LOVE IT TO DEATH

Cats can say more to me with a flick of the tail than all the words standing
elbow to elbow on my bookshelf. Do I believe that? Have you ever loved a cat?
You'll believe anything if the cat you love spells it out in that special way,
reeling you in like a lucky fish to melt your composure into a dish of milky, silly,
languishing kisses. Kitties can do this to me.

Ah yes, cats. Petulant, manipulative and cocky with insecure machismo—
sooo pretty and soft, with twinkley eyes. There have been all kinds of other
beasts who have wormed their way inside of me, but cats do it the best.
I think it's safe to say I'm a fanatic about animals period. Any of'em, from the
mangy, deformed possum to the fine pageantry of a coifed-to-the-teeth
toy poodle. It really seems like a dream now, but when I was 9, 10 and 11,
I spent most weekends volunteering at this organization called the Animal Center
at a park in Inglewood, CA. This place had zillions of animals—nothing like
cats or dogs. It was all about snakes, spiders, birds, goats, several different types of
rodents, bunnies, lizards and tons of reptiles including of course, Iggy Pop
(the iguana). It was a place where kids could come and we would teach
them about the animals—everything from where they originated to how they
gave birth. We showed them how to hold the healthy/tame ones and they
would just freak out! The animals were often sick when they came to us
and we treated them for all kinds of gnarly stuff, even did minor surgeries.
Here's the trippy thing to me: I swear to god, I knew everything you
could know about these animals. I studied alot and I was quick.
I was the youngest volunteer, but knew more than some of the teens
heading for college to become vets. I was a smart little fucker—an animal
savant. I know I'm bragging, but somehow I think it's ok, cuz I've given up
alot of real estate in my brain to drugs since then and I now have trouble
remembering what the beginning of the sentence that I'm trying to finish was.
That's why it seems like a dream, that stuff was SCIENCE. I was good at it!
It could've been a cinch to go off in that direction without skipping a beat
and never become a musician at all. Thank god for drugs—Ha. When I was 18, I
even started working with Stan, the guy who ran the place, on his regular
gig, taking the animals to schools as a traveling science class.
Unfortunately, I was in a short lived spell of reasonable living, which soon
ended, along with my carreer as the "punk-rock-animal-teacher-lady".

Here are some tidbits about cats I've lived with:
{Click on photos to enlarge}

The first kitty was Aphrodite. I was so little when we had her that I didn't remember at all
until I found this picture of her with Mr. Tortoise:




If you look closely, you can see that Mr. Tortoise has his address painted on his shell
with "Hard As Nails" irridecent pink nail polish.

Aries was the first cat I remember having. He wasn't just mine, he was everybody's.
Plus they don't belong to us the way our favorite shoes do, right?



So anyways, I think that we got Aries the kitten when I was about 5 or six years old.
He was black with long hair. He had white paws and white that came down from between his eyes,
around his cheeks and chin and down the middle of his belly. He looked kinda like Batman in a tuxedo.
Plus he was a wise sage. He was strong and fun. I love bruiser cats that come home with big cuts
and patches of fur missing, and then you think, "I'd hate to see the other guy". He was like that.
I loved him more than anybody. This love, combined with the unfortunate fact that he was smaller than me
caused him some problems. Basically, if he wanted to go somewhere else when I wanted to hold him,
I wouldn't let him go. And then, if he did anything I didn't like, I hit him. It was like before I even knew
what I was doing, some impulse would just shoot my hand out and I'd cuff him on the top of the
head or the butt, hard. If only he was a gargantuous-sized cat like the one (also long black hair)
in "The Master And Margarita"(by M. Bulgakov), I never would have fucked with him.
The people whose behavior I was recreating never wouldn't have touched that Bulgacov cat either.
To tell the truth, there is not much I remember about Aries except I still cringe when
I recall the image of his face scrinching into that position with ears flattened, bracing for another impact.
When I was about ten, Aries had been gone for a couple of days. This is one of my only vivid
childhood memories: Morning time, pouring rain, knock on the door, neighbor person.
I was wearing only a huge tie-dyed t-shirt belonging to my stepdad that went down
way past my knees. That and underwear. Person at the door asks us if our cat is missing.
There's a cat that looks like him...."Where!! Where?!?." I'm already feeling the worst pain in my life.
He's barely getting the words out and I'm out the door, my mom screaming after me
to put some clothes on. Barefeet running my ass off, soaked and slipping in the rain
'round the corner, down the Robolo Ave. hill. Down at the end, stiff cat in a bread bag in the rain.
It's him. I'm shattered. Inconsolably changed. I'm thinking now about what I must've looked like.
Long hair chopped any which way, growing over my face. Very dark skin with tons of bruises,
scabs and scars, plus flea bites galore. I was an athletic tomboy, very allergic to fleas,
living with semi-wild-'70's parents in a house with huge shag carpets and a furious flea infestation.
Probably stood all of 4 feet maybe. Crying that could've turned me inside out. Heading back
up the hill, refusing to let the neighbor guy help me carry my dead cat home. End of memory.


My second cat was Socrates. We often called him Sox (black with white feet)—
though not as often as you might think. He was the miracle cat. A couple of weeks after Aries died,
Sox was born to some girl cat down the street. These neighbors said they had a litter of kittens
whose dad couldn't have been anyone but Aries. One of them was identical down to the last whisker.
They wanted me to have it. It was fate. As far as I can remember, he really did turn out to be the same
(except somehow even wiser).



By the time I was 14, he was not around. I don't remember what happened. I had been sent away
for a year and everything was different after that. Hazy memorys. I do know that while he was around,
I gave him that same treatment as Aries re: cat-beating and control issues. It's a real double-loser scenario.
All I wanted was love but the more I couldn't let go and the more I let blind rage masquerade as discipline,
well you know, I was dissed. Plus he got his very own twisted perseption of life. This was when I began
making a conscious effort not to do to smaller things stuff that I didn't want done to myself.
The next part of time was a bizarre, "don't think about it too much" period where six family pets
(that I can think of), died young or disappeared. All of this happened between when I got out
of the place (14), and moved out on my own (16). I think they all died between 12 months during
1981 and 1982. My recollections from this time are so sketchy, I can count specific memories
on one hand, maybe two. First of all, though not a cat, Mr. Tortoise was a constant friend since
I was three or four years old. When my parents moved to the new house, we put him in the yard
as we always had, but when spring hit and hibernating (bury yourself in the dirt) time was over,
he never came around again. There was also a tiny dog named Galadriel who drowned
in my parents hot tub.

But back to the cats. When I was 14 or 15, I got a kitten (Janis, after Janis Joplin). She was white with
big abstract, patchwork spots. Rust, black, brown. I got her at six weeks old and she was dead before
the seventh. I don't know what I was thinking, now when I look back on it. There's so many complicated
things that intersected here. I was terribly attached to this kitten. I brought her with me places, which I knew
way better than to do. She was so tiny and fantastic. I was using everyday, but I wasn't as drugged
out as I had been. I don't know what I was thinking. The story is short, but it packs a wallop for me.
While hanging one day at the local stoner-kid-with-a-cool-mom's house, I left her sleeping
on a friend's chest in the back bedroom while I was punking out in the front. I had confirmed with
my friend that she was there and not to let the dog (Rags) in. I still don't know what happened,
I heard a yip and a kitten scream and some stuff jostling around. I ran in there and saw her.
I knew it was curtains. We brought her in the kitchen. Burned into my retina: Kitten on paper towel.
Eye popped out, head bitten through. I don't remember what I did next. The stoner kids said
I became so hysterical, they were afraid I would hurt them or me. They said I kicked that stupid Sheetzu
up in the air and against the wall. One of the older guys who lived a few houses away was called.
He came over and restrained me and was nice. Thinking back on it, knowing that this was 20 years ago
gives me some pleasure just thinking that Rags is certainly dead now. But at the same time,
whose fault is it, really? (I want to note here that my friend who woke up too late to save my cat
is not who I'm talking about, though he did die in a freak skateboarding accident. RIP.)


Phillis, Persephone and Mia were all cats that tried to make it under our roof. Phillis,
I have only a vague image of this kitty, but I know she died. Persephone, though I can't
remember anything about her now, was more associated with me, I think. Maybe I found her
or something. She died in a bad, slow way. I remember my mom and I trying to follow the
vet's directions for home health care. I remember tubes and syringes. Mia was the first in my
stepfather's sudden preference for long-haired, poochy faced, pedigree cats, female. She died a gruesome
death by my mom using the flea shampoo full strength instead of 1 capful per 3 gallons of water.
Next time read the label.



They got another cat that looked like Mia. I hated status symbols and associated pedigrees
with every fucking deceptive advertisement, every blue-blooded blood sucker, every Ronald Reagan
happy face, every Barbie doll drone that ever whipped me in the head with her long (yuchh!) golden,
blow-dried, under control hairdo. I didn't blame this new cat, but I didn't like it either. Amanda was the
name, and purrin' was the game. One of those cats that look huge, but when you pick 'em up, they could
be a few twisted pipe cleaners covered in long fluff. Very soft...Duh. Here's the thing though: Amanda's papers
were not quite in order. It turned out that she wasn't just an athletic chick with a lot of facial hair, this
kitty turned out to be a real boy! Sweet, dainty, a bit of a fairy to be sure, but after multiple inspections, he
was clearly 100% m-a-l-e. Well now I loved the cat. His new name was Armondo, he was an excellent listener,
gave great fashion tips, and I was thrilled to see my step dad's eerie policy for only beautiful, soft, FEMALE
cats-foiled. It didn't last long though. Dad wouldn't stop calling him Amanda and really didn't care for
the little guy sacheting around making goo-goo eyes at everyone. My oldest sister Leah who had her own
apartment, was worried the cat would suffer an identity crisis and go berserk. She took Armondo, re-named him
Lyndsey and has had one of the worlds coolest cats for herself and her family, ever since.That makes six.

Zev and Rattlehead came into my life around 1986, I was in my pitch black kill-puff phase. Not a pretty time.
Zev was gray with orange bits, a girl. Rattlehead was an orange boy-cat. Zev was kind of pensive and deep, but
Rattlehead was lighthearted and fun—not the sharpest tack in the box, but perfect in every way. I've noticed
that most short-haired, bright orange boy-cats are like this, too. That's why they can be particularly good
chums. Rattlehead's name came from a Megadeth or Metallica song. They didn't get much of a shot at the good
life. A low point was having been evicted from a house I was squatting at, I waited till the last day to "move".
I was off somewhere pulling a scam when they started bulldozing the house.
I barely got them out within an inch of their lives.


Tigey and Snowy. AKA: Tiggle-Biggle and Shnee. Both of them specialists, the specialest cats I know.
I'm not kidding. I learn how to live a little better by watchin 'em. They don't compete or fight, except to play.
They don't pretend they don't adore you, or manipulate at all. They're best friends and they have been since
the day they met, mid-1988.



I was living at this time in a tiny avocado and orange grove town called Valley Center. Tigey was
6 weeks and Snowy was about 3 months old. They were a gift for my best friend and longtime
roommate-to-be, Ronny, back in LA. Tigey came from a litter of kitties that some guy in a store
was giving away. I wasn't sure how to pick, but Tigey picked me. He was fixated on me and had
these tiny lock-up claws that were making sure exactly which cat went home with me. He was so
handsome, with light brown, beige and black tiger-stripes, the type of kitten that is so beautiful
and ready for anything, you find yourself trying to remember if you've ever seen a little thing so
remarkable as this. Sometimes when Tigey is in a particularly "Barry White" kinda mood, I call
him Dr. Love. Snowy came from way out in a field somewhere. Snowy was feral-I guess, I mean he
was filthy and stinky with a big, runny nose and a weepy, puss-eye. And yeah, he did run into things or
just plain fall over when he would walk, but at the same time, he has always been the most Zen
kinda kitty that I ever saw. Snowy's the white cat. He's got hilarious black spots tossed off with
no rhyme or reason at all. He's a string bean of a cat—DJ Longboard. He melts into your arms
and shows you about trust. He has the best sense of humor of any guy I know.*

I lived with them for a few years, definitely in many ways the best in my life. Now they live with
Ronny and Ronny's wife Bex, on a beautiful uncontrollable bunch of rambling land way out in the canyon.
There is always a whole crew of dogs and cats, pigs, spiders, birds, rats, what have you, around.
Cuddling is the number one pastime, and though there are a couple of feuds that have been
going on now for a while, most everybody eventually ends up in a big heap of
"incompatible animal types" snoring their butts off.

Billy was never my cat, but I loved him dearly. He belonged to Daniel from the Fibbers.
Long, black hair. Another bruiser cat that was so fun. I won't go on too much but I guess
I'll just tell about one of my favorite ways that he used to entertain us. Sometimes we'd be
in the back yard and Billy was on the roof. When we were watching him, he'd steady himself
for a second and jump the 6 or 7 feet over to the roof of the garage. So graceful, it looked
like slow motion. It's a little hard to explain how wild this was. The thing is, by the time I met
Billy, he was not a young guy anymore. It was a fucking scary thing to do. It was far, the house
was rickety, I don't know, it just seemed terribly exciting. That's how Billy acquired the apt nickname,
"The Black Dolphin". Oh, one more thing. Billy loved to eat mice. One time we came upon his fat
cheeks right in time to see him sucking up the last of a mouse, the tail, just like a piece of spaghetti.

*More about Snowy in the Scarnella song, "Snowy".

Runaway and her daughters Shy Girl and Lil' Tuffy are three of the four cats that live with
Nels, myself and our roommate:
Bobb Bruno...

They all were given to me at once, about 4 1/2 years ago. At that time, Tuffy and Shy Girl were
about five weeks old. They were brought to me by some neighborhood girls, Rosa and America,
that came around sometimes. They stole them from down the street where they said the cats
were being kept in a wire cage and sprayed with water by some drunk guys who were using their
frightened reactions as entertainment. I didn't want pets, 'cuz I was touring a lot, but the cats
were in bad trouble, so I said I'd take them while the 3 of us tried to find a home. Ha. The fleas
were so bad that they swarmed over their faces and eyes. I washed 'um up. It was obvious quick
that the mom cat was in the foulest of demeanors, and in very poor health—skin and bones.
The kittens were fat from breast-feeding, but it looked like they were sucking the life out of her.
The doctor brought her back to life and she soon became more than pleasantly plump. It took
about 4 years from the day she realized that I would feed the other two, for her to let the kittens
touch her again, and even then only to briefly sniff her. Her name is Runaway and that's what she
did if anything came near her. Runaway was damaged mentally. I assume the best example of a
pleasant feeling she had before would had been something like being left alone for a few days
without food. It seemed like she'd been bashed in the head. Her eyes stayed wide and dilated for
2 years. She didn't meow, smile or purr even once, for two years. She's terrified by loud sounds,
fast moves, and potentially anything around her. Her eyes are just weird, like they’ve been
screwed with. She was a mess, and a real bitch to boot, but something has happened, I think
as a result of her two other near death experiences in the last couple of years* and the mad
love at her beckon call. Now she is funny and actually the most playful one. Well, partly due
to her daughters being a little bent from continually trying to get love from a mom that hit them
in the face when they came close. Generation to generation to generation, whose fault is it?

*Soon I’ll tell about the other two times she almost died.
Extraordinary survival stories.

Runaway is in her renaissance. Her changes are so dramatic, she is certainly a poster child for
the beneficial aspects of love, kindness and rock and roll. She weighed 7 pounds when I got her and
now she weighs at least 15, and she's a beautiful lady, large and lovely like Edie the Egg Lady.
Sometimes she gets so delirious with happy purrings and rolling around on her back or stretching out
(back bent into a crescent moon waiting to be rubbed, petted and spanked) that I think she might
stay blissed out like that permanently, but she always manages to save some of that Mean Queen
stuff for the next time she's irritable. When I think about the way things have been for her, I see my
life and hers as pretty much the same. And I hear people say all the time that nobody changes.
It’s not true.


Tuffy is the easiest for most house guests to fall in love with. She's ridiculously cute. She's very
soft and likes to be pet. She is most likely to rub up against you when you arrive. She has a funny,
whiny meow that can be so expressive you know right away that she's smart as a whip. She is more
kinda "glued" to me then the other girls. She's definitely the drop-dead pretty one of the bunch,
and she's been working on her sense of humor. For instance, lately she's been starting to grasp
the ironic meaning of her name. It's a weird dynamic around here. As a result of mom being
something of a deadbeat meany, Lil' Tuffy and Shy Girl (more about her later) have always tried to
treat each other just as their mom has treated them. So they hit and call names, etc., all the while
secretly devoting their lives to sneaking closer and closer to whatever spot Runaway is in at the time.
Validation, it's an elusive butterfly. I hate when they fight. It's fucked up that they can't play and
cuddle like Tigey and Snowy do. Tuffy has a mysterious side. Sometimes when she comes home from
carousing outside, she smells distinctly like dog.

I do have a favorite. I know it's unlucky to choose, and I truly love them all, but Shy Girl, the evil
one, makes me silly as soon as I even look at her and then that tiny, hoarse, chirping, scratchy
meow and that little face, oh god! Nels thinks she's like a salty old ship's captain smoking a
corncob pipe. I think she looks like an devilish mastermind able to conquer heart or nation with
a single wink. She's that irresistible. And tiny! She's only slightly heavier than a loaf of bread.
The fact is though, Shy Girl is a fierce warrior. Mice, lizards, birds, stay away! She’s unpredictable
and sometimes weirds out with hissing and bolting during peaceful moments. She's very loving
and sometimes this becomes so urgent for her that she demands love rudely. It's like she's an
Indian who has chosen to take on the practices of the whiteman just because he has fallen in love
with the lady that gives him his supper, but could flick a switch and become a blood-lusting wilderbeast
ruling the wilds, forever if she felt like it. She has a turtle shell coat. Those are the patchy coats that
are so nonsensical that the creature often looks like a funny little Picasso, or what a
madman sees when he passes a mirror.

The most recent cat to move in here is Bunny.

She belonged to a friend who had to simplify things for awhile. She's the old-timer, 9-ish. I try to tell
them to be cool to the old folks, but the other cats still treat her like shit. She handles it fine, she's a
pretty tough cookie. She wins the prize for most wonderful meowings. She makes so many different
sounds. They're nasal, yet musical, like Edith from All In the Family. She does these two separate note
things that sound like unscrewing a rusty pipe. She smiles, a lot. Her tail is so puffy, it's almost as wide
as her body. She has the cutest paws ever. I can't describe them, but trust me, they rule.

Hopefully soon I can update this and tell you that Runaway, Tuffy, Shy
Girl and Bunny aren't fucking with eachother anymore.
Yes, I'm cat-whooped.

R.I.P. TIGEY
(I wrote this a couple of months ago. Since that time, Tigey died.
I miss him lots).




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