I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.
Summer, 1970
Fast Eddie
I’ve lived my life largely with cats. I’m not bad at identifying dogs. Put one next to a known object - say, a chrome toaster - and I’ll identify the dog thing right away. I’ve owned a lot of toasters. Don’t get me wrong…..I’ve got nothing against dogs. I just can’t figure them out. It’s mostly the drama queen and strange proclivities thing. The only units I can compare them to are cats - the only items I know well.
A couple of examples come to mind. I can’t think of the last time I saw a cat walk by a dog box, look in and proclaim, “Wow! Tootsie Rolls!” then proceed to eat one, lick his chops and say, “Are there any more?” I’ve seen dogs consume the dumpings of numerous different animals such as cats, cattle, sheep, rabbits and others. I’m no nutritionist, but……….. Not to judge diets, but I’ve noticed cats to be a bit more selective.
Let’s discuss independence for a moment. If you tell your dog you have to go away for a couple of hours it fucks his mind up pretty bad. Drama Queen sets in. You are grilled: “Who’s gonna feed me? Who’s gonna walk me? Who’s gonna pet me?” Stuff like that, know what I mean? I regard these questions as indicators of H.M.S. (High Maintenance Syndrome).
On the other hand, if you tell your cat you’re going away for, say, two weeks he may lean up on one elbow from his prone position and say, “Dude…..you might want to leave plenty of food and water (or maybe leave the toilet lid open). If you don’t take care of business, when you get back you may find dead rats or birds, lizards or insects on the floor - shit like that. Your choice, man. I don’t really care. Have yourself a good time.”
Yeah, I know the cat will piss on the sofa. But then the dog will come along and tear off the cover trying to get to the smelly stuffing. This is, in the end, why both animals exist. Human patience needs testing.
So it’s the summer of 1970. I and my wife of six months are living in northwest Phoenix. 2218 W. Morton Street to be precise. We’re both students commuting across the valley daily to Arizona State. It’s the first house we’ve rented. Troy and Sue Turner own the place. Nice folks those two. Live and let live types. The rent is $185 a month. I am a graduate teaching assistant in the Sociology program whose contract spans only nine months (the two semesters) so I must find summer work to pay the bills during the break.
A friend of my wife has given her some sort of rat-ass little terrier - the wire haired pointy nose type who spends most of his waking hours standing his ground with bared teeth. He’s selectively yap-adelic. Parks himself on my side of the bed at night so that when I hop in after late night studies he growls and pretends to be defending my young wife’s virtue or something of the sort. I routinely launch him off the bed and curse at him.
I mentioned summer employment. At this time, I have taken a job selling Rainbow Vacuum Cleaners. Yeah that’s right. Dirt suckers. Much of my time is spent at the warehouse down on McDowell Road and about 7th Street listening to pep talks and sales tips from some guy who’s done it for a while, runs the warehouse and passes out leads. I know early on I’m not going to last long as a salesman. I manage to sell one to my mother in law and another to a large lady with her left breast in a sling from having had some recent operation. I knew this to be true because when I was in the middle of my sales pitch she had blurted out, “You ever see a titty in a sling?” This is not fiction. The conversation invades my memory from time to time at random moments. I would prefer it didn’t. They were the only two units I ever sold.
The warehouse wasn’t large and was filled with lots of boxes containing these water filter based vacuums. During the pep talks we often saw a small butterscotch flavored cat with a ringed tail darting around between the boxes. A head here, a tail there…..he never sat where we could see him, nor did he walk. He only ran. The sales manager hated him and sometimes chased him while trying to whack him with a broom. We, the sales force of four, nicknamed the cat “Fast Eddie.” The fact that we liked the cat enough to name him actually pissed off our boss. None of us was a particularly good salesman, which didn’t help matters.
One morning the manager told us he was going to trap the cat and kill it. Being a cat guy this obviously did not sit well with me. I took it up with him. I tried the old “live and let live” argument out on him but that only seemed to stoke his murderous resolve. To make matters worse one of the other guys started referring to him as “The Great White Hunter.” Bad idea. Worse than bad. I made one last plea, telling him that I would catch the cat and take him home. He gave me until the end of the day.
The first time the rat terrier met Fast Eddie it didn’t go well for him. His initial attempt at intimidation - the old charge and growl technique - got him a clawed nose and an irreparably damaged ego. A new sheriff had arrived unannounced and sent a message: “You suck, rodent. Maybe you should hide.” He rather quickly located a place where even his shadow could not find him. Walter Mitty would have been proud.
The rooms at 2218 were small and the central hallway narrow. I, who have a truly un-noteworthy wing span, could actually touch both walls with my arms raised and my elbows outstretched. Troy had built the place with his own hands. I never could bring myself to ask him about the hallway thing. Maybe in some past life I was a laundry chute inspector. Maybe not. That hall turned out to be Eddie’s racetrack. Sitting in the little living room one would hear a familiar sound and then look up to spot the last of his tail disappearing in one or the other direction past the opening into the hallway at one end of the living room. He simply ran everywhere. Perhaps he reckoned the Devil was after him. I never queried him about his religious views. How does one talk to a passing car?
My morning routine was to head down the hall to the little kitchen at the far (does that adjective actually apply here?) end of the hall for who knows what reason. I am not a breakfast eater. Never have been. It was the one instance when Fast Eddie would slow down. He didn’t eat on the run. He would, however, dash by me from wherever he had been hanging out and pace rapidly around the kitchen Jonesing to be fed. It was about the only time he was vocal. He let one know in no uncertain terms why one was in the room.
The one time I varied from my morning routine and detoured along the way he actually returned from the kitchen, agitated, and literally clamped onto the back of my right calf. His training technique was effective. We never needed to have that conversation again. I’m a quick study as they say.
An indoor/outdoor cat, he must have been a good hunter if only because of his speed although he never brought any of his trophies into the house. Good strategy. A human female lived there. Those items are well known to be intolerant of such behaviors. Best not to cross them.
We had Fast Eddie for only a few months before the bad news struck. He was often waiting on the porch when I returned from school each day. On the day of his demise, he was not there. A neighbor who I recognized but had never met crossed the street and approached me. He asked, “Did you have a little yellow cat living with you?” The past tense in the question was both ominous and unwelcome. I answered simply, “Yes.”
“Well, I’m afraid he was run over by the garbage truck today. Saw it with my own eyes. He’s up on that lawn over there. I pulled him off the street. I’m afraid he’s pretty flat. Those trucks are heavy.”
I digested his words. Comical, in a way, but hurtful. Fast Eddie was now Flat Eddie. The little friend who you barely caught a glimpse of running around the house wasn’t quick enough to outrun a garbage truck. Ironic.
I’ve never buried a pet. Not my thing. Gone is gone. Memories are good enough for me. I put his little ruined body in a plastic bag, pulled the draw strings tight and tossed him in - well - a big trash can. Seemed only fitting. It’s been over a half century since that fateful day. I didn’t need a gravesite. His squirrelly little memory lives on. Fast Eddie wasn’t so fast after all.
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