I don’t know if I’ll be back today or not.”

“Not” turned out to be the correct answer.

I spent the whole afternoon trying to rearrange a flight that I already have scheduled for mid-August. No luck. At least not any luck cheaper than $600 when you throw a new rental car reservation in the pot.

So my sister and I are heading up north to the south tomorrow. The two of us and her herd of dogs. I’m going to put a blanket down in the hatch for the canines and just hope they don’t chew on the trim or on my clothes.

I’ve spent all evening on the phone and sending emails, making lists so I won’t forget anything, writing down contact information and trying to get packed. I’m guessing that I’ll remember what it was that I forgot about the time we get to Dallas. At that point, if I can’t afford to buy it on the road, I’ll have to live without it.

Up until now, the main thing that has concerned me about going home has been the “gay issue”. Having to explain myself to the legion of relatives I have up there. Right now, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about any of that.

He’s my daddy, not theirs. If he can accept me, then they by God better do the same. And if they don’t, they can bite my white hairy ass. I have the Daddy seal of approval, and that’s all that matters.

I’m taking a nice lightweight charcoal grey suit with me. I hope I don’t have to use it, but if I do, I’ll have it. If worse comes to worse, I’ll be ready. At least as far as wardrobe goes.

The rest of me will put on a brave face, then come home and fall apart.

Limbo

I have nothing to say tonight, so that is what I’ll say: nothing.

My trip home next month is weighing heavily on me. The last time I was up there was 93 or 94. And the pall of my father’s health hangs over everything. It's a dark, dark cloud that may or may not take him from me.

The uncertainty is maddening. It makes me crazy more often than not.

I have airline tickets and a rental car lined up, bills and paychecks in line and some extra money in the bank. Still, trepidation looms, like one of those horizons so black that you know all hell’s gonna break loose soon.

Shannon has been, and is continuing to be, a gem. He’s more enthused about my trip home than I am. Not so he can play around while I’m gone, but because he thinks it’s important to me. Actually, he knows that it's important to me.

It’ll be the longest we’ve been apart in a while (if you don’t count the time when he was in the hospital and I was a visitor, albeit one with power of attorney).

I’m consumed by uncertainty, by not knowing what to expect when I get there or how many games I’ll have to play to not address the gay issue openly. I don’t intend to cause problems, but if the subject comes up, I’ll just have to speak the truth and tough it out.

I just want to see Daddy.

I’m taking enough cash to get a motel room if I have to (they don’t have hotels where I was raised).

Shannon’s right that I need to go home, regardless of the reception.

I only have one Daddy, and I intend to see him at least one more time.

JM

What's Old is New Again

Old age and me don’t get along too well. Doing laundry makes my back hurt in a way I’m sure God never planned.

Or maybe She did.

Her little way of reminding me of my own mortality. That I’m not indestructible. That, ultimately, She will have the last laugh.

I’m quite certain, by the way, that God is more female than male. Men, as a rule, wouldn’t nurture or care as much. They wouldn’t forgive all things. They would be much more stern and much less accepting.

Maybe that’s just my experience of men. Too many, many men.

But I digress.

Old age is a bitch. It’s a horse I never planned to ride because I never expected to live past the age of thirty. Since I was a child, I always thought I would be dead by that age.

12 years after the deadline for checking out, and I’m still here.

I’m not complaining, except when I am.

I’m 42 years, 1 month and 5 days old.

Never thought I’d live to see it. And now I know why I thought I didn’t want to.

Aches and pains come and go. Some days my back likes me, and some days it hates me with a vengeance. The kind of vengeance we reserve for our worst enemies.

Today, me and my back are at war.

I keep reminding myself, however, that there’s only one cure for old age. Apparently, I’m not ready for that, yet.

My creaky life still fascinates and intrigues me. My hunger to know everything that is knowable still dictates the actions that comprise my life. I’m still learning and not ready to go into that “great goodnight”.

I’ll fight the creakiness and crankiness and just down-right abominations that come with getting old. My hair may be grey, but my soul isn’t. It’s well beyond grey.

It’s come out on the other side where some things just don’t matter any more.

That takes time. Multiple incarnations and many hours of pain and happiness, each allotted as God sees fit.

Little Miss has just gone out for the evening. She may be back soon, but she’s always a good indicator of when it’s time for me to call it a day.

And so I shall.

Good night and God speed. May the Lord hold you and keep you, and shower you with happiness and joy that defies all reason. May your life be blessed and full and overflow on those around you. May you nestle in God’s bosom when you lie down to sleep tonight. And every night.

I have a bosom waiting. I’m going to go snuggle up next to it.

My advice is that you do the same.

JM

Faith-Based Redux: Need I Say Moore?

Michael Moore: serious reformer with relevant facts and ideas or disingenuous, sloppy-thinking show-boater addicted to media attention: you decide.

Read this.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/Movies/07/15/moore.gupta/index.html

Bird in Flight

Mrs. Johnson was laid to rest next to her beloved Lyndon today under cotton ball clouds and a rich blue sky. The cicadas mourned with the family, friends and unknowns like me. A simple service carefully orchestrated for a simple woman who was anything but.

When her service yesterday started, the rains just came. It poured right on cue, almost as if paying its final respects. It didn’t rain hard enough to flood anything, just enough to feed the hills she so loved.

She’s next to Lyndon now. She spent her married life taking care of him, managing him and supporting him. He was legendarily difficult, but I know a thing or two about difficult men. Two in particular.

They don't really mean to be that way, but they just are. And when they're not being difficult, they're the sweetest, most thoughtful men you can find. They make other people jealous of their happiness and contentment.

My guess is that she never thought twice about Lyndon’s depressions, except how to get him back from one. His bad behavior was just Lyndon being Lyndon. She picked up the pieces again and again, nurtured him, and loved him more each time.

It was, most likely, never work or an imposition or even a burden. It was the evidence of a deep, abiding love that transcended description. One that didn't ask "Why?" so much as "How?" The "Why" was obvious.

And now, our Bird has flown back to him, which I suppose is the best ending for the story of her life.

I’m guessing that they’re sipping champagne at the Driskill Hotel where they met, watching others, or at the ranch, reminiscing and holding hands.

“Bird, I’ve missed you.”

“Now Lyndon, I was never gone.”

Bird in the Hand

Mrs. Johnson died this afternoon, and I had never really thought about why I've adored her for so long until now.

She epitomized an easy grace, dignity, humility and charm that, albeit Texas-style, I have rarely seen in my lifetime. She cared passionately about the world she left behind for her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She tirelessly campaigned, lobbied, cajoled and (I’m guessing) twisted a few arms to make her projects reality, a reality that benefits not just her family, but the entire American family.

We lost a national treasure today, one that we can never replace.

Others may imitate, but they would be wiser to simply draw inspiration. There has been and will only ever be one Lady Bird, and her life will resonate through the future in a way that few lives do. The coming generations my not realize it, but they owe her a debt of gratitude.

Some people talk; others act. Mrs. Johnson did both.

She will be sorely missed, but I’ll remember her every time I see the bluebonnets growing on the side of the freeway. Her legacy will live on as long as flowers bloom in the spring.


So, Mrs. Johnson, Godspeed, and thanks. I miss you already.

Bon Mots

From "Crazy in Alabama"--

"Life and death are only temporary. Freedom goes on forever."

Song of the Fat Lady

Those Wal-Mart people were back today at the corner of Burnet and Anderson carrying their red signs in their red shirts, the same faces I didn’t recognize before. I had to wonder if one of them was the “You don’t know me” person on the phone who warned that “I know where you live, so watch your back, bitch.”

I also had to wonder whether any of them watch TV or read a newspaper. In case they haven’t heard, the project has full approval and is moving forward in accord with local law.

It’s kind of like George Bush on TV saying that no one had any idea how bad things were in New Orleans. I don’t even have cable, but I knew. Don’t they at least get CNN at the White House? Do we need a special fund to provide the commander in chief with common knowledge?

I’m getting off-point, though. Deep breath. Moment of pause. Visualize. Re-center. Focus.

OK. I’m better.

I’m not sure why those Wal-Mart people were up there protesting a commercial development that’s already been approved. The planning commission and city council had no legal grounds to deny the permit. What do they expect to gain at this point? They fought, they lost.

Isn’t it time to go home? Hasn’t the fat lady sang loud enough yet?

Unfortunately for us all, Beverly Sills is no longer available. I wonder if they’d listen to Leontine Price. . .

Just a thought.

Breathe deep. Focus. Center. Meditate on fresh tomatoes, rosemary and oregano cooked lightly in olive oil with some garlic, basil and onion, poured onto angel hair pasta, topped with freshly grated parmesan and little balls of baby mozzarella tossed in. Salt and pepper to taste.

There. That wasn’t so bad.

With mouthy opinion you get recipe.

Any questions?

The End of the World (as We Know It)

While I sympathize with the organizers of the Earth Live concerts and support their efforts to make the world a better place that doesn’t eventually kill us all, I think they underestimate the power of Earth. All of civilization is but a blip in the life of the planet. It was here before we were, and it will be here when we’re gone.

Maybe they should talk about saving Western civilization as we know it, because that’s really what it’s all about. Dinosaurs were around a lot longer than Western civilization has been, and they died out. That, or morphed into the reptiles and birds we know today. Still, the planet remained and quietly bred our ancestors in its own time.

There is every likelihood that we will go the way of the dinosaurs at some point. Homo sapien certainly doesn’t have an exemption to long-term biological change (a.k.a. evolution). Regardless of what happens with global warming, if we survive, we won’t be the same people we were a million years ago.

The biggest threat that global warming poses isn’t to the planet: it’s to social and economic structures that constitute the foundation of our Western culture. Too many natural disasters, whether they be flood or drought, that the government cannot respond to will cause civil unrest. Irregular weather patterns that disrupt commerce will cause economic unrest. Businesses will fail, people will hoard emergency supplies and ammunition, the rule of law will begin to break down as one problem after another slowly erodes the glue of society.

That’s the real threat of global warming. And it’s the one that all the celebrity do-gooders aren’t talking about.

And as Lady Paris has taught us, celebrity status is not an indicator of insight or good judgment. If anything, it seems to make the shallow bowl an even shallower plate.

And it’s not that I question the celebrities’ motivations. I’m sure that most are quite pure.

But they’ve missed the big picture.

To get the masses behind finding a resolution to global warming, or even a half-assed way to address the issue, the message needs to framed differently than the old hippies and young neo-hippies are doing it. They’re mostly talking in abstract terms that don’t have very much impact.

They need to talk about how much money a person can save by using the little screw-in fluorescent bulbs. I spent $40 on some, and our electric bill dropped by more than $40 in the first month. I didn’t do it out of love for Mother Earth, because she’ll be here long after I’m gone. I did it for love of green pieces of paper in my wallet that could be used to do things other than light our apartment.

Don’t tell folks that sea levels will rise, because most of them don’t live close to a sea. It’s their problem for living within a few feet of sea level. Not enough people will care.

Instead, talk about the upheaval in daily life that will accompany the eventual breakdown of civic institutions that can no longer respond to an endless string of death and disaster. Tell them about saving money now.

Talk in real terms, not in glam-speak. We don’t need any more psuedointellectual pop stars and actors with good intentions but no perspective.

Re-brand, re-market, re-something. Just get down off that luxury soap box and talk about real issues. And if you can’t talk about real issues, then just shut up.

All that hot air can’t be good for the ozone layer.

Faith Based

I have long harbored a distaste for Michael Moore, whose new film “Sicko” is causing much the same uproar as his earlier releases, but until today, I’ve never been able to quantify my dislike of him. Until now, he's been like the sand you don't mean to get into your drawers at the beach. That little piece of popcorn husk stuck in your teeth. That odd smell you can't quite place until you realize it's been too long since you cleaned out the fridge.

Well, I found the source of that offensive smell, itch and irritation. And it ain't the fridge that stinks.

It isn’t so much the buffoonish way he approaches issues of such gravitas, although I do find that disrespectful and offensive on some level. It isn’t his reliance on cheap tricks, like show-boating in front of the camera when people refuse to talk to him, or shouting through a bull-horn off the coast of Cuba. It’s not even his smug, smart-ass attitude that pervades the far-left and right equally.

It’s his sloppiness. Not in dress, but in thought (although he really should rethink his wardrobe--God does make things besides sloppy T-shirts and khakis that obviously haven't seen a dry-cleaner in years).

I listened to a conversation this morning between Slate’s Dana Stevenson and Timothy Noah (listen here: http://www.slate.com/id/2169131/nav/tap1/) that clarified my own negative reaction to the man. They both pointed to what could be called the delineation of a set of problems or circumstances with no attempt to look at them intellectually. Ms. Stevenson even opined that the latest film’s logic would not have stood up in her high school debate club.

That’s when I had my epiphany: Moore does not come from a position of logic so much as belief. Like empty-headed extremists on both sides of both parties, he believes he is right and doesn’t feel the need to prove it.

To him it’s as self-evident the inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness were to Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Adams. He doesn’t feel the need to explicate or intellectually develop any argument for injustice the way that the framers of the Declaration of Independence so agonizingly did.

The whole issue has also helped me clarify my distaste for the so-called political intelligencia in Austin, TX, the city where I have chosen to make my home. I moved here in part because of its liberal reputation and have lived happily as an openly gay man for over 15 years. I enjoy the freedom of liberalism, but I cannot respect a large part of self-identified liberals here who, among other things, blindly hold corporate America responsible for all our country’s ills, from poverty to corruption in government to war.

There are many more causes for poverty, corruption and general governmental evil than they can fathom.

It’s their starting point for opinion, and not their conclusion. If you start any line of reasoning with “Given that corporations are responsible for the downfall of our nation”, just imagine where you can end up.

The end result of such shallow thinking: anywhere you want, and still be able to be smugly assured that your opinion is intelligent because the other side just didn’t know where to start.

They seem to think they have a special dispensation of knowledge that needn’t be questioned because, well, it’s self-evident. It makes it so much easier to condemn everyone who disagrees with them, because they are obviously ignorant.

I abhor the politics of condemnation, especially when it it so obviously insincere.

As a country, we have have more in common individuals that we have different. Most of our values are the same, even though they might vary slightly.

We want the same thing: the right to be left the hell alone and pursue our lives in a legal manner without having someone looking over our shoulder or telling us which consenting adult we can or cannot have sex with.

They're just fundamental rights. That should be self-evident in the greatest country the world has ever known.

My right to dissent is guaranteed by the constitution, but that is not as self-evident as it used to be.

I love my country, and always will.

It is the greatest country that God has ever put on the Earth. It's the end result of blood shed that I don't think any of us today could imagine. Hundreds of thousands dead in the South in the Civil War. That doesn't count the number of Union Army dead.

It's both staggering and humbling to thing that we're still a nation after all that.

There are still a few of us true intellectuals out there, trying our best to differentiate between liberal and intelligent and who condemn grand-standing and show-boating as a valid part of the political process. A list of facts and/or opinions isn’t an argument. Unless the glue of reason holds them together and connects them in a logical chain, they are just a list of facts and/or opinions that carry with them not a shred of credibility and are in no way whatsoever constructive.

As a people, we seem to be immune to the politics of destruction, regardless of which side is the destroyer, and they’re both equally guilty. We’ve replaced substance with slogans in an almost Orwellian way. We don’t think, because other people offer to do it for us. We simply follow like sheep whomever we think shares our beliefs, never once rising to the task of sorting things out in our own minds for ourselves.

That is why Michael Moore and Austin liberals annoy me so much: they want to make a lot of noise but not bother with the hard work of proving their points. They want to start with what they see as self-evident truths. But they have abdicated their responsibilities as citizens in many ways by not exposing their beliefs to the light of reason.

As I said earlier, extremists on both sides of both parties are guilty as sin on these counts.

Close your eyes and imagine the world we would live in if our founding fathers had not agonized over their argument for independence. They started with simple ideas that were self-evident and went on to explicate them in such a brilliant manner that they were hard to argue with. They framed their position tersely and elegantly, with no grand-standing or show-boating. They had a point to make, and they made it.

Then they went off to lead a revolution.

Now, those are some folks I could get behind.

Mr. Pinto

Little Miss isn’t happy tonight. She can’t go out because of the aforementioned threat. Chances are it was a hollow threat by a coward who will never act on anything. But I’ve never been one to gamble. She’ll stay in as long as I think necessary.

She may think she’s the boss, but she ain’t.

Being all paternal about her has brought Mr. Pinto to mind. He was our 18 year old cat that died in February. He was a gem.

Shannon says that someone dropped him over the fence when he was about 6 months old. They became fast friends. Pinto rode in the saddle bags of his motorcycle to carpentry job sites. He would sit off to the side, never fazed by the noise or chaos that those kind of sites produce.

In his later years, Mr. Pinto fell in love with our black leather sofa. He rarely got off of it. Just enough to eat and go to the litter box. He stopped going outside and started looking ragged.

Mr. Pinto was running down.

One day, he was doing worse than normal, so Shannon took him to the vet. The vet wanted to put him down, but Shannon said “No”. He called me at work, and I told him that he had done the right thing.

The vet said Pinto wasn’t in any pain, but his kidneys were failing.

The thought of Pinto being euthenized in a cold, sterile room by someone he did not know screamed to me one response: “NO!!!”

They gave him some shots, and he lived another week in no apparent pain. He seemed happy to have a reprieve, and even ventured outside a bit.

On a Monday morning in February, he crawled off into our closet to die. Shannon found him there, and brought him out. I put him on his favorite pillow on his favorite couch in his preferred corner of his favorite couch.

He passed from us about 2 pm that day.

The only comfort I can take is that he died where he was happy.

Mr. Pinto had a good run, and he was well-loved.

I’m not sure what better obituary, belated that it is, could end as well.

I’ll see you on the other side, old man.

Until then, don't get too attached to anyone. We'll be there soon enough. I may have another husband in tow, but he'll like you, too.

He was a redhead, just like you.