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.

After a very long battle with dementia, my grandmother passed this Easter Sunday. Everyone likes to say their grandmother was the sweetest woman who lived, but in her case it was probably true. A trove of stories have circulated among family members that attest to her gentle nature for many years. This one will always be my favorite:

My parents had a rocky marriage. When I was seven, they decided to tackle the issues they had as a couple. Knowing  they needed space away from the routine to work through their situation together, they asked my grandparents to watch me for a month.

As planned, my parents returned for me in four weeks, refreshed and ready for a new beginning. However, after weeks with a steady supply of cookies and access to a BB gun, I was pretty set in my new digs. When my parents came to the door for me, I stayed on the couch. I didn’t budge.

My dad thought I was joking, so he started the car. My mom, more familiar with my stubborn nature, realized this was a matter of some consequence. She spent more than then fifteen minutes pleading and bargaining with me to come home.

But I didn’t budge. I staked my claim to a patch of couch next to my grandfather as he worked a New York Times crossword puzzle. A long cigarette burned in the astray next to him.

When it became clear I wasn’t going, my grandmother conferred with my Mom in private. Then my Mom went outside and waited in the car.

Grandma sat next to me on a divan. “Your parents are pretty upset about this. Maybe you could  go with them? They miss you an awful lot.”

“I like living with you and Grandpa,” I said. “I’m staying here.”

“Well,” Grandma said, “If you go with your parents now, I promise that we’ll come and visit you very soon.”

“Really?”

“I’ll call your Mom tomorrow and set it up.”

I hugged Grandma goodbye, and shook my grandfathers hand. Grandma sent me off with a few cookies for the road. My parents said nothing about the incident.

My grandparents came to visit me, just like Grandma promised. When we moved to California, I returned to Kansas for a summer visit. And I kept coming back. Part of every summer between the age of 8 and 22, I stayed with them. Grandma always had the cookies ready. And even though Grandpa swore to my parents he had sold the BB gun, Grandma let me know which closet he had “hidden” it from me.

When I think back to the great couch standoff now, I realize the depth of Grandma’s love. She respected my parents enough not to undermine their authority, yet recognized how much I liked being around her and Grandpa. And she came up with a way for everyone to win.

My grandparents are both gone now. But like in life, Lawrence and Barbara are together again.

And I remember the sort of unconditional love only a grandparent can give, only a child can receive, and only an adult can understand how unfortunately rare it really is.

Sometime in August, the very fuzzy gray and black Maine Coon named Electra lost a perilous amount of weight and nearly died. Her ailment manifested quite suddenly and without warning. One day she was fine, the next she could barely stand. The evil culprit: Hyperthyroidism.

Fortunately the condition–which is quite common among her breed, unfortunately–often responds to treatment. Two Tapazole pills a day, keeps the hyperthyroidism in check. Which really means smelly blobs of Whiskas cat food wrapped around pill bits; otherwise Electra refuses the medication. And since the Cat Army won’t stand for one member of the ranks receiving special treatment, they all get a bit of Whiskas. Clever Cat Army.

Saturday she visited the vet and according to their records, she’s fifty percent heavier than in August. Thank you, Whiskas blobs. And Tapezole.

I also feel fifty percent heavier since August, but I’m not nearly as cute.