Maybe like Captain Willard, I was looking for a mission, and for my sins they brought me one. Only the messenger in this case was a friend and the particular sin was a failure to commit.

Ah, a lack of commitment. For the past few years, I’ve bounced around in the study of martial arts, training with different instructors, in both group and private settings. I attended classes with zero thought for either the journey of self-discovery or earning belts or badges. If I learned something new, that was a sufficient milestone–even if I was the only one who recognized the progression.

One night, something remarkable happened. During an in-class demonstration, a rather frail looking older gentleman knocked a man half his age and twice his weight more than six feet from the point of impact with a strike that appeared to require no more effort than a waiter dropping a bill on a table. After realizing what happened, I took away three things from that night.

First, size did not dictate the amount of energy a person could channel in the right circumstance. This Grand Master was 130 pounds dripping wet and on the short side. Second, certain skills defied a conventional explanation and therefore later people might doubt what happened, even those people who witnessed it. Unlike a boxer or MMA fighter, this martial artist barely moved, yet caused a tremendous reaction in his target. Last, I wondered if I would ever have the chance to learn to focus energy with such precision.

Last week the chance appeared. And like Willard, the mission came up to me like room service. Of course I agreed.

When the universe offers a chance to learn from Yoda, the only answer is yes.

Two things about the one they called Bandito were obvious at first sight: one, he was the tiniest kitten in the litter, and two he needed a name change before coming home.

Number two was easily fixed, and the first issue resolved itself. Bandito, the short hair black kitty, son of two random stray cats who stumbled into a rental together one night in New Brunswick, became Oedipus Maximus. And thus began my relationship with a cat who eventually tipped the scales slightly south of twenty pounds. Maybe a bit more north during the Holiday season.

Oedipus saw me through college graduation, a divorce, a novel release, and a host of situations my mother shouldn’t learn about by reading this public entry. But there many good times to be sure. There were moments I will never forget. There were thousands of days and nights. And there were so many lessons.

For instance, Oedipus taught me how to live more fully. To love the people who matter most without conditions. He taught me that pats were good for everybody. And to take a nap each day. More than one nap when possible.

He also taught me about the kind of sorrow one can only experience when truly loving someone. Because without warning, Oedipus developed a serious kidney issue last week and the best option for treatment was no option at all.

So after nearly fifteen years together, this morning I placed Oedipus on the examination table at the vet’s office. I held both of his front paws as the vet shaved down his right rear inner leg. Before the syringe found its mark on a fresh patch of exposed skin I kissed Oedipus one last time, and told him I loved him with all my heart. Then the life in his eyes faded away like a lit flare tumbling down a black well.

Oedipus Maximus is gone now. His spirit will begin the journey his body could no longer manage.

And I am certain that the one they once called Bandito has again found his way to a new home.

Even years after my grandfather passed, certain moments we shared seem very new. For whatever reason, something triggered a favorite memory.

Grandpa loved fishing. Whenever he was able, for as long as he was able, he grabbed the gear and headed to his favorite spot in Missouri. If I was in town, he took me along. Since his favorite spot was a 1000 acre lake, having some way to move between points quickly made sense. There was one wrinkle: Every trip meant hauling a 57 pound motor and gas tank down to the dock.

One time we started unloading the car in the parking lot. I grabbed a tackle box, a homemade anchor and half the rods.

“Hey Grandpa,” I said. “Have you ever thought about buying a bass boat? That way we can just launch and go.”
“Well, I looked at a few.” Grandpa nodded, a wistful look in his eye.
“Are you going to buy one?”
To the end, Grandpa had a way of relating his logic in a such a way that made it feel like a conversation instead of a monologue. And so his answer began plainly enough. “If I buy a boat, I need a slip and somewhere to store the boat in the winter. Also I’ll have to have a trailer to haul it, which brings me to another problem: I need another car to attach to the trailer. Something with four wheel drive.”
“That sounds expensive,” I said.
“It’s something to consider.”
“You know if you had a boat though it would be easier to get out to the lake. And we could fish longer because we wouldn’t have to return the rental.”
“I suppose we could. You know your grandmother gets awfully lonely if we’re not back by five.”
We finished the first trip between the car and the dock. I caught my breath.
“Hey, what if we rented a boat that had a motor attached? I’ve seem them at the dock. That way you don’t need to get a boat, a slip, trailer or a new car.” This I said, very certain that I made a few points with my own logic.
Grandpa unlocked the trunk. He smiled.
“Get the gas tank, son.”

Memories like those make it feel like he never really left. But he is gone now. And wherever he is, I hope he’s got the throttle wide open on a shiny new bass boat, before he has to head home for dinner.