Well, I don't normally do these things, but this one looking kinda fun, especially after posting the stuff about the fursona/character. :)

Enjoy. Comments most certainly welcome.


"40 Secrets About Yourself
Be honest no matter what."
Stolen from BryonyCoran

1. What is your natural hair color?
Black (what’s left of it that’s not white or gone)

2. Where was your default picture taken?
Picture or mug shot?

3. What's your middle name?
Albert

4. What's your current status?
Single

5. Honestly, does your crush like you back?
n/a

6. What is your current mood?
Busy.

7. What color underwear are you wearing?
White?

8. What makes you happy?
Being nose-to-nose with Drifter.

10. If you could go back in time, and change something what you would change?
Nothing, but I’d want to keep what I know now.

11.If you must be one animal - what would you be?
A leopard.

12. Ever had a near death experience?
Several, including a cougar mauling.

13. Something you do a lot?
Write.

14. What's the name of the song stuck in your head right now?
Saint-Saens, Symphony #3 “Organ”

15. Who did you copy and paste this from?
Lady Bryn (BryonyCoran)

16. Name someone with the same b-day as you?
Blake W Yorrick

17. When was the last time you cried?
Jan 26, 07

18. Have you ever sung in front of a large audience?
Quite a few times, church mostly.

19. If you could have a super power what would it be?
Telepathy.

20. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
Eyes. They’re the windows to the soul, so if there’s evil there, you know to stay away. }:>

21. What do you usually order from Starbucks?
Grande Café Mocha. Yum. High-octane chocolate. Can’t get better than that!

22. What's your biggest secret?
If I said it here, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, huh?

23. Favorite color?
Cobalt Blue

24. When was the last time you lied?
Can’t remember. I’m usually brutally honest, usually to the point of offending people.

25. Do you still watch kiddie movies or TV shows?
Yes.

27. What are you eating or drinking at the moment?
Orange Juice

29. What's your favorite smell?
I can’t say “favorite” as it’s rather pungent, but leopard scent evokes the most emotion in me, as they are animals that I truly admire.

30. If you could describe your life in one word what would it be?
Eventful

31. When was the last time you gave/received a hug?
Today (as long as family counts)

32. Have you ever been kissed in the rain?
Yep.

33. What are you thinking about right now?
If I had a billion bucks...

34. What should you be doing?
Sleeping (as I need to get up tomorrow)

35. What was the last thing that made you upset/angry?
Someone trying to steal something very important to me.

36. How often do you pray?
Every day, in one form or another.

37. Do you like working in the yard?
Yes. There’s peace to be found in hard work sometimes.

38. If you could have any last name in the world, what would you want?
I’m happy with the one I have, as I know it’s meaning and history.

39. Do you act differently around your crush?
When I have one, nope. I’m the same kitty, no matter who I’m with.

40. Name one song that reminds you of an ex?
“Never Surrender” by Corey Hart

*Snatched from Kaine_of_Norway*

1. What is your character's name?
Shasta Felis Concolor

2. What is your character's name in another language?
Shasta Felis Concolor Chamelius

3. How old is he/she?
23

4. What is your character's race/species?
Mountain Lion, Puma, Cougar, etc, etc

5. Do they have a crush?
Nope. Gyroscopic brain and psychedelic fur make him adorable, but too weird for most people to be able to endure for long periods of time. He doesn’t really mind most of the time, though he fantasizes occasionally about finding the perfect femfriend.

6. Do they have many friends?
More acquaintances than friends. He doesn’t make friends easily. He grew up hard and fast - he was a throw-away kid - and so doesn’t take to people very well. But he would do anything for the few friends that he has.

7. What planet is your character from?
Physically, Earth, but most people that know him say he’s from Pluto, as his brain spends most of its time in orbit somewhere out that far.

8. Does your character like to eat?
Feline = true carnivore. Meat. Raw. The fresher and bloodier, the better. Preferably still running. If not, at least twitching still.

9. What's his/her favorite food?
Horse meat (no offense intended to those equines out there). Unless milk is considered food, and then that takes the prize.

10. What's his/sher favorite drink?
Water.

11. Is your character annoying?
Most people would say, “Absolutely!” Shasta is chameleon-furred, so between his brain that runs at about 11,426 RPM at idle, and the fact that his fur-color oscillates to completely random colors - usually in the neon color spectrum - at equally random intervals - usually measured on the nanosecond scale - so most people find him to be way too much energy and way too odd to deal with regularly. His brain moves so fast, that trying to have a conversation with him is tantamount to going stark-raving-mad. In the relative scheme of things, in the time that most people can think of, form, and then speak a complete sentence, Shasta will do three; the problem is, it comes out as the first two words of the first sentence, the middle few words of the second sentence, and the last couple words of the third sentence. In other words, it all comes out sounding like total and complete gibberish. If you’re double-dosing speed, then you can understand him just fine.

13. Is your character loved?
By the folks that know him well, yes, absolutely. They’d die - or kill - for him.

14. Is your character hated?
Only by those that can’t understand what he’s saying (so “yes”).

15. Is he/she emo/goth?
No.

16. Is he/she straight, bisexual, or gay?
Straight in preference, but mostly celibate, as the lady-furries have a lot of trouble relating to him (as do most guys, for that matter).

17. Is he/she a virgin?
Nope.

18. Name 3 hobbies
Drawing, math, and Applied Math.

19. Is your character normal?
If normal is being a child-prodigy that had discussions about quad roots of -16 with PhD-level professors at the age of 14, then “yes”. Quite normal.

20. Is your character attractive?
Most people think so, as he still has that total innocence about him, provided the ever-changing neon-fur doesn’t bother you too much.

21. How does your character handle emotions?
In reality, not very well, but because his brain is running so fast, he’ll cycle thru the broad-spectrum of emotions several times a day, but so rapidly, that most people are totally unaware. Maybe that’s a good thing...

22. Does your character have other forms?
Nope. Just a cwazie coogrrr.

23. Does your character overreact?
Sometimes, but his friends understand, and help him through it.

24. Is your charcter a criminal?
In a world of ENIAC’s, he’s a Cray. What do you think?

25. Does your character go to school?
Nope. Finished now. PhD in Allied Mathematics at 20. But could probably use some classes in Earthling Behavior.

26. What's his/sher IQ?
No one really knows. He’s probably more easily classified as an “Idiot Savant”. So in some areas of an IQ test, he’s a total moron, and in others, he’s so far off the charts as to be in orbit. In truth, it’s probably between 150-160 or so.

27. Does your character have a disease/curse?
Most say he’s got ADHD. In truth, he’s the cougar ADHD Poster Child of the Universe.

28. Is your character dead?
No. Quite alive and well.

29. Does your character have a family?
He doesn’t know. He’s a throw away; his mother was a prostitute, and his father could walk up and snarl into his face and he’d not know the difference. In his own mind, he imagines that he had a loving, warm, and compassionate family once.

30. Has he/she encountered any tragic times in life?
Most of his life has been one tragedy after another, at least up until he turned 12-y-o, which is when his “big brother” - who he actually sees as his father - Kenti Bengali, a Bengal Tiger, took him into his own house, which is where he’s been ever since.

31. What's the best time in your character's life?
From about 14-y-o onwards, when he started to realize what kind of friend he had in Kenti.

32. If you could name 1 friend, which would you relate to your character?
Bobby York, who is most aptly described as “Shasta in a human form”.

33. Is your character single?
Yes.

34. Has he/she developed any relationships?
A few, but none last very long, as he’s too weird.

35. Does she/he have an element?
Don’t know.

36. Do you role-play your character?
Not really.

37. Do you write about your character?
Yes. Written in 1998, a story called “Best Friends”, tells it ALL (at least up until age 14’ish).

38. Does your character have a bad temper at times?
Not really. Only unless cornered, and then he’s completely dangerous.

39. Does your character get depressed?
More often than he likes to think about.

40. What's your characters favorite animal?
Tigers, mostly because he’s quite awe-inspired by Kenti, who is a Bengal.

41. Does your character have any fears?
That he could disappoint Kenti in some way.

42. Does your character have any weaknesses?
If left alone in a cold, dark place, he would very likely curl up in a corner and go into convulsions. He has a deeply seated fear of being alone, and he can’t sleep without a nightlight (even at 23).

43. Does your character look up to anyone?
Upon the highest pinnacle in the universe, he has perched Kenti, (although Kenti doesn’t approve).

44. Does your character like music?
Every form known in the universe (except rap, which he doesn’t really consider as “music”).

45. What's your character's favorite type of music?
Baroque and French Organ literature.

46. Is he/she impatient?
It’s all relative. If you consider his brain starts misfiring at anything under 8000 RPM, then he has infinite patience with the rest of the universe.

47. What's something funny about your character?
Occasionally, he’ll fine someone that interested in something that he is, and he’ll typically start into a long and detailed dissertation about it, and after about five minutes of high-speed-data-dump, he’ll realize that he left the other person about three-light-years back, and will stop with a quiet: “Oh. Nevermind.” Most people that are watching it all, find it to be hysterical to the extreme.

48. Name 5 nicknames
ShastaCat, Neon-Hyper-Spasti-Kitty, Neon, Squints (aka Eye-Squints), and Psycho-Fur, just to name a few.

49. Does your character curse?
Not usually, but if you spin him up and he get’s angry, he’ll peel the paint off the walls.

50. This test is over, what does your character have to say?
“Uh...sorry...er...did you...um...say something?”

Hello All!

It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to wander around these warm and welcoming jungles, and I am most certainly glad to be able to once again. That’s really to say, I’m back onto US soil safely. I’m visiting friends and family in CA, so I’m not quite home yet. I figured after two months at sea, I’m entitles to take a little vacation time getting home.

For all of you who murmured prayers and wishes of safety and guardianship, thank you. I am most appreciative. This tour was long and arduous, but thankfully uneventful. Even so, I thank you in earnest for your prayers and thoughtful wishes; they have meant a lot to me.

I logged onto FA for the first time last night in exactly 2 months, and I have a whole lot of messages to wade through. My eyes widened a bit, staring at --> You have 406 new messages ( 226S, 26C, 97J, 33F, 21W, 3N) So I’ve got a lot or catching up to do with a lot of you. Please forgive me that it’ll take me a while, and that I’m on dial-up until I’m officially home. I always try to thank everyone individually for comments and watches and faves, and I’ll be doing that, but it’ll take some time. Please be patient with me. :)

Thank you all for your continued appreciation of the pictures and animals. I am most uplifted by your watches, faves, and comments. Be expecting various shouts and return comments from me in the next few days (I hope). :)

Anyway, enough babble from me for now. More to follow! In the meantime, take care everyfur!

Most Sincerely,
ShastaCat
The Neon-Hyper-Spasti-Kitty

Hello All!

My sincere apologies that I haven’t prowled around or responded to anyone lately.

I’ve been issued short-notice orders for deployment, so I’ve been gearing up to go. Sorry: can’t say when I leave (very soon) or where I’m going.

If all goes well, which is to say “as planned”, then I should return to United States soil in mid-April. Needless to say, I won't have any access to the world of the internet while I'm gone, so I won't be able to get to FA at all.

For those of you that pray, please keep myself, and the sailors and Marines that I’ll be supporting in your prayers. For those of you that don’t pray, please wish us warm thoughts and think of us often.

So for now, I bid you all happy hunting and much joy.

Most Sincerely,
ShastaCat
The Neon-Hyper-Spasti-Kitty

Okay, as the title suggests, I’ve been tagged. I have to say, I don’t really do this kind of thing, but being that there’s probably a lot of amusement value out there in people getting to see the responses, so I’m going to participate for sake of that. While perhaps not in the spirit of things, I’m not going to tag anyone else. I’m going to “steal” Balaa’s idea and say that if you’re interested enough in reading what I’ve written here, and find yourself properly amused, then consider yourself tagged, and then act as you are compelled.

I kinda look at this as a bit of a “psychological study” of sorts, as if you get right down to it, part of the growth process is to admit when you have quirks and can discuss them openly. If you can’t talk about what makes you weird or strange, or things that you don’t like about yourself, then you’re in the “denial phase” and really need to focus there. :)

For myself, I’m going to have to steer towards the weird things rather than the hates. I’m a very progressive thinking, and when there’s things that I really don’t like about myself (or “hate” in the terms of the Tag Rules), I simply ponder the details of whatever behavior it is, and I come up with a solution, and I “fix” myself. If you don’t like something about yourself, then fix it. I guess some might find that to be a somewhat simplistic approach, but life’s just too short to stress yourself out over things that, in my opinion, you have within your power to change. So, all that being said...

Here’s a recap of the rules.

The Rules
The 1st player of this "game" starts with the topic "6 weird habits/things/hates about yourself" and people who get tagged MUST write a journal about their 6 weird habits/things/hates as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says "you are tagged" in their devpage comments and tell them to read yours..


Weird 1) I don’t really go into the cage with Drifter anymore. It’s admittedly because having been mauled, I tend to be somewhat sensitive to when a cougar reaches up and grabs onto my leg, and opens his muzzle enough to expose his teeth and then puts them against said, previously captured leg. Drifter, in his younger years, had more than a bit of a deviant streak (like pretty much every cougar on the planet). :) So I’m a bit of a fraidy-cat with some things. Anyway, what that means is that I spend a lot of time reaching through the gate (with the gate still closed and locked) and petting and scritching Drifter to his heart’s content. So here’s the weird part: I don’t really talk to him; I hum. I can’t even say why. I don’t have a good, psychological explanation as to why, I just do. Of course, Drifter doesn’t give a flying frisbee either way; he just wants the attention.

Weird 2) I have what’s called a “semi-eidetic memory”. It’s not entirely photographic, but dern close, although there are some things that are entirely that. It ends up being a problem for several reasons, which is why I’ve always referred to the ability as a “curse”. Most folks would say: “Oh! That’s so cool! If I could just remember everything like that, it’d be great!” In some cases, you’re right. It’s kinda cool. In others, it sucks. For example, let’s say you a firefighter, and you’re called out in the middle of the night on an assault call, requested by the local law enforcement. So you jump on the rescue and you head to the scene. Well, the scene turns out to be more than just assault. One person has literally taken a knife and killed another one with it. You are, of course, a medical service provider, so you have to get right into the middle of it all, and verify that the guy is, in fact, dead, so the deputy coroner can haul them away, and the other guy can be taken to jail on a pending murder charge. Not a particularly good night in the fire service. So in this case, if you have a close-to-picture-perfect memory, then you get to keep all the gory details of that scene right there in your head, in perfect clarity, for the rest of your life. /That’s/ why I call it a curse. And “yes”, if you’re curious, I was on the scene I described; I was a Lieutenant at the time, and was the Incident Commander for the scene that night. Not particularly my best night in the Fire Service. In a more quirky way, there's also the little problem that I can't differentiate between "medias". What I mean by that is that whether I read something, hear someone say something, or watch it on TV or in a movie, it all become pictures in my head, and I can't alyway remember how or where I heard something, it's just committed forever into the brain as imagery.

Weird 3) This one is more something that annoys people around me: I’m a hard-core perfectionist. I’m not sure if that comes from my “technical oriented” mind, or the 500-years of engineering, but in any case, I like everything that I work on to be just perfect, and most of the time, that’s just not possible. In my favor, I’m not an Obsessive-Compulsive; it’s really more that I like to put out the best quality in my work and personal life as I can, and so I put every effort into being very meticulous about things.

Weird 4) This one is something that people say makes me very intimidating; I don’t have a lot of patience, but I’ve worked in the military community for a good number of years of my life, which requires a bit of "diplomatic correctness". For those of you that don’t know, I’m a former Sailor in the US Navy, and now I’m a civilian contractor to the Navy, doing systems engineering both ashore (while the ships are pier-side) and underway (while the ships are at sea). So I am an “afloat engineer”, which means my entire life revolves around Navy ships, regardless if they’re inport or at sea. Anyway, let me get back to things: I don’t have a lot of patience (the military will surgically remove what ever patience you might have had before joining in no time!) but I can be quite “politically correct”, at least for a little while. People essentially have three chances with me when they do stupid things to or around me, and directly effect what I’m doing (or trying to do). First count) I’ll probably ignore it, and give them the benefit of the doubt. Second count) I’ll usually say something rather gently, letting them know my position on things, in a suggestive, polite way. Third count) I’ll give them a patented, predatory glare, and speak quite a bit more bluntly on the topic at paw...er...hand, and Forth count) I’ll just rare back, take a deep breath, and just let them have it with both, proverbial barrels. If people can’t take the hint after I’ve been rather blunt with them, then I go totally predator after that. Darwinism at work! (No pun intended) Survival of the fittest (aka non-stupid)!

Weird 5) Some people really hate me because I am a completely non-linear thinker. Most people think in straight-line reason: "A" leads to "B" which leads to "C" and so on an so forth. For me, I might start out at "A", zoom out to "M", back to "F", and then proceed out to "R", and arrive at an odd but apt solution. Perhaps this sounds like I’m tooting my own horn, and if so, then so be it: I have a high IQ. I’ve taken two tests in my life, and scored 148 and 152 respectively. Does that mean I’m really bright? Yes and no. I’m just as stupid as the next guy when I’m out of my element. But as most people might not be aware, there’s really two sides to “intelligence”. For example, how many really smart people have you met that when it comes to “common sense” things, are total morons? Another interesting characteristic about people is that in general, if they’re smart, then typically, they have very little “hands-on” skills. In other words, they can tell you every single part in an engine, and what it’s for, but if it came down to actually disassembling said engine and changing out one of those parts, they couldn’t do it in a billion years. For me, the Spirits gifted me with a high intelligence, as well as common sense and great “hands-on” ability. I can do mechanics with the best of ‘em! I can build a house. Or, on the other side of the coin, I can design one, right down to how many electrical sockets go on this wire, and what size breaker needs to go there. So in other words, I’m a total freak of nature.

Weird 6) While I was still active duty in the Navy, one of my buddies and I were sitting at a table for scraps - that’s “midwatch rations” for you non-military types out there, also called “scraps” because it’s essentially left-overs from lunch and dinner - and he was commenting about my educational endeavors. Also for those of you that don’t know me well, I have a few, college degrees. 9.75, to be exact, 2.75 of them at the doctorate level (i've never finished the PhD in Wildlife Biology). So my buddy was just completing his BS in computers, and he said: “Some people /earn/ their degrees and other people /collect/ them.” So yes; I’m a collector. I guess you could say I’m highly ejumekated. For me, it’s all just bathroom wall-paper. If you put a real high value on education, then you’ve not been around animals very closely. The truth is, to Macumba, you taste exactly the same if you dropped out of the fifth-grade, or if you’ve completed your fifth PhD. }:>

So that’s it. If all my journals and stories and pix comments have not yet proved without doubt that I’m a rather strange kitty, then this will probably go a longs ways in helping you to formulate your conlusion to that effect.

For those of you that’ve taken all the time to read everything, thanks. I hope you’ve learned something new. Oh, and BTW, you're tagged. :)

Sincerely Submitted,
ShastaCat

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!

I guess it would be fairly obvious to say that a house, no matter how large, is many magnitudes smaller than a cougar’s “territory” in the wild would be. Male cougars have territories that can range to fifty square miles. In a few cases, even twice that or more. And they cover that entire area several times a day. Now while Shasta was not wild, he was still extremely fit and muscular. That coupled with his very protein-rich diet, he had a lot of energy to spare. Just because he didn’t have much room to roam around in was probably a big factor. The size of his “territory” was, of course, out of my hands. So I did my best to give him energy releases as often as was necessary. Most of the time, it was fairly obvious when those “necessary” times were.
Have you ever heard the phrase “bouncing off the walls”? Let it just suffice as to say, Shasta was living proof that the phrase could be taken literally. In fact, one of the warning signs of Shasta’s need for energy release was exactly that.
As I said, Shasta tended to be in constant motion. He would pace the house constantly, covering every inch of his small domain probably a hundred times a day. Maybe more. I only watched him when I was there. Now maybe he really did do some lazy-time during my absence, but the perpetual-motion thing started from the moment I got there!
It didn’t really matter what I was doing. Usually it was non-eventful times during the evening, like during a movie, or while I was reading or something.
Shasta would make his rounds of the house every five to ten minutes or so. During these routines, he usually maintained a temperate, docile state. After every “round” he would always seek me out, make eye contact as if “checking in”. Usually he would harass me until I acknowledged him with a pat on the shoulder or scratch behind an ear. Then his attention craving would’ve been met for the moment, and he could start another round. But sometimes he would go into attention withdrawals, and he would have to take a break from his guard duties.
Shasta needed attention. It was one of those fundamental things. He simply couldn’t do without it for very long. And he was actually pretty forward about getting it. I began to call it his “attention fix”. It was pretty apt.
I would usually be on the couch or something, and Shasta would come over and jump up into it with me. If I were laying down, maybe reading a book, then he would pretty much walk over me, and plop down right on top of me. If I were sitting up, maybe watching a movie, then he would slink over next to me, and lay down with his front paws and head in my lap. Usually, I would have no choice but to give him whatever attention he wanted, until he got as much as he wanted.
I talk like Shasta was a pretty big pain in the butt. Sometimes he really was. But most of the time, Shasta only needed a few minutes of undivided attention. Maybe ten at most. Then he would simply leave me alone, and resume his rounds of the house. But there were times when I didn’t give him that undivided attention. The sometimes lack of cooperation on my part had it’s consequences.
If for whatever reason I chose to ignore him, like I was reading and really getting into it, or was watching a movie and the really good part was on, his “hints” would get more and more obvious.
If I was reading, Shasta would usually have laid down on my legs, and would rest his head on my hip or stomach. He would purr, and I would reach down to pet him. In the case I was ignoring him, he would first try purring louder.
I think it’s safe to assume that almost everyone has heard a cat purr. Probably even held a cat, and had it purring. They kind of rumble and vibrate, right? Shasta was no different, short of one very significant factor: he was just a couple sizes bigger!
He’d start out purring at a quiet level. This was his “contented” purr. He was good sized, so one could hear it, even from quite a distance. When he was laying on you, the vibration of it was rather soothing. He’d put me to sleep with it a few times.
The next level was his “I want your attention” purr. It was loud! And the vibration was more obnoxious than anything else. It was just the opposite in effect too. It was anything but soothing!
If I was still persistent in my ignorance, he would slowly start working his way up my body, maybe six inches to a foot at a time. Mind you, he was still purring his obnoxious roar the whole time.
By the time he was mid chest level, of course it was getting hard to breath, and therefore harder to concentrate. Plus, he would still be loudly purring. Then, if I was still persistently ignoring him, he would start batting at my book with a paw. For you die-hard readers out there, just try to keep reading with something like that going on!
Usually by then, I would have broken down and simply started petting him. After all, the sooner I petted him, the sooner he got his fix, and the sooner I could get back to my book.
Like people, Shasta had varying degrees of patience, dependant on his moods, which tended to vary a lot. Sometimes he would actually get to the “book-batting” stage. Most of the time he wouldn’t. I don’t know whether that was because I gave in too soon, or what. Maybe it was.
The couch I used the most, sat towards the center of the large living room, more or less partitioning off part of the room as the entertainment area - stereo, TV, VCR, etc - versus the fireplace area, which had another identicle couch, a matching love seat, and a couple chairs and coffee tables. Both back-to-back couches were against the wall on one end, and while the fireplace couch had the love seat, my favorite couch was open to what was left of the room.
If Shasta lost patience rapidly, he would stop purring abruptly, and “Mrow!” at me. But only once. I came to realize that this was a warning. He was saying that if I didn’t pay attention to him right now, he was gonna lose it and spaz.
Here’s the problem: “right now” is a relative thing. “Right now” for you or me might be, ”I’m going to put my book down and then focus on you.” It takes maybe a couple seconds to mark your place and drop the book, right? Well, with Shasta, sometimes his patience would falter long before that two seconds was up. And if it did, it got pretty dramatic.
Shasta would leap up, and then jump. Sometimes he would go straight up. Sometimes, he would go sideways, either to the floor, or onto the “fireplace” couch. Other times, most of the time, he would jump right over me and into the room. But no matter which direction he chose, seemingly at random, his next actions were the always the same: he would start tearing around the house at high speed.
This was truly a sight to behold. He seemed to avoid furniture. I think that was because of the recliner. Also, he couldn’t really ricochet off very many items of furniture. They tended to move - like across the room - and that threw off his timing. So, picture this, a mountain lion, bouncing from this wall to that, down the hall to his/my room, off the waterbed - he popped it once - back out into the hall, across it, into the next room, off that bed, back into the wall, into the den, onto the piano - Beethoven rolls over in his grave - into the hall again, back down the hall as per the “greeting” routine, bounce out of the corner and into the living room, and back onto the couch. Now here was the real problem. If you remember back to where this all started, you remember that I happen to be on said couch.
Now I don’t think even for a second Shasta really intended to hurt me. Ever. Well, once, but that doesn’t count. In his neurotic, bounce-off-the-walls, high-speed, jet-propelled revolutions of the house, he very often landed directly on me during his finale. Two hundred pounds is one thing. Having it leap into the air, and land on you is very much a different thing. But oh well. Once again, one simply cannot expect to spend time with a mountain lion and not get a few dings and thumps. Like I said, it goes with the territory.
Being pounced on by a cougar is definitely something I’ll remember vividly forever. I think anyone would!

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!

Most people that know me, even a few that know me well, don’t know that I am a pianist. I also play the organ, although I certainly wouldn’t call myself an “organist”. “A pianist that plays the organ” is more appropriate.
Very early on in my childhood - like first grade - I was infatuated by “The King of Instruments”. I use that word specifically. I kept telling my mom that I wanted to play the organ. She kept telling me I’d need to learn the piano first. Well, I didn’t like that idea so well, but it was a means to an end. So that started my adventure with the beloved piano lessons.
I discovered something right off: I hated to practice. Truth be known, I still do, but I am of the age and ability level now, that I understand my limitations, and thus my need for practice. But back then, I wanted to simply have the ability to be a pianist - or organist rather - overnight, and the hell with all this practicing stuff! And I discovered something else: I played by ear.
Later on in life, like during Shasta’s Time, I would come to know that ability by a different name: “semi-eidetic memory”. This is not to be confused with “photographic” as it is not “perfect”, but very remarkable, none-the-less. But at that young age - now in the second grade - it gave me the ability to hear the music once, and play it back almost perfectly. So practice became a simple thing of playing the music through a few times to make it sound just like the way the teacher had played it, and then I was done.
“Why aren’t you practicing?” my mom would ask.
My answers varied. “I already did.” - meaning, I did yesterday. Or when I was really cocky, “I don’t need to.”
Well, to make a long story short, I took lessons for about a year and a half, and even though I was progressing nicely, my mom finally said she wasn’t going to pay for lessons if I wasn’t going to practice, so that was the end of lessons.
Years later - now seventh grade - I came to realize what an idiot I’d been for quitting. So I asked to take them again. This time, I practiced. But just like before - even though it took me a year to realize - I was still playing by ear. Of course, knowing that was half the battle. Unfortunately, neither I or my teacher knew exactly how to deal with that unique talent.
Again, in conservation of words, I quit again, this time, of my own decision, because I was not learning to read music, which is what I really wanted. This time though, I kept playing, and practicing, on my own.
I took up piano lessons again during my junior year in high school, and even though I only had two more years, I learned the basic’s of “sight reading” and “music theory” and I’ve practiced them into the ground ever since.
So, twenty-three years later, with a grand total of six years of formal lessons - five of piano, and one of organ - I can actually hold my own on the keyboard, provided I’m in practice. Strangely, after all these years, I still love the organ, and its power, but I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never be an “organist”. Oh well. I can at least make it sing! That’s enough.
So I eventually loved to practice. Or if not “loved”, then tolerated with a passion. Of course, there was a new problem with practice time: its name was “Shasta”.
If you were to ask virtually any music teacher, they’d all tell you the same thing: “Practice time is supposed to be focused on playing, and learning the music of, the instrument.” Put into different words, this time is supposed to be spent, uninterrupted, practicing! “Uninterrupted” is the key word here.
Here’s the scene: My friend’s house was furnished. They even had a piano - a baby grand. I had an extra bedroom - there were three in the house - so it became the piano room/library.
Shasta wasn’t one to exactly leave you in peace no matter what it was you were doing. If you were in the house - his domain - then you were fair game as his entertainment. Whether you particularly wanted to be or not, wasn’t an issue. In other words, this choice was not yours to make. It was Shasta’s. My piano time was no different.
So I’d just barely sit down to the piano, and before the first key would sound, Shasta would vault into the room and onto the piano top - usually right over me. I was always afraid his weight crashing down onto the piano would one day break the legs, but Shasta was amazingly light in his landings, and it never happened. Of course, Yamaha’s are build really rugged, which I’m sure played a roll as well.
For the first month or so, Shasta seemed content to just lie there and listen. He seemed fascinated by the notes and chords and tempos of the music. His head would tilt back and forth as he listened, and his normally whimsical expression was replaced by an intensely focused one. He actually came to actually recognize certain chords and note patterns, and he would respond similarly to them. Like wise, different styles and tempos of music would effect him as well. It’s been said that “Classical music soothes the beast within!” I’m here to tell you it’s true. At the time, I was certainly not the pianist I am now, and I still have a hard time with Baroque music, but it had an amazing, calming effect on Shasta. In fact, most of my “slow”, emotion-filled music would really calm him down in a hurry. He would just sit (lie) there, his intense expression would fade to a placid one, and his eyes would droop to half-mast. If he was sitting, he’d lay down. If he was lying down, his head would drop down to rest on his huge paws. But he’d never go to sleep, for even if I faltered in tempo or stopped to change pages, his eyes would reopen, and his head would come up, and his expression was all to obvious: “Well... Are you going to go on, or what?!”
I eventually learned to start my practicing with this type of music. But that was after considerable trial and tribulation beforehand.
Like I said, Shasta was content for a month or so. Then he started turning pages for me. Now as any pianist or organist can tell you, page turning in itself, is an art. If you happen to be assisting a pianist or organist by turning pages, knowing exactly when to turn is critical. If you turn too soon, they have to improvise for a measure or two. If you turn to late, it can disrupt the entire piece. So having Shasta turn pages for me had its highlights. To this day, I am not very graceful at turning pages for myself. When Shasta was part of my life, I couldn’t at all. So Shasta turned pages for me.
I was always amazed at how intelligent Shasta was. And that was clear in how he responded to my voice - even phrases and entire sentences - and his “alarm clock” ability, and “calendar” ability. Based on all that, I guess it wasn’t hard to believe that maybe he could count the beats of the music. Unfortunately, Shasta didn’t have the patience it took for music. The slow pieces were still fine. He’d mellow completely out, and not bother me at all. But during the fast - or loud - pieces, he wanted to do his part in the performance. So he turned pages.
Shasta would sit there on the closed piano lid, hovering over the music like a burnt out piano lamp. And for just a moment, he would just sit there waiting. But more often that not, his patience would falter, and he’d reach out a huge paw and flick the corner or the page.
Now don’t get me wrong. As a beginning pianist who couldn’t turn pages for myself, I was grateful that Shasta would take the time and effort to help. But though it was nice to have a page turner, there were a variety of problems with Shasta being one: turning them when he was supposed to was probably the biggest. Occasionally he got it right. But when he did, he usually turned the wrong way, or perhaps several pages rather that single ones. That was always a real problem with a hymnal. If he got bored of one hymn, he’d change the page on me. Maybe fifty pages. Maybe entire hymnals! And of course, Shasta never learned to read music, so he’d turn the page - or several - even if there was a “repeat” in the music. Other times, Shasta would give a hint that he didn’t like a particular piece - usually one I was just learning. Hmmm... Imagine that... If my harsh and discordant notes got to much for him, he just swipe the pages with his paw, ant it would tumble off the music rack and onto the floor. I took the hint in good humor. Usually.
Needless to say, I’m being lighthearted when I say, practice time with Shasta around was always eventful. But it didn’t stop there. Oh no! Eventually - thankfully many months later - he decided that I should be an accompanist rather than a performer. Now maybe he had good reason, as I could certainly slaughter - and still can! - many pieces in my attempts to play them. So Shasta took it upon himself to turn my practice time into his! He took up voice.
Speaking from the biological perspective, cats of the genus “felis” have what could be considered two sets of vocal chords. Shasta, though a large cat, is still of this genus. In fact, cougars are the largest of this group. So just like a “housecat”, Shasta could purr, meow, or growl. Back to the biology lesson: meowing might be considered like you or I talking - air being pushed through “vocal chords” which causes them to vibrate, which resonates throughout the cranial cavities, and out the mouth as “voice”. In contrast, “felis” cats have that second set of “chords” that are used for purring, and also “low volume” growling. Just like humans can change the pitch of their voices by tightening or relaxing the vocal chords, so do “felis” cats. Purring is where the chords are loose, and the air is simply a media that causes them to vibrate. The growl, on the other hand, might be easily likened to humming - the tighter the chords, the higher the pitch. So Shasta had two voices that he sang with: his “full voice”, and “humming”. I say this in good humor, but I likened those two to howling and kazoo playing, respectively.
It was actually kind of fun to try and accompany Shasta while he was “singing”. The problem was, he was not very verbal when it came to his preferences of music, and I never knew exactly what it was he was singing. That was always a problem, in that what I was playing, was definitely not the same music that he was singing. And even if I switched, it would ruin his time, and he’d switch too. So in the end, it was hopeless. Or maybe, Shasta was simply exercising his right to express the music of his soul in the dissonant style. I’m sure Oliver Messiaen would’ve been proud.
There got to be a routine for practice time. Or maybe, like so many other things in my and Shasta’s life, “ritual” is a better word. So the practice ritual came into being.
It would start out with anything. It didn’t really matter. I would get up from whatever I was doing, which means Shasta would instantly launch into either a rocket revolution of the house, or a purposeful security check. I would go to the piano room and get situated. Most of the music I played regularly was piled next to the bench for easy selection, so it was just a matter of picking out the music I wanted to practice for the day, and launching into it. So the ritual started with Shasta on rounds/revolutions, and me picking music. Then, the music would hit the stand, and my fingers would alight on the keys. I would start to play. Consciously, I would tense, because I knew that within moments, Shasta would abandon his rounds/revolutions, and come leaping into the room, over my head, and onto the piano. Even when I was bracing myself for it, it was a dramatic moment. I always had this evil, sinister desire to wax the top of the piano. It would just be so funny to watch Shasta do the running leap over me, land gracefully on the piano lid, and instantly go careening across it and right off its edge and onto the floor in the corner of the room. And of course, Shasta being the expressive sort of soul he was, would have facial contortions to match: “Ha, ha, I sacred you!” to “Eeek! This is not the textbook landing!” to “Oh SHIT!”. My god! That would’ve been so funny! But even as hysterical as it would’ve been, I never did it. I guess I likened that to scotch tape on a housecat’s feet. It’s funny to watch - really funny in fact - but the cat is certainly not laughing with you. Maybe it’s not out-and-out cruel, but it’s certainly not fun for the cat. Likewise, nor would sliding across the piano top be fun for Shasta, so I didn’t. Besides, all eighteen of his claws would instantly be out, and he would’ve laid trenches for every one of them into the varnish across the piano top. That, of course, would be hard to explain. So, for all the different reasons, I never did it.
So, landing complete, I would finish the piece I was on, and start into a “slow” one: something that was Shasta’s “mellow music”. Thankfully, most of the music I played was pretty mellow, so even with Shasta there, I still got some good practice time in. Some. But, as all you musicians out there know, you can’t learn anything new by doing the same old stuff over and over. You have to try out new things. So eventually, I’d have to switch. The next stage of the ritual began: page turning.
So Shasta would aid (distract) from by practice by his assistance in page turning. I could always depend on him to turn my pages. Of course, he might turn them the wrong way, or two or three (or eight) at a time, or swap books on me, not to mention shoving the whole mess into my lap, but it’s the thought that counts, right? So, the ritual would alter again: can you hum a few bars?
I make fun of Shasta, and say he sounded like an anemic kazoo, but actually, in retrospect, the simply fact that he was doing what he was at all, was testament to intelligence. It’s been said that “music inspires music,” which anyone who loves music can attest to. So, it shouldn’t’ve been a big deal to imagine that maybe Shasta was simply inspired by the music, and was “expressing” himself. Well, I guess I’ll never be able to prove that theory one way or the other, but it seems sound enough. Especially considering his other displays of keen intellect. Why shouldn’t he be musical(?) as well?
So humming was fine. It was soft enough that I could keep playing what I was trying to play, and because he was putting enough thought into what he was humming, he no longer needed to occupy himself with turning pages. That is to say, it was distracting, but not nearly as much as him page turning! But eventually, humming is simply not enough for the joyous soul. And let me tell you, Shasta had plenty too much joy!
So somewhere, no matter what the piece, Shasta would break out into a resounding solo of his own, a dominant, discordant descant to whatever I was playing, usually in a completely different key. Sometimes I tried to keep going. I never could for very long. It was like listening to Handel’s “Messiah” in one ear of your headphones, and Jazz saxophone in the other, twice as loud. It’s not that I was opposed to either one, I just wouldn’t listen to them both at the same time.
So Shasta loved to sing, and he loved to do it at high fidelity. While I cannot necessarily fault him for this - I too like loud music from time to time - my sensitive “musical ethics” simply couldn’t stand the discordance for too long.
So there it was: from practicing, to Shasta diving over my head, to him almost being contented, the getting a page turner (whether I wanted one or not), to having someone humming along with me, to having someone to accompany. That was our piano practice ritual.
Like I said, practicing the piano, or organ, is still a chore at times. But sometimes, even though practice is very seldom interrupted - and certainly not in the same ways! - I sometimes miss those times. From the musical standpoint, those practices weren’t very productive. But on the other hand, they were simply another way that Shasta was part of my life.
Music... Is it the universal language? I don’t know. Maybe. But I do know this: I would do it all again. Even with the disruptions! Those times are simply more memories to add to all the others. More parts of the adventure.
Music is sacred to me. So are my memories of Shasta.

There are moments in life. They may be small. Insignificant really. But they can move you in ways you would never expect. That happened to me the other day. I don’t remember what day it was. It might’ve been Wednesday, or even Thursday. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I was walking with my LPO to his truck so we could go over to the barracks and pick up the ship’s PA system where it had been used for the command picnic. So that was our task: to journey from our ship in the shipyards to his truck in the closest parking area, probably every bit of a mile away.
We had just crossed the street and entered into the dirt lot that many of us from the ship - and several hundred other people - parked in every day. As we walked past one of the exits of the lot and headed around one of the huge, metal, cage-like towers of the high-tension power lines that also occupied areas of the dirt strip become parking lot, a black dog came into view.
I suppose in all truth, it’s not realistic to call me an “animal lover”. No indeed. More accurately, I am an animal freak. Probably capital letters on “freak”. Most people are most fond of either dogs or cats. Whatever their favorite, fuzzy beast, it usually doesn’t extend to the other species. In fact, there might be a lot of truth to the axiom, that they hate the other with about equal passion as they love their favorite. So I am a freak on two counts. I love them all! Dogs and cats alike.
So here was this dog, all black, forty pounds or so, looking somewhat like a Lab in build, but much smaller. His tail wasn’t wagging as he was sniffing around the car that was parked there.
“Dog,” I said, more in warning for Chris than anything else, just in case he hadn’t seen the dog yet. We’d been having a conversation about something - probably computer related - and we tended to zone in (or out) pretty good most of the time.
The dog spun to face us as we came around the electrical tower.
My eyes fixed on him. He didn’t look particularly friendly. His ears were up at a half-mast angle, and his head was held low, almost like a wolf might study a potential rival that was a short distance off. And his tail still wasn’t wagging. In fact, the entire body-language of the dog suggested something on the order of “cautious”.
For those that know me well, my insanity has never been disputed. Most of the time, my lack of sanity doesn’t play a large role, especially when it comes to Navy life. But when it comes to animals, let’s just suffice to say, my lunacy comes screaming to the surface, sometimes rather violently. Like I said, I love both dogs and cats. And the domestic beasts are just fine, but I am truly on a cloud where I have to look down to see heaven to be wrestling with a much bigger variety of either: say a wolf or a tiger. (“Yes”, to answer the obvious question. “I have done just that!” With a tiger anyway. Not a wolf. Yet.) So, you be the judge. Am I a lunatic? Maybe so.
So what does the mortal human do with a mysterious, potentially cautious and/or feral animal only several paces away? Well, there’s several options: 1) perhaps the most obvious, run! 2) stand there frozen, and wait for whatever fate has in store, 3) put a chain and collar on whatever fear grips your soul like a fist, and keep walking, or finally 4) stop, kneel down, look the beast right in the eye, and stretch out your hand for whatever inspection they might choose to impose on you. Psychologically speaking, the choice you pick is keenly based on the very mettle of what your made of. Myself, being given to complete lunacy from the git-go, of course, chose option number four.
There we are, Chris and I walking along, talking about who-knows-what, and poof, there’s a black dog there. No tail wag. No friendly sparkle in the eye. Just nothing. And if more than nothing, then erring on the side of caution. And what do I do? Stop, kneel down, and hold out my hand to the dog. And then I wait.
Lunacy? Insanity? I can’t say. Perhaps so. Or perhaps it’s just the magic that animals have when it comes to some people. Or maybe it’s bigger than that.
Trust is a strange thing. It plays a part in every interaction you might have with someone else. That’s true with two-legged people and four alike. If there’s trust, no matter how slight, then everything’s fine. If there’s not... Well, just think about it. Let your imagination come up with the answer. (Teeth, claws, etc...)
Not all animals trust people. In fact, some of my greatest challenges with handling animals (and fondest memories) have come from animals that didn’t. But trust is a strange thing. Who will give it first? That’s the real test.
If the test is between a six-hundred-and-forty pound Bengal Tiger and a never-seen-a-tiger-in-the-flesh-up-close-and-personal, hundred-and-forty pound, eighteen-year-old kid, then there’s not really a question of trust on the tiger’s part. There is, however, a quite significant one on the kid’s part. So did Kenti - the tiger - teach the kid - me - the “Lesson of Trust”? I like to think so. I learned that the roles are sometimes reversed. Sometimes it’s between a hundred-and-eighty pound kid-at-heart, and a forty pound, cautious dog. This time, the weight factor is leaning heavily towards my side of the scale. Likewise, I’m the most confident, so with that, the trust factor falls to me as well. So the new question is: do I give up that trust, perhaps giving up a part of myself to be hurt (potentially physically), for the overall sake of maybe gaining a new friend? But that’s the real price of the test, isn’t it? The cost of trusting someone? Anyone. Human or otherwise.
Chris stopped with me, though a safe few paces off, to watch whatever show was about to unfold before him. Were my actions about to become folly? Only the dog knew.
I remained still. Having worked with both dogs and cats (big ones - Kenti for example), I knew that fast actions can have disastrous consequences. Chris, being a “dog lover” himself, knew this and remained still and quiet, not wanting to add a second unpredictability factor to the scene.
The dog stood there, unmoving, seemingly frozen, for a strangely tense moment. He was maybe ten or fifteen feet away. But I maintained my as-unprovocative-as-possible crouch, hoping that the dog would see me as unthreatening versus otherwise.
The moments ticked on. Maybe it was only a few seconds. Maybe it was several minutes. I don’t really know. But however long it was, the dog finally gave in, with a strangely sparse minimum of eye-contact. In another moment - minute? - the dog took a hesitant step forward, his tail still unmoving. He stopped again.
I maintained my posture, my hand still outstretched. I watched the dog’s sensitive nose twitch a few times: taking in my scent. Again, another moment passed before the dog advanced another step. Again, he halted, scenting the air. What things could he tell about the creature before him? Sincerity? Lunacy? Threat? Caution? All of them? Maybe a infectious sliver of fear mixed in?
Eventually, the last step was taken. The distance of separation had closed, and the dry nose of the cautious, black dog touched the very tip of one of my fingers. Again, the air was sampled. I guess it passed, for finally the dog’s head dropped once again, and he was motionless, passively acceptant of whatever fate I was conspiring to bestow on him.
I leaned forward, shuffling slightly on my knees, moving my outstretched hand to touch the somewhat dusty, dirty, black hair of his shoulder. The dirt didn’t bother me in the slightest. What a joy it was to touch, even if only a moment, the heart of this beast.
I gently scratched the dog’s shoulder and Chris stepped back up to us. Now that the dog hadn’t leapt up and bit my throat, he deemed it pretty much safe to approach again. Chris looked critically at the dog for a moment: not unsympathetically, but still a little cautious.
“He’s been around,” Chris said. “A fight or two.”
My other hand moved subconsciously to scratching gently behind his right ear. His left ear was bent down at a still erect but awkward angle comparing to the other. The dog’s hair around that ear, and below, onto his neck and shoulder was somewhat matted, and just a little more dirty and dust-caked than the rest of him was. But there wasn’t any blood there, and he wasn’t favoring his shoulder any, but again, only the dog knew.
“Yeah,” I agreed. Certainly, his caution alone was testament to Chris’ observation.
I took a second to notice that even though the dog had been receptive - albeit cautiously - to my gentle petting and scratching, he hadn’t yet looked up at me. Nor had his tail moved in any form even remotely resembling a wag.
My hand kept gently rubbing the dog’s shoulder, while my other now moved to just below his muzzle, touching his chin. Slowly, I leaned down, looking at the solemn face of the dog. The moments ticked off before the big, brown eyes looked up into mine. I was lost in them for a second.
What is it about an animal’s eyes? Unfathomably deep. Timeless. Ageless. So profoundly wise.
There are three animals on earth that I have an affinity with: wolves, tigers, and cougars. I have never personally known a wolf, but I have done countless hours of research and study of them. I find their social interactions and hierarchy to be fascinating to the extreme. I keep thinking that maybe the human species might have a lot they could learn from the wolves, especially in how we get along with one another. As for the big cats, I can’t say it any other way than their innate grace and poise leaves me in absolute awe.
Sure, they have attitudes, but it’s not just conceit, although to the “amateur” observer, that might seem the truth. It’s much different than that. It’s an inner pride, a mighty resolve, a love for life, a vitality for living. The wolf has it too, but it’s different. The tiger and cougar - cats - exist as solitary entities: individual and alone. Whereas the wolf can get his strength from his friends and family and companions. But canines and felines alike have a gentle part of their spirits, where they are content to simply rest by your side, to enjoy the company of your presence, for as long as it might last.
I’ve been pet to two dogs (a Border Collie and a German Shepherd) and a cougar (Shasta), and prey - plaything - to a tiger (Kenti), so I believe I speak from experience. If you don’t believe me, all I can say is pick your beast, any wild beast, and work up the courage to enter their territory, walk up to them, and sit down cross-legged before them. Stare eye-to-eye with your noses an inch apart and look into the vast expanse of eternity that you will find there. If you don’t feel anything, well then, you’re right. It’s all just bullshit. But if you do feel something, then maybe you know what I’m talking about. Either way, so be it. To each their own. Everyone sees their own light. And awesome beauty is still, and will always be, in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure that’s a good thing.
So what did I see in the dog’s eyes? Everything. Even the pride was still there, if only a little. Life was rough. Everything about him - his caution if nothing else - said that much about him. But it hadn’t won yet. It hadn’t beaten him down so much that he couldn’t rise to his four, tired feet and tread on down the path of fate. It hadn’t yet extinguished that small spark and candle light of flame that burned behind his eyes: in his soul and spirit. I could only hope it never would. For with all animals, whether it be the canine or human kind, once that candle burns out, once that inner pride and strength is gone, we are dead. Perhaps we don’t stop breathing right away, but Death has still come for us, none-the-less.
Seeing that pride made me smile. What’s the song say? “All is well, with my soul!” But the pride wasn’t the best thing. Oh no. In fact, comparing to what I saw beyond that, even the pride was nothing at all. So here it is: once again, if you can sit there, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and you do feel something, and if you can look into that strangely bright fire of life, and see trust there too, then... well then, you’ve gained something that is more precious than all the riches of the universe.
So the black dog and I had both come to trust. Was is given freely, or with restraint? The latter, I think. As with any sharing, there must be that. But it does not make the significance of that sharing any less. Wouldn’t that be like trying to put definitions and limitations on friendship? Perhaps my perspective is in error, but if there are those - definitions and limitations - then it’s not really friendship. It’s just interaction. And that’s not the same. You can “interact” with someone without giving up a piece of yourself. But you can’t be a “friend”. “Friendship” requires trust: trust is that piece of you that you hold out in offering, like a hand outstretched.
What caused me to stand back up? I don’t know. Maybe it was a deep-seated frustration that had suddenly lit in the core of my soul. I think that was it.
Once I started moving again, Chris moved with me.
Do you believe in happenstance? Do things just happen? Maybe so. But Chris’ next statement took me completely off guard. And it wasn’t the profundity of it so much as the strange coincidence that it was exactly that fire that now burned at my very core.
“It really pisses me off,” he said quietly, almost malevolently, “that people can’t take care of their animals.”
What could I say?
“I was just thinking that very same thing.”
...even though I didn’t actually realize it until he’d voiced it.
I think we were both silent for a moment. Then, perhaps out of necessity for getting onto less “angry” subjects, conversation started again: computers forgotten, animals - dogs - the new subject.
Somewhere in our journey, we noticed we had a new companion: the black dog, his tail still nothing more than a motionless pennant behind him, was following along. Oh sure, he was sniffing this weed or that one, giving this particular car’s tire a brief inspection, but always moving on, traveling with Chris and I as we journeyed towards Chris’ truck.
“I guess I gained a friend for life, huh?”
Chris watched the dog, silent for just a moment as we continued walking along.
He only nodded.
Again, I’m not certain, but I think we were quiet for the rest of the short distance to the truck. That silence continued as the dog went first from my side of the truck, to Chris’, then back to mine, and back again to the other. Our new found friend did this even after we had entered the truck and closed the doors. Never did he try to get in. He just paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. I didn’t see him anymore once Chris started up the truck. Neither did Chris. He let the horn blare for a moment as he backed up, just to be sure the dog wasn’t behind the truck.
Did I look after we had pulled out of the space and were driving towards the exit? No. In all honesty, I couldn’t. I had indeed given that cautious, black dog a piece of myself. Did I fathom the consequences at that very moment when it was happening? No. Does anyone? Ever? Hardly. As the saying goes: “Hindsight is crystal clear.” That’s certainly the truth, isn’t it?
Had I thought the dog would follow me? Actually, no. I didn’t. I thought it had been just a moment’s interaction: a gentle sharing of confidence and trust. I was a fool.
In that fraction of a second where the decision was made - to keep walking or to kneel down - I had failed to remember that there is a price to be paid. But only for the latter. To walk away is to continue on with life, unchanged. But to kneel, and offer that piece of one’s self, whether realized or not, whether desired or not, is to, in actuality, sacrifice it forever. For all that time, until I sat in the cab of the truck, I had forgotten that. Like I said, I was a fool.
As we drove out of that lot, and then down the road, heading towards our original goal, we were both strangely quiet for several minutes. But eventually, not long afterwards really, conversation started again. Maybe about dogs. Maybe about other things. I don’t remember. What I do remember, is that the dog was not forgotten. In fact, I couldn’t get him out of my head. That was the price for the sharing. That was the cost for stopping and kneeling down.
Was it about not forgetting? No. Not at all. It was about being angry that someone would abandon an animal, just like Chris said. It was about wanting with every fiber of your being to gather up that poor, abandoned animal into your vehicle, and take it home and give it a good home. And it was the frustration, that came with the reason - or the hundred of them - that you couldn’t do exactly that. So in the end, it was all in vain. It was all futile. The cynic rises to the surface and you curse yourself for being so stupid: being a fool. You open yourself up, when you ultimately know that even if you save the one, a hundred more will perish. That no matter what you do, you can’t save them all. That burden of truth can weigh heavily on your shoulders. It does with me.
In my moment of wanting nothing more than to pat a cautious, black dog on the head, I was foolish enough to think that such an action wouldn’t have it’s price and consequence. So my action had indeed been folly.
I’d sat at the proverbial table. I ante’d up. I was dealt my cards, and I played out my hand. Did I win? No. Probably not. But did I lose? Again, no. I don’t think so. If you can come through an event in life, and learn something from it, then all is not lost. There’s always something to be gained, if you choose to allow it.
Did I see the dog again? Did I look back to see if he’d yet again followed me? No. And no. But I will never forget my cautious friend, even though our separate lives touched for only a fraction of a moment. But they did touch. And perhaps it’s not so realistic to say that we were both changed by it. But, on the other hand, he followed me down the rest of that thin strip of dirt, through the hundreds of cars, when he could’ve gone in the exact opposite direction. What does that mean? Again, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe something profound.
But I know this: I am forever changed. I don’t quite know how, only that I am. And that I will never forget. It has been one more lesson that every moment in life is so very precious and sacred. Though friends may wander apart, or down different roads, never to meet again, that does not alter the truth that they are, still, friends. And that trust given, and returned, is all the more precious as a result.
So what is it that I’m really saying? I don’t know exactly. It’s not really about words. It’s about intangibles and unexplainables like “trust” and “friendship” and the sharing of those things, even if for just a moment.
So was I really a fool? Yeah. But so what? I will be again. Like I said: that’s part of the price. But what’s the gain? Only you can answer that. The price is different for everyone. What’s your price? What ante do you throw onto the table? What part of you do you risk as the cards are dealt? That’s for you to choose and decide.
I can truthfully say this: it’s all worth it. All the pain, the frustration, the futility, the few shed tears, and the lost hours of sleep because of all of the above. But it’s all still worth it. “Why?” you ask. I’ll tell you: because for just a moment, I gave a dog a friend. And he became mine in return. What wealth in all of the universe could buy that? If you find it, let me know. Or maybe, like I said before, I’m just looney-bins and it’s all just bullshit. You be the judge.

To the nameless, black dog: Wherever it is that you lie to rest tonight, wherever it is that you lay down to find slumber, I pray that a gentle hand may reach down to pat you on the head or scratch behind your ears. I pray that you have comfort and peace and friendship and security. But most of all, I pray that no matter where you are, you know that someone loves you, and cares about you, for as long as life shall last.

Written 22-May-99

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!

Cats love to sharpen their claws. And strangely, when they get the urge to do that, whatever happens to be around that they can rake their claws into, is usually chosen as the victim. In my/Shasta’s house, it happen to be the couch. But only once.
Today had been a strange day. It was Monday. It had been all week. I had only had Shasta maybe a month, and I was almost dreading going home for the thought of being mugged just inside the door. Shasta had started his “greeting” tradition within about the first week of my having him.
So reluctantly, I pulled into the driveway, got out and locked my car, and headed up to the door.
“What the hell,” I thought, praying earnestly that Shasta would come up with a more mellow way to welcome me home every day.
“Not a chance,” I thought right after. I knew him too well. This was the norm, and once the norm was set, it was...set. Forever. One thing about Shasta, he was very, very consistent when it came to certain things.
The keys went into the door, I took my deep breath, and I stepped into my house, bracing myself for the inevitable. I closed the door, then my eyes, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And...nothing happened.
I listened. There wasn’t any sounds of large, animate objects bouncing off walls down the hall. I opened my eyes. The house looked normal.
“Shasta?”
Not a sound.
I headed down the hall. I checked his/my room. He wasn’t there.
The first thought that went through my head was that he’d run away.
I headed back down the hall, now at a run. I hit the kitchen and picked up the phone, ready to call in reinforcements to help me search. Something caught my eye.
In the living room, which was visible over the counter, I could see something all over the floor. From what I could see, it almost looked like someone had had a pillow fight, and one of the pillows exploded. I put the phone down, heading into the living room.
I had to just stand there for a second, taking in the scene.
The couch’s arm was shredded down to the wood. And even the wood had scars. Deep trenches ran the length of the exposed boards.
Motion caught my eye.
Behind the recliner, in the corner of the room, a tawny colored, almost four foot long, black-tipped tail, twitched next to the wall.
“Shasta? What did you do?”
“Rrrow?” he said, still hiding behind the recliner. “Who? Me?”
I walked over and peered over the chair.
He just laid there, his head resting on his paws, the most guilty expression you could imagine on his face. I really had intended to yell at him. But I couldn’t. He was already looking pretty upset. I didn’t have the heart to even scold him.
I backed off and knelt down in the middle of the room.
“Com’ere Shas.”
He was silent, unmoving.
“C’mon.”
The tail disappeared and Shasta came slinking out from behind the recliner. His head was down, his whole body low to the ground, and if it weren’t for the horrendously ashamed and guilty look on his face, it looked like he was stalking something.
Shasta crept over to me in the middle of the floor, and plopped down, ready to brave my yelling and scolding. He didn’t even look at me.
I didn’t have the heart to say anything for a long time.
I reached under his chin, and pulled his head around so he’d look at me.
“You kinda tore up the couch,” I said.
I think if he could’ve cried, he would’ve been.
“Rrrow-wow,” he said mournfully. “Sorry.”
I had to smile. I couldn’t help it. I had to wonder how long he had been there, hiding behind the recliner he absolutely hated, waiting for me to get home and chew his ass.
I laid down next to him and worked my arm under his neck. I gave him a hug just to let him know I wasn’t really mad at him.
“You know how much couches cost, right?”
He just looked at me.
“Mrow.” “No.”
“I’m taking it out of your allowance.”
Shasta still had this really somber look on his face, but I couldn’t help smiling at him.
He looked up at me as I gave his shoulder a shove - an invitation to wrestle.
“Rrrow?”
“Yeah,” I told him. “Everything’ll be just fine.”

I replaced two trees in the back yard. They were cork trees. Talk about a mess.
I imagine Shasta watching all the white flakes coming off the trees like snow as he raked and raked. Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing left to rake. But no problem, ‘cause there’s another one over here, right? So more snow, and a second shredded tree in the yard.
My initial reaction was basically “Oh my god!”
I should’ve guessed something was up. Once again, Shasta was hiding behind his dreaded recliner.
I replaced the trees. It cost me a lot to get almost grown ones. He shredded those too.

People learn things by seeing, right? Well, so do cougars. I was watching some movie on TV one night. I wouldn’t have noticed anything, but Shasta was lying next to me on the couch, and his ears perked up, and his eyes locked onto the screen. Mine did too.
There was a little kitten on the movie. It ran across behind the couch, and then came back into view heading straight up the drapes.
Later that night, I was in the kitchen getting something to eat, and Shasta was up on his hind legs, leaning against the sliding door, batting at the drapes. I thought the scene was kind of funny, but didn’t think any more about it. I didn’t put two and two together. Not until the next day, that is.
Once again, Shasta didn’t mug me at the door. Once again, I found him hiding behind the recliner. But that was after I discovered why.
The drapes in the living room were never open. I liked it dark in the house, and everything that could be closed or pulled, was. The first thing I noticed on entry to the house, was that the living room was filled with afternoon sun. Definitely strange...
I stood at the end of the entryway, looking into the living room. On the floor in front of the sliding glass door, the drapes lay wadded up, rod and all. Just by the way the rod had been pulled out of the wall, I didn’t even have to guess what had happened.
“Shasta? Com’ere so I can kick yer butt.”
“Mrow.” “No.”
“Yes. I wanna kick it real hard.”

He never pulled the drapes down again, and after the shredded-cork-trees-in-the-yard incident - the second time - I finally got smart and bought a twelve foot piece of used telephone pole. Shasta fell in love with it, and it gave him something he could rake his claws into to his heart’s content.
It was actually kind of sobering. If there was ever a display of sheer strength, I think it was Shasta and his telephone pole. He could actually rip small pieces of wood off the pole. It was incredible.

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!


Kevin Ashley was my “little brother”. I loved him like one, and I protected him like one. And one such night, I hauled him away from his screaming parent’s place, to protect him from them. They didn’t like me much when they were drunk, and they didn’t know me from Adam when they weren’t.
I, for lack of better place, took him to “my” house. It actually belonged to a friend of mine, whose parents happen to be rather wealthy. They had moved out of Bakersfield a while back, but kept the house for the asset value. No one was living in it, so I asked if I could “borrow” it and keep Shasta there. They were thrilled to have me there, as it was someone “watching” the place.
I don’t think they ever fully understood what Shasta was. Or that I replaced several trees in the back yard that he shredded. I eventually got smart and bought a piece of telephone pole for him. He loved it. I also replaced a few items of furniture. I use “few” loosely.
Kevin had never been to this house before, as I hadn’t had Shasta, or the house that long. He followed me silently and reluctantly as I got out of my Supra and headed up the walkway. He didn’t like new places: new things.
I opened the door, leaving Kevin on the porch to watch me disappear inside.
Kevin finally crept into the entryway. I heard him shut the door.
"Mickey?"
"Down here," I called from down the hall.
He walked towards my voice, and started down a long, dark hallway.
The door to my room was closed. Well, that explained why my furred bombshell hadn’t met us at the door. I opened the door, and Shasta bolted past me and launched down the hall.
"Shasta, be nice!" I called.
The only time Kevin had heard the name "Shasta" was when I’d told him a story one night while he was locked in a cage in The Hall. I’d said nothing more than Shasta was a huge cat.
Saying something like “huge cat” was misleading. Most people, in hearing those words, would think nothing more than they were about to meet a rather ordinary, perhaps over-sized (maybe fat), housecat. I had learned, nothing could prepare you for Shasta. Kevin would be no exception. I knew that already.
Kevin proceeded down the hallway, probably just now noticing how little he could see. He probably should've taken that as his first clue: a premonition to disaster. He did see the blur though. Not that he even had a prayer at reacting to it. But he did see it.
It was something like this: a dark blur, an unidentifiable mass, moving not dangerously fast but quickly, down the hall, was aimed right at him...and connected. I have no doubt, he couldn’t say exactly how he got from standing upright to laying flat on his back. But none-the-less, there he was.
I reached over and flipped the light on. Looking back now, I’m sure things would've turned out better off if I’d left it dark.
The entirety of the surrounding scene sunk into his unwilling brain rather quickly.
He noticed the weight on his chest at probably the same moment he discovered he was no longer standing. When the light came on, he had no choice but to identify the weight. Shasta, as he discovered, was indeed a "huge cat", and just by his reaction - a very normal one, I might add - he had never, ever, been so scared! In fact, I would venture to say that if he took all the times he had been scared in his fourteen year life-span, and put them together, they would still not measure up to his current level.
I took in the scene. The dark blur - Shasta - had flown down the hall, leaped, hit him mid-chest, and took him to the ground, riding him all the way to impact. There Shasta remained, semi-perched/crouched, with both front paws still on Kevin’s shoulders, holding him down, pinned to the floor under his weight. Shasta stared at Kevin, eye to eye, from less than several inches away, if that. I think Shasta’s whiskers were up his nose.
The horror that possessed Kevin was well beyond reason. All I could do was watch everything happen.
Adrenalin shot through him. Kevin punched Shasta with one hand, square in the jaw, and shoved him off with the other. He somewhat crab-walked backwards until he'd slammed against a wall and could get no further away from the “hideous beast”.
Try as I might, I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing.
I'm not sure what penetrated Kevin’s stupor first: my hysterical laughter, or the crushed/shocked/hurt look that was suddenly plastered on Shasta's face.
"Th-that's a ffffucking m-m-mountain lion!!!"
That too, was a normal reaction. Like I said, nothing could've prepared him for Shasta. Nothing!
"I said he was huge," I said, amidst diminishing laughter.
"Fuckin' shit! You didn't tell me he was a goddamn mountain lion!"
Shasta remained perfectly still, apparently somewhat dazed, perhaps seven or eight feet from Kevin, closer to my end of the hall.
"No," I still laughed. "I guess I didn't."
Kevin was still way high on adrenalin, but at least his mind was starting to return from the clouds.
Shasta still remained frozen. I swear to God, the expression on his face was like Kevin had hurt his feelings. Maybe he had.
I could see Kevin trying to reason his way through everything. He'd been walking down a dark hall, something had attacked him, (or mugged him rather), and scared the shit outta him. He punched it, got away from it, and then here he was leaning against a wall, barely breathing, still staring at The Beast, and here it was - Shasta - staring back at him like he'd hurt its feelings!
Finally, I sobered, stepping around Shasta and crouching next to Kevin.
"Are you okay?"
He paused, thinking.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never been so scared in all my life."
I burst out laughing again.
"You shoulda seen it all from my perspective. Now that was comedy!"
Somehow, between the expression on Shasta's face and my laughter, the humor of it all became contagious. It really was a bit funny.
I think it was then Kevin realized that many other reactions besides cowering down the hall and changing facial expressions, could've easily come from Shasta.
Maybe I should back up here for a moment. When I said Shasta was huge, this was not meant sarcastically. If anything, if it helps to paint the picture, "huge" would be mildly understating things. Shasta, on all fours, stood just higher than my knee at his shoulder. He was almost five feet in length - almost eight counting his tail, and probably outweighed Kevin by quite a bit. And he was only two-thirds grown. Full grown, he might weigh twice what Kevin did, as Kevin was pretty small. Besides that, Shasta, when grown, would be a hell of a lot stronger than Kevin and me put together.
"I'm surprised he didn't knock the shit outta me," Kevin said.
"Naw," I said, truthfully. "He's really mellow. He doesn't get riled real easy."
"That's good! I'd probably be dead now."
I just shrugged.
Kevin was just looking at Shasta now, and I could tell he was starting to feel bad. I’m sure Shasta had planned it that way. I knew Kevin hadn't really meant to hit him. It was just a reaction.
"Com'ere Shasta," Kevin finally said, resituating himself to a crouch rather than slammed against the wall.
Shasta still just stared at him, but his expression changed to a more curious one. A second later, he apparently arrived at some conclusion in his feline brain and stood. He took a few cautious steps, moving slowly, silently, gliding a few feet closer to Kevin.
"I'm sorry I hit you."
Kevin reached out a tentative hand to him, and Shasta stepped yet closer, still studying him intently.
Kevin was really tense, and Shasta picked up on it. He stopped, poised like only a cat can be, as if between steps, within reach, but unmoving, almost as if he'd changed his mind. The moments ticked on, and I could almost feel Kevin’s heart pounding from where I stood next to him.
Finally, Shasta changed his mind again, and stepped up to him. I had to smile, remembering my first - and similar - encounter with this fun-loving cat. And I did remember it well...
An odd, exhilarating feeling came over me as my fingers first touched his soft, straw-colored fur. I ran my fingers over his shoulder, feeling his powerful, rigid muscles. It was awesome to be this close to such an animal, let alone actually touching it. My mind flipped back to the present as Shasta stepped forward again.
Shasta took one last step, right up to his chest, and nudged him over backwards. Shasta took another step, and gnawed playfully at the arm Kevin had thrown up to “protect” himself from yet another “attack”.
"Wow," I said. "I'm jealous. He doesn't do that with me."
He did, but Kevin just needed to hear me say something. Shasta, in fact, tended to gently gnaw on whatever arm or leg happen to be convenient. And I knew well: I wrestled with him literally every change I got.
I just smiled. I knew all too well, there was no experience even remotely like this one. Kevin was simply overwhelmed. He had no idea what to think, much less say. Even though it was dramatic, and even frightening, I knew he would remember this experience forever, with every detail, with great fondness.
"C'mon Shasta,” I said, as Shasta started getting a little more rambunctious that I thought Kevin might be ready for.
“Kevin needs to be shown to his room, and then you can chew his arm off from the neck down for all I care."
Shasta backed away from him, almost like he knew what I’d said. Sometimes I actually had to wonder. More than once, I had said: "He's so smart it's awesome." Most people figured I was just talking.
I took Kevin down the hall and showed him new room. Shasta followed behind us.
I stopped at the doorway to allow Kevin to have a look. Shasta slunk into the room and jumped onto the bed. Waves rolled back and forth across the queen size waterbed.
Kevin just stared at it, and I had to ponder that he’d probably never slept in one before.
Shasta loved them! Even just sanding there, bobbing up and down, he looked like he was having fun. He laid down, waves rolling again.
"You have a friend for life," I commented. "You'll have to fight him for the bed though."
"Really?" Kevin suddenly looked like that was danger best left alone. "I'll sleep on the floor."
I smiled at him.
"You take me too seriously. Lighten up. But believe me, you'll feel like kicking him off the bed after a few hours. He tends to stretch out a bit.
Kevin just studied me for a second. He knew my comment about taking me too serious was right. He did take me all too literally most of the time. And humor didn't come easily to him. I knew why.
There hadn’t been too many times in his life that he'd had much to laugh about. Plus, I tended to joke with such a straight face, it was hard for him to figure out whether I was joking or not. In any case, I fully intended to give Kevin as much joy, laughter, and excitement in his life as he could handle.
Kevin and Shasta never became fast friends. Shasta was just too big and overwhelming. But they did eventually reach some sort of odd agreement. It took a long time though. Shasta simply didn’t “play” as hard with him as he did with everyone else. But in his own way, Shasta finally won Kevin over. I was glad. It was a huge “good” in his life that offset the vast majority of “bad”. “Positives” come in many shapes, sizes, and forms...and species. And that’s good, because I have wonder sometimes if Kevin would’ve survived that time in his life without Shasta. Then again, would I have?
Again, I smiled, just thinking for a second.
Shasta had laid his head on his huge paws and was staring at us with such intensity, it was almost like he was reading our very thoughts. Maybe he was. Sometimes I had to wonder about that too.
"Tell ya what,” I said, gripping Kevin’s shoulder gently. “I'm gonna go make dinner for all of us, an' then we'll sit down and watch a movie or two. Okay?"
He nodded.
"In the meantime, you and Shas can get acquainted."
I turned to go, but stopped abruptly, spinning back to him.
"He wrestles, you know."
I left, leaving Kevin there to ponder that.
"He's an alarm clock too," I called from down the hall.
“What?”
“You’ll find out.”

I know that every person that has their own artform, whether it be drawing, painting, writing, or photography, has had their moment of almost devastating lack of inspiration. Been there; Done that. So, please forgive my psychobabble here, but I felt that perhaps it might be appropriate to share some things that I've found to be helpful in my own artform of writing.

Sometimes, inspiration is a strange thing. It doesn't always strike in the way we expect or even desire. Sometimes, it is entirely the spontaneity that /creates/ the inspiration we have. In that light, it is very often best to let the inspiration find us, through the various things that we enjoy in life, rather than seeking it out directly. I’ve found this to be very true of myself in my own bouts of “writers’ block”.

Many times, I have found myself sitting in front of my computer - I do all my writing on my computer now rather than writing it all by hand and having to transcribe it later - with a particular story opened up, and I’m just sitting there, staring at the screen, my fingers poised on the keyboard, and I really can’t seem to focus on anything to add. It’s not that I don’t like the story or that I don’t find it’s overall plot compelling. It’s more that I’ve gotten to this “slow” spot, where the scenes and images and dialog and actions have simply /stopped/ flowing. As a writer, that’s my gift. I see the scenes as they unfold in my imagination, and I simply write them down. The problem is, no images in the head, no writing. In this case, I’ve found that turning to other stories, besides the one I /wanted/ to write on, many times, helps. Sure, it could be argued that I’m not writing on the story that I /should/ be writing on, but maybe for now, it’s just more important to be writing about /something/ and worry about /what/ later on. Another “distraction” I’ve found to be useful is watching films.

I have a fairly extensive library of DVDs and videos. Sometimes, it’s fun to just run down the list and pick a favorite film and plug it in. Many times, as I’ve seen the films before, while I still enjoy them, my mind can focus on other things simultaneously, as it doesn’t have to delve so completely into the film. Many times, I will find story ideas and scene entering into my head, and as I continue watching the film, my mind will continue developing those ideas and toy with perhaps the words with which they could be written. If the idea seem interesting enough, then after the film is over and it’s back in its place on the shelf, then I can sit at the computer again and see what I come up with. Sometimes, the words come to me, and sometimes... Well, time for another film!

I guess what I’m really saying is that sometimes, we got so focused in on something, and we’re /really/ motivated to accomplish it, but it’s really a very large and monumental task that we’ve placed before ourselves. Sometimes, it’s literally the “size” of this task that blocks is. For me, a story is much like a painting: if the foundations (the plot) are lacking, the rest of the story will lack. If the characters (the colors we choose) are not endearing then the story is very “flat” and two-dimensional. If there is not enough detail (the “depth” of our painting) then the reader’s imagination is never sparked and the story is boring. Capturing all this is not easy, nor does it happen quickly. Like visual art, sometimes it develops at a painstakingly slow pace. That’s just the nature of art sometimes. In truth, it is our own impatience that leads to our demise.

There are slow parts to every story. Getting all the images and scenes built up and actually telling the story is what’s fun. Putting all the background in, and the less dramatic but still essential parts that link the various scenes together are much more painstaking. It’s like, painting a leopard in a tree, for example. You’re very motivated with the leopard, as it’s the “main character”. The tree also, goes really well, as the leopard is in the tree, so the tree has that “supporting role” motivation for you to develop it properly. But what about the rest of the picture? It’s not really /just/ about the leopard or the tree. While those two items are in the forefront and certainly the most important parts of the overall image, with just those two, the artwork is obviously incomplete, and regardless of how well done those two portions are, the viewer can see that there’s a lot missing. In other words, the viewer is left with a feeling of incompleteness, and of wanting more and having that want unfulfilled. In this case, we need to complete out painting. We need to add the sky, and the ground. We need to fill in all the little details, the “background” that will make the image complete. Overall, they are unimportant and perhaps even trivial things, but they give the viewer’s mind something to grasp onto, which add to the depth and dimension of the main character (the leopard) and the scene it’s in (the tree). Only together do they all form a complete picture. The same is true with writing.

In our minds, we see this grand thing in its entirety. We want so desperately to just be able to brain-dump it out there in twenty-two seconds, and have it be complete, just as we saw it in our minds. Unfortunately, words, not painting, are quite so simple. So in the end, we lose patience, and we become frustrated.

Have you ever notices that when you lose something important (like your car keys right before you need to go to an important appointment) and you simply can’t find them to save your life? Inspiration can be exactly like that. We “lose” is, and can’t find it. It eludes us (just like our car keys). But isn’t is odd how the moment we stop for just a brief second, and focus on something else, poof! There’s our keys. They’re (maddeningly) right in front of us, as they’ve been the whole time. We were so focused in on them that we couldn’t see them. As the cliche’ goes: we can’t see the forest because all the trees are in the way. Writing - inspiration - can be the exact same way.

So here’s the down-and-dirty: if you’ve found yourself in that maddening and frustrating place of not being able to find your inspiration for a certain project, back off a little. Focus on something else. Don’t think about it for a while. Go do something else that you enjoy, or sit down with friends, read a good book, or watch an exciting film. Each of these, while perhaps nothing close to what you want to be doing, help to ease your mind of frustration, and relax the tension of your body that the frustrations cause, and in the end, you might be able to sit down and your mind might be renewed with inspiration once again. Maybe it’s not the inspiration your were wanting or expecting. That’s fine! Go with it! Let it take you where it’s going. Eventually, when that piece that you’re so desperately wanting to complete is /ready/ to be completed, then you will be granted the motivation and inspiration to finish it. Some things - art, writing, things that truly come from the depths of our hearts and souls - can only come in their own time, not ours.

Don’t fret. Always go where whatever inspiration takes you, and focus on the here-and-now of that moment. Go where it takes you. See what you “create” from it. Sometimes, you’ll be quite surprised indeed! And sometimes, through the completion of other things, the inspiration to touch back onto that project that has been so totally elusive, can come to you with a passion and depth of emotion that would not have been possible otherwise.

Patience. Distraction. Sometimes, it’s all the little things, and /not/ doing what we “want”, can take us the furthest down the roads we desire.

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!


The Mystic Bush
Now there were times when it would’ve been fun to know what it was that was going through Shasta’s head. And at other times, I was sure I didn’t want to know.

Now Shasta was certainly known for doing strange things. On top of that, he did them at random, at some cosmic, feline whim. Like I said, I had to wonder at times, exactly what strange blizzards of thought raged through his cougar brain.
So here I was, sitting there talking to Josh about nothing, in between rounds of getting beat up by a mountain lion, and Shasta comes flying out from under a bush that’s next to the fence. He lopes across the yard as if heading somewhere with a purpose, then halts virtually on a dime, and flips back a few paces to a bush he’s just streaked past. Okay. I can deal with that...
At first, he just stares at it. Then his expression gets more intense, and his head tilts to one side. Shasta alternated side to side for a few seconds, and I had to wonder for a moment if maybe the bush had spoken to him in some druidic dialect that only he could hear and understand.
Then he takes a step back, and crouches down as if making ready to pounce on the bush. Then he unclenches and stands full height again, and a moment later, reaches out with a paw, and gently starts patting the top of the bush. Then, just like he began, the paw plants into the grass again, and his face is into the bush for another close inspection, complete with head tilting.
Again, Shasta steps back, and gently starts patting the top of the bush.
Josh has now noticed that I’m no longer involved with the conversation, and he looks at what I’m looking at: Shasta and the Mystic Bush.
“What’s he doing?” Josh asks after another complete evolution of Shasta’s look-sideways/pat-the-friendly-bush.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I said in all honesty.
“I don’t doubt that.”
Josh paused as we took in yet another of Shasta’s evolutions of the same thing.
“Kinda makes ya wonder what ‘ee’s thinkin’,” Josh commented.
“I’m sure I don’t wanna know.”
With that, Shasta suddenly turned to me, and had this shocked/horrified look on his face. A split second later, he did a back-flip, and shot back across the yard and dove underneath the safety umbrella of his favorite next-to-the-fence bush.
Josh and I watched this event in awe/amazement.
“I think yer right,” Josh said after a strange silence. “I’m sure we’re safer not knowing.”
I could only nod.

Excerpt from “Shasta’s Time” - Dissertation for Doctor of Philosophy in Counseling, 1996

This is just a little glimpse of some of the antics that can be had by turning a 200-lb cougar loose into your life (and house). Enjoy!


Swallowed by The Recliner!

I had always wondered if Shasta was only a spaz when I was home or whether he was just like that all the time. I discovered he was like that all the time.
The bouncing-off-the wall things were actually pretty common. In fact, they were a lot more common than I liked. Usually, Shasta was pretty careful about where on the walls he hit. After all, plain sheetrock walls were no match for four feet and almost two hundred pounds of cougar. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. He’d punched more holes in the sheetrock throughout the house than I could count. Shasta had actually gone through the entryway wall and into the dining room a couple times. It was not a pretty sight, either time. Of course, seeing that it kept me from getting mugged on those particular days, it wasn’t all bad either. In actuality, just the expression on Shasta’s face as he hit the wall, and instead of meeting something solid, proceeded on through it, was one of those classic Kodak moments. What I would’ve given for a video camera! I didn’t know his eyes could get so big! I almost died laughing, and then, all the worse/better, was that Shasta seemed so embarrassed by it all. That just made it all the more hysterical.
But it was actually after several months that Shasta stuck to only bouncing off walls. He didn’t start off that way. No indeed. Once upon a time, he would try to bounce off of anything. Even the recliner.
Most of the furniture was impassive to the abuse. Most of the furniture wasn’t heavy enough for him to actually ricochet off of, and consequently, he’d end up in a heap with a table or chair overturned on him. Sometimes he would actually hit something hard enough, that he and it would go skittering across the room. That didn’t happen too often. He even broke a small end table once. And lamps. He broke a bunch of lamps. Of course, about the tables, being that I couldn’t find a match for the one that remained, I ended up having to replace them both anyway. The couches had been the same way.
There was one piece of furniture that withstood Shasta’s abuse: the recliner. In fact, that old, heavy, thick leather upholstered chair actually dished the abuse right back. I watched it happen once. I didn’t even try to contain my laughter. Shasta used to get along with the recliner. Then things changed.
Shasta would come flying into the room from the hallway, hit the end of the kitchen counter, bounce, fly over the top of the back-to-back couches, and pounce into the seat of the recliner. The old recliner would always creek as it tipped a little onto it back legs. Shasta had made a game out of it: how far will it rock before it goes over.
You remember those old recliners, don’t you? The ones that you couldn’t buy anymore, even if you wanted to. The one like at grandma and grandpa’s house? Those half-ton monsters that once they get set in their corner, you leave them there forever, simply because you don’t want to have to rent a piano dolly every time you rearrange the furniture in the room?
What made the recliner fun at first, was eventually what kicked Shasta’s butt.
Shasta would hit the old recliner just a little different every time: the higher he hit it up the back, the farther over it would go, and the more balanced he had to be to keep it from going on over. He’d actually gotten incredibly good at it. But he failed to take into account the recliner’s one flaw: it was a bit temperamental.
Have you ever sat into one of those old recliners, and it took a little bit of energy to actually make it recline? This one was like that. But it was strange. It wasn’t always like that. You could put pressure on just the right parts, and it would just flip right back for you. You just had to hit the right spots. Plus, it was an all-or-nothing thing: plunk, and it was all the way back, all at once!
Anyway, Shasta’s balancing act was dependant on several things: one) the recliner probably weighed more than he did, and two) that the recliner wouldn’t actually recline. Well, one day, Shasta tried his balancing thing, and it did. And oh did I laugh!
Shasta flies merrily into the room, bouncing off the end of the kitchen counter, and vaults over the couches, and consequently me, in this gentle arc across/over the room and into the recliner. The recliner tilts up on two legs like normal, Shasta’s left-side paws up on the back, and his right-side paws in the chair. Suddenly, with no warning, the old chair just reclines. No pause, no ease back, just thunk, and it’s reclined. Meanwhile, this throws Shasta’s balance way out of wack, because now instead of balancing, he’s spread-eagled across this demon recliner. Since he’s spread-eagled, he can no longer shift his weight to counter-balance the recliner, and consequently, it goes over backwards with Shasta on board. All the while, I’m watching Shasta face change from “gee-look-what-fun-I’m-having” to “hay-this-is-something-new” to “ohmygod!” to “ohshiti’mgoingovertheedge!” I think that’s what really made it funny: seeing the expressions on his face change as rapidly as the scene.
Yet another day came along when Shasta didn’t “greet” me at the door. This was the day I determined Shasta bounced off the walls even when I wasn’t there.
“Mrow,” I heard Shasta call from the living room as I first walked in the door.
I’d had Shasta maybe two months by this time. He’d grown a lot in that time.
I wandered in.
“Mrow!” he called to me again.
I almost burst out laughing then and there.
The old recliner was flipped completely upside-down, and all that was visible of Shasta was his four feet of black tipped tail, snaking out from under it.
“Mrow!” he said again, annoyed at my laughter.
Apparently, he had hit the recliner just so, and it had reclined on him, and then flipped as he went over with it. It ended up completely flipped over, with him stuck underneath it. I couldn’t stop laughing.
Then when I did, and I picked it up enough that he could shoot out from under it, I started laughing all over again because of the “that-thing-tried-to-eat-me!” look on his face. Again, it all was another one of those classic I-wish-I-had-a-video-camera scenes.
It was never the same after that with Shasta and the recliner. He stayed away from it. In fact, whenever I needed moments away from my dear companion, I would just jump into the recliner and relax. Shasta always maintained a distance from the old chair for fear it would reach out and swallow him whole.
Shasta would wait at a five foot perimeter, “mrow”ing at me until I got out of the old recliner and gave him his due attention.
I discovered later that the recliner was also the Shasta sentry. Whenever I had something I didn’t want Shasta to get into, it was completely safe from him if I put it into the chair. And it didn’t matter what it was. Even food. Did I mention Shasta liked Taco Bell?
Shasta’s worst and only nemesis was that old recliner. “The day the recliner ate Shasta.” What a video that would’ve made!

I must ask your forgiveness in advance. My rabble here is certainly not meant to depress you, or drag you down from a holiday high. It is more that you seem quite taken by Dagger, and so I figured I would be daring and share my thoughts with you, even with the possible consequences. Again, forgive me if this pulls you down.

For most people, this day, at the very end of another year of life, is one of both reflection and contemplation. Indeed, for me as well, it is no different.

Many a philosopher of old with much more wisdom than I have said it better. We are all just travelers here in this place, and it is not really about the journey itself, but rather, those other lives that we come across and perhaps travel with for a while. In many cases, those lives are a profound influence on our own. They can alter the very directions of our travels. They can bring us a joy that we have never had. They can bring us new understandings of the world around us, and ignite new passions within us. They can give us new dreams and new resolves to achieve them. One such soul that was a larger part of my life than I ever realized was Dagger. Unfortunately for me, his journey in this realm was completed on this day, 31-Dec, 2004.

As I look back in reflection, I think often of our independent journeys. We met in late 1998, and it was perhaps not the best meeting of two souls. It could arguably be said, our journey together was littered with strife; much of it had nothing to do with me. I was merely a player on the stage, a companion to travel along the way for while. But of course, his journey started before that.

Like many facilities across the country, money is something that is given little consideration. They want the animals because in their minds it’s some sort of a status symbol. While I never met the people, I resent them that they could have such magnificent beasts in their midst, but couldn’t find it within themselves to take proper care of them. In my opinion, those that are tasked with the responsibility of caring and housing these kinds of animals - any captive animal - has taken on an awesome duty. To fail in that duty is a sacrilege. These people failed in that duty. Dagger’s parents were malnourished, so even as he was developing in his mother womb, he too was malnourished. Nonetheless, nature has miraculous ways of overcoming obstacles, and so on 01-Sept-1995, a new being was brought into the sunlight of a new world. Unfortunately, that world was one dominated by humanity.

After he was born, he was yet another mouth to feed - or not feed, as the case may be - and so his first weeks of life, where nutrition are absolutely critical, he was dealt his first of many cards of a less than ideal hand. He was an exploitation. His was the result of a breeding for the purpose of selling kittens to the highest bidder, but as always, no one wants to buy the “runt” of the litter. So even after all his siblings were long gone, he was left behind, now utterly alone. What a horrible first three weeks of life that must have been for him! He was not loved. He was not cuddled or given comfort or attention. I think these were yet more cards dealt to him in that same hand: the ultimate poker game where the stakes on the table are not money or wealth, but life itself.

It could be said that I grasp into the religious realm when I find no answers in the physical one. Perhaps there is truth to that, but as I reflect on so many things that I have seen in life, I am compelled to believe - perhaps with a trusting leap of faith - that there are things beyond our understanding, but are still being guided by unseen hands. Is there a God? Are there Great Spirits that guide and direct us meager, mortal beings along our paths? I don’t know. I don’t think that anyone can. It is about personal belief. It is about faith. That is, in fact, the very core of what faith is. In the very simplest of terms, faith is the belief in those things that we cannot see or feel or touch, but are still somehow aware of their existence.

I believe that the Spirits intervened in Dagger’s life. By the mortal perspective, he was of no value to the breeders, so he was given away. But I think the Spirits could see a time much later in the future, and they guided him into the hands and care of a particular place where he would be properly cared for, where he would be loved and given attention. Certainly, there would be hard times ahead, as this is simply life: there are good times, and there are bad. No soul is exempt from the roller-coaster. But Dagger was in a much better place, and for the first time, he was given the first worthy card in an otherwise horrible hand.

In his crib, where he was kept inside the house of his new guardian, he would walk around, crying, whimpering. When he was taken to the vet, they discovered that his vitamin and mineral deficiency was so extreme, that on the x-ray machine, he was literally transparent. Should he have fallen from even the height of a counter-top, he would have shattered like glass. But Dagger’s ailments were healed in time, although he would always have a slight limp in his right shoulder, and he would more than occasionally be given to slight seizures and tremors, both for the rest of his life.

Dagger never liked cars. He would flee from them. He would hide in his denbox, trying to escape. It will forever by a mystery as to what was behind these fears. Perhaps it was something that happened in the first three weeks of his life, before he was granted asylum in a new environment. We will never know the true cause of the fears that he had.

Perhaps it sounds melodramatic to say that when I first met Dagger, I was drawn to him. I have no better word. Drawn. That’s what I felt. It was like an ethereal magnetism that resonated into the very core of my soul. Like small iron filings that line up in a perfect pattern, I somehow knew that this was a creature that I wanted to spend time with, to get to know. I sincerely wanted for him to be a part of my life. Somewhat naively, I did not consider that in that process, he would become so large a part of my own.

February 2000 dawned a new era for many of the animals; the facility was moving cross-country, CA to FL. Dagger, of course, moved with them. He was the forth animal to relocate. Little did we know we were moving to hell. Our first real glimpse of that demonic place occurred on 16-Apr-2000. It was a day where many perspectives changed, but also, a resolve firmly established.

Dagger did not take well to his new environs. There were cars on a busy street that kept in him a constant state of fear. The perhaps foolish design of the compound meant that to get from one end of the property to the other, one had to traverse down the very center of the facility, which meant that any equipment involved with construction or the like would have to drive right by Dagger’s cage: not even five feet away. The denbox in the old and rickety cage did not even have a front; it was entirely open, so he didn’t even have anywhere he could hide. It must have all weighed on him horribly.

He had always had plenty of food to eat, and clean, fresh water to drink; things were different now. His usual diet had always been about 12-lbs of meat (chicken and beef), given four or five times a week. Now, he was literally starving on a handful of rotten chicken quarters - maybe four of them - that would be the only food for him until the next feeding, three or four days away. Water was no different. While he had a five-gallon bucket, the water was only refilled once a week. In Florida, the water is not just water. It /grows/. Any pool of static water becomes a pond, where the scum and debris not only collect but seem to multiply of their own accord. So for the first few days, Dagger’s water supply was drinkable. By day three, when all the various forms of life and scum had taken over, he would stop drinking. It was not good for him, but what could he do? Once again, he was in a place where humanity had a duty to care for his needs, and they were failing miserably in that tasking.

I had been working with Dagger for about a year-and-a-half by this time. I took a trip out and did a short tour-of-duty to care for and tend the animals in their new home. To say I was appalled by the conditions was putting it mildly. Nonetheless, I tried to do my duty there, tending to the needs of the animals as best I could. It was not easy tasking. Of course, as always, fate is a strange beast.

It was the afternoon of 16-April-2000. I had busied myself with some badly needed cage maintenance on Dagger’s cage. In the almost three months that Dagger had been in his new home - new hell? - no one had dared go in with him for fear he would kill them. Needless to say, Dagger’s attitude wasn’t the best. In the end, there was a lot of work to be done in his cage: cleaning out feces that had simply been buried rather than removed, cleaning out and refilling the water bucket, and finally, recovering the ground-wire that he had uncovered in his continual pacing in frustration.

It was unfortunate in so many ways that familiarity can get us into so much trouble. Even then, I loved Dagger dearly. We had gotten to know each other quite well, and I liked to consider that we were close friends. I did not notice anything different with him. His behaviors seemed the same. His mannerisms hadn’t changed. He acted just like he always had, which was why I did not feel uneasy about being inside the cage with him. I have been there a hundred times with no problems. I thought that today would be no different than any other had ever been. I was wrong.

I had been in the cage about ten minutes, I’d guess. I had just finished smoothing out the first wheelbarrow of sand, recovering the wire, as it could hook his paws should it become too exposed. He stopped and turned to me and purred just a little. I reached out my hand as I had done often, and he sniffed at it. First, his purring increased in volume, and then, rather suddenly, it stopped. His face changed to an expression I had never seen before. It was like the Dagger I had always known was gone, having been replaced by an angry and sinister imposter. He stood up on his hind legs and came straight forward at me. I was confused, but still tired to put up a fight.

Dagger hit me with his full weight, and at 230lbs versus my own 190, he took me right to the ground. It is perhaps the worst place that one could find themselves in: on their back with a cougar on top of them, pinning them to the ground with superior weight and strength. For the first time, I had fear of my long-time friend.

Well, long story short, I have to think that it was only about two or three minutes. However long it might have really been, it was truly the longest moments of my entire life. At the time, I felt like I was fighting for my very life. In reality, hindsight being crystal clear, it wasn’t anything nearly so dramatic. Dagger had 40lbs on me, and was probably four-or-five-times my strength. In straight, linear logic, one can easily conclude that given those facts, if Dagger had meant to kill me, I would not be here today. Looking back now, I truly believe that Dagger was trying to tell me something. He wanted me to know that his world was a horribly place. He didn’t like it there. I was someone that was familiar to him, so he knew he could tell me about it all, and that I would listen. Of course, I am but a stupid human, and the Spirits did not grant me the ability to speak Cougar. Dagger, in his infinite but waning patience, translated his “this place sucks!” speech into the next, most effective terms: teeth. I believe strongly now that Dagger never meant me harm. He needed to tell me something important, and I wasn’t listening. The good news is, we eventually got the message.

I have my souvenirs from that fateful day even now. I have 23 scars today from the punctures of Dagger’s teeth. The tear on my back is still visible. But even though all those scars were obtained in a less than ideal moment, they all are part of the memories that today I hold and cherish fondly; it is not the individual parts and pieces of an experience that make it what it is, but rather, the sum of them all, reflected upon as a whole.

Dagger and all the rest of the animals were moved from that horribly place, and eventually settled into what they probably considered heaven. They all, eventually, recovered, but for Dagger, the journey was a very long and troubled one. He didn’t trust humanity anymore, and I couldn’t blame him at all. But for the next almost five years, I maintained my vigil with him, trying diligently and patiently to convince him that at least /some/ humans could be trusted.

I cannot count the hours I spent with him. Sometimes, it was just taking pictures. Sometimes, I’d haul out my beloved milk crate, and sit down with him and read aloud from a favorite book. He would always come over and lay down next to the wire. I am not sure, even today, if it was about listening to my voice - or maybe the words I was reading - or the fact that I would reach down often, putting my fingers through the chain-link and scratching at his shoulders or neck. I found all such moments to be very peaceful and uplifting.

I have to think it was probably early 2004 when I began to notice the change. February perhaps. During tours, Dagger would always come forward to the end where the people would be gathered, and he’d purr at me while I told the gathered guests his story. Many were appalled by it. Many were angry. How could someone treat such a magnificent animal in such a way? I could never give them any answers; I didn’t have them for myself. So in the end, Dagger went from being untrusting and anti-social, to somehow knowing that I had done my very best, and while maybe he didn’t trust me - as I was still human - he could at least dare to take the chance with me.

Dagger passed away on the morning of 31-Dec-2004. To say I wept bitterly is the understatement of a lifetime. I was devastated. It was a pain, and anguish, felt down to the very core of my being, that I had never felt before. It was so total that I literally fell to my knees, put my face into his now-still shoulder, and I wept bitterly, sobbed uncontrollably. My friend of over six years was gone.

We sometimes come to feel so utterly hopeless, pondering all the many things that we should have done, those things that we had planned for the future, and all of those, in but a single moment, become moot. I blamed myself, as I had such grand plans for the future. I had always envisioned that while Dagger might not have his full compliment of years, perhaps twelve or thirteen would be reasonable, and only then would I need to worry of how I might deal with his loss. In my mind, I saw that as taking him for granted. How many of those dreams and visions for him could I have done sooner? How many enrichments could I have provided in the here-and-now, rather than waiting for “tomorrow”? The most painful blot on my soul was that “tomorrow” would now never come. Time had ceased. The moment had passed. An entire lifetime had blinked out of existence in a single fleeting moment, and I was left, standing there with regret, as there was so much that I had wished for, expected, and now would never have the chance to see achieved. In my heard of hearts, I could only hang my head and cry, wishing that I could only ask for Dagger’s forgiveness for not doing all the things that I had intended when he was still alive. Now, it was too late.

It seems that even in times of utter sorrow, the friends and companions that we have gained along the way can offer profound words of encouragement to us in those monumental times of need. With Dagger’s death, I only felt regret, failure, and sorrow. But through the eyes and perspectives of those around me, I came to gain an understanding that I could have never had otherwise. Put another way, very rarely can we see things so clearly as what others can observe from a slight distance. We see the world immediately around us with a bias - or perhaps naivety - that sometimes filters out important aspects; others viewing from a distance, don’t have such filters.

My greatest hope for Dagger was that he would come to find some happiness in his captive existence. He was dealt a rotten hand of cards in the Poker Game of Life. At the time of his passing, I wanted the absolute assurance, the black-and-white, that he had indeed had some good times. I couldn’t see them in my own sorrow. But many friends, colleagues, other companions-of-life’s journeys, offered me their own views, and in the end, there was a lot of hope to be found in them.

The truth is, I could never have observed what Dagger was like when I wasn’t around him. More than one person told me later that when I was giving tour, or talking with other volunteers, or whatever, that whenever he’d hear my voice, he would perk up. Whatever he was doing, he’d stop, and turn to orient on my voice. If I was close enough, he’d let out a chirp. That’s what I missed the most in the days following his death: the chirp. It was that greeting from a cherished friend that uplifted your heart, that was suddenly missing. As I walked along the path to the back of the compound, where I had always heard Dagger’s greeting chirps, which I answered back in my crude, human fashion, there was now only silence. It hurt. It hurt so deeply that I would just hang my head and cry for a moment or two (or three or five).

“He was so different with you, Mick,” one of my friends said earnestly. “His ears would perk, and he’d just look...I dunno...excited. It was like: Oh! Daddy’s here! He wasn’t like that with anyone else. He could give a shit about the rest of us, but with you, I think he was happy to see you.”

More than one person said similar things: different words perhaps, but all the same in content.

So now, it is two years since I said my final good-byes to my friend, and in many ways, it has been a long an arduous journey to find my way once again without him by my side. There have been many others to fill in the gaps here and there, Drifter and Macumba, of course, and so many others, but the price of giving away that piece of your very soul to those companions that come to mean so much to you, is that when the time should come, where their own journey parts from yours, for whatever reason, they shall take that piece of you with them, and it leaves a hole that can never be completely filled.

At one time, when I was perhaps young and naive, I feared those holes. They were all burdens that reminded me always that I had failed in my tasks to be guardian over those that I had come to love and trust and admire. Now, I see them differently. Those holes are there to mark the existence of those companions that we have found in our journeys that have so profoundly moved us and altered us and so very much enriched our own lives by their presence. Do we miss them? Oh yes! Profoundly so, sometimes. But there is also such monumental hope to be found in the small fact that we would all be so much less than who we are today, had those few and scattered souls not ever become a part of our lives.

I look back now, and yes there is still some pain, and perhaps a little regret, but as I look through all the many pictures that I have of Dagger, I know without doubt that my life was made so much richer by my having known him, even for so short a time.

Where is he today? I can’t presume to say. Many religions say that the dead fall away to non-existence: eternal sleep. Others say that the body is merely a shell, a capsule that for a time, contains the soul. I really don’t know what I believe. It is still my fondest wish that Dagger should find happiness. So perhaps it is a leap of faith, but I think that now, he is truly free of captivity, not only the physical kind that was his life in a cage here on this Earth, but free from the confines of a mortal existence.

My imagination allows me to dare see an ethereal Dagger, who is standing serenely on a small knoll, scanning over his vast domain. Then, he starts walking, then jogging, and just for the sheer joy, opens up into a full sprint. Oh such awesome beauty! The glory of fluid grace! Every muscle, every joint, every nuance of his being, flowing in perfect harmony, as he arcs forward with every touch of his paws onto the ground. Even as the chasm of fifty-feet looms before him, his body bunches just slightly, and he leaps, sailing easily over the distance, landing effortlessly on the other side. There, he slows and then stops. He turns a little, knowing that he is being watched. His ears perk slightly, probably knowing that it’s me, and he lets out a chirp that still seems much too high-pitched for a cat of his size. That is what I see today.

He is /free/ at last. There is nothing more that I could ask for in all the universe! Not a thing.

Yesterday, a year ago, Jumanji, a very majestic leopard passed away. Today, a year previous, Dagger too, left this life behind. So I burned my candles for them, both in reflection of how they enriched my life, and in hopes for the future that they are both in better places, free to roam the universe at will, in domains that know no boundaries. They are both free, and happy.

Well, I need to go change their candle; it is almost burned down. As I bring things to a close, I want to share some thoughts that I wrote in my tribute to Dagger of long ago.


You started out with less than your due, but you still came through it all.
You lived through a horrible time and place, and you called out for help.
I stayed there for you, and cared for you, ‘till the very end and beyond.
I will remember your quiet chirp; I will remember your beautiful eyes.
I have earned my Leopard Spots; I have earned my Tiger Stripes.
And now, through you, I have earned my Cougar Mustache.
I will never forget you or the times we shared, the good or the bad.
May you forever Rest in Sacred Peace, knowing that you were loved.

I will forever miss you. I will forever love you.
I will keep up the fight. Goodbye my Dagger.


Never forget that there are those companions that journey along your path with you. They are there for you, no matter what species or race. They bring you up when you are down. They give your life meaning when you lose sight of your own visions and dreams. They keep you on-track. They are the wind that fills your sails and moves you forward. They are the single star in the sometimes cloudy heavens that guides your path.

A profound lesson I’ve learned about life: there’s an infinite difference between riches and wealth. “Riches” are merely something that can be added to or subtracted from a bank account or stock portfolio. “Wealth” is about all those intangibles that when you look back over the course of your life, were the things that were /truly/ important, and meant something: all those sacred moments that you have shared with those perhaps few people that have been a part of your life along the journey.

I’m not very rich, but I am truly wealthy, and I have come to understand that the absolute greatest wealth that you could ever posses is to have truly loved, and to have been loved in return. And that is priceless beyond all compare.

May your next year’s journey be filled with riches, and will happiness, and my greatest hope is that you will be able to journey one step closer to living those dreams that you have chosen for yourself.


With Sincere Regards,
Kenti R Bengali

Life can be a very overwhelming thing at times. Jobs can get hectic, relationships can get complex, and most of all, time can become that rare commodity that there’s never enough of to do the things that we /want/ to do, leaving us to only do those things which are usually chose by the “hottest-fire-first” methodology.

If there were any encouragement that I’d offer, it would be to simply /take/ time every once in a while, to reflect on those things that are truly important in your life. Whether it be the brief, five minutes in the morning during the initial caffein infusion, or during that long-anticipated lunch break at work, or even the tedious and perhaps frustrating commute homewards in the evening. Whenever you might manage to steal those moments, do it! There can be a real peace found in them.

Someone once said to me: “Don’t get so caught up in life that you forget to live.” I’ve always found there to be a very profound message there. Life can indeed be complex in its simplest moments, and downright overwhelming in others. Even so, passions are those few things that we can find peace and tranquility in, even in the busy hubbub of our daily existences. Passions are those things, whether they be “hobbies” or “pass-times” that you can truly immerse yourself into, and every emotion whether sadness, anger, frustration, or sorrow, can all be put into those passions and fuel them like nothing else. If you are frustrated, depressed, sad, angry, or whatever, and find yourself turning towards a particular activity, then think carefully about that activity; I think you will find that what you’re drawn to is much more profoundly important in your life than you might have realized before. Those activities that you’re drawn to, those are your passions! Develop them. Nurture then. Delve into them, because as you do, and more fully discover them, you will find that you will learn much about yourself as well. Passions are a part of us; part of life’s journey is to find them, discover them, and with those discoveries, you will come to see that your life is made so very much richer by having them.

I have so many passions: music, animals, writing, and even counseling, although I haven’t done that for a living in quite a while. I am perhaps lucky to know that I have four passions. Some people only have one. Some people journey for a lifetime, never discovering what theirs might be. Others find that their perhaps single passions makes the entire universe turn for them. For me, I’m not sure than any one of my own is any more grand than the others. All play a monumental role in my life. With both music and writing, they can be shared with other, and if there is such inspiration, can move them no differently than it does myself. Animals are a much different passion.

I cannot begin to describe what I feel when I am knelt next to my animal friends. It’s not about words; it’s about feelings and emotions. It’s about “being”. It’s about find yourself in that perfect moment, where everything is bliss and contentment. It is about love and compassion. It’s about that sometimes fleeting moment that last for such a tiny moment and is then gone forever, when you were truly at peace. That’s what the animals do for me. It’s very personal. It’s very...intimate, for lack of better word.

So that’s what this page is about. These animals are my passion: my life. I hope that you also, can find some peace and tranquility here with them. It would be my greatest hope.

Find your passions! Live your life through them. Let them guide you along the way, as by facing life through them, you will find that so many things that give you such strife and tribulation will not seem so overwhelming when seen through the eyes of your passions.