Spiro Was a Good Cat

I've had an awful couple of weeks, spent either doing too much navel-gazing or cleaning up the messes of others. In fact, I'm so full of regret and exhaustion that, quite absent-mindedly, I almost combed my hair with my razor today.

And if I ever get up off my lazy ass and get to writing seriously, that'll make a great first line of a story someday.

There have been a scant few moments of joy along the way. Here's one.

I was on the phone with my father two Wednesdays ago. To quote Fitzgerald, my father and I have "always been unusually communicative in a reserved way." I was talking to him about a whole host of things, including the fact that I'm thinking about getting a pet for the first time in a long time.

I'm going to get a cat; I'm just not sure when. Certainly not now, because my apartment complex doesn't allow cats if they're not de-clawed, and I won't have a de-clawed cat. I understand why people think that's a good idea; I'm just not one of those people. I think it's cruel.

Anyway, as I'm going on about wanting to get my first pet in over 10 years, out of nowhere he tells me this story about a cat named Spiro (yes, kids, for that Agnew guy). Incredulous at the fact that he'd had a cat named Spiro, I just had to hear more.

Now, as you read the following, it's even better if you can hear my dad's voice. For those of you who haven't met him, think of my voice lowered an octave and a touch more on the brusque side.

"Yep, I had a cat named Spiro. He actually belonged to all of us--me, Gary and Jon (his best friends and roommates at the time). Now, you see, the thing about Spiro was he loved to hang out on our spiral staircase. He'd just plant himself in about the middle of the stairs, which were those open air jobs (the kind without risers). Whenever one of us would walk by, cool cat that he was, he'd quietly try to swipe our toupees. 'Course, the problem was none of us had toupees, you know?"

And I was laughing. Just couldn't help myself. It was the first time I'd laughed in, oh, 72 hours or so. And my dad did what anyone who'd received laughter from his storytelling would do: he continued.

"Ah, but there was one night, when Gary had some people over from work. And one of the poor guys walked under the staircase on his way to the bathroom. And ol' Spiro's just sittin' there, king of the whole place. And once that guy went under him, sure enough: THWIP! Off comes that guy's rug, and Spiro fuckin' bolts, man. I mean, he rockets up that staircase, and the guy's goin' apeshit chasin' after him."

I was, at this point, laughing hysterically.

"Spiro hides under the dresser upstairs, and oh no: he's not lettin' go of that toup. Gary ran up there after them, apoplectic as he could be, and he tried to get it back from Spiro. Me and Jon are just laughin' it up. Now, after a good little fight, Spiro let go of it, but not before he'd chewed a hole right through the middle of it.

"Yeah...Spiro was a good cat."

Was there some deeper meaning to all this? Of course not. It's merely a funny story, at least to me. So why did I preface it all with that Gatsby quote? Because one of the things about my father is that he knows that, regardless of how awful things are for me, sometimes all I need is a good story.

This good story suffers from my retelling, but I post it nonetheless. I hope it's been worth your time to read it.


Read: I Never Sang for My Father, by Robert Anderson
Watch: Redbelt (dir. David Mamet, 2008)
Listen to: Still, Moving, Light, by Simon Fisher Turner