Saturday, April 16, 2016


I inherited a cat three years ago.  Baby was a divorce cat…when we split, the ex said she couldn’t take care of both the cat and the dogs, and was going to take Baby to the shelter…so how could I refuse to take him in?  He was a pretty good cat for a guy living by himself…he’d sit on top of the sofa, go out, come in, eat food, steal my food, and occasionally we would play a game called “Cat Airlines” when I would launch Cat Flight 328 from the Dining Room table to the Couch, ETA 2.1 seconds from takeoff.  He was also a fine muse, being responsible for my own personal modifications of Player's "Baby Come Back" ("Baby the Cat!  Any kind of fool could see...there was something, in your really stinky cat breath") and the King of Pop's "PYT" ("I want to pet you! BTC!  Baby the Cat!").  Baby was also the source material for a song co-written with my son called "Baby the Cat Pooped on the Rug in There," which could be adapted to many different musical styles, but usually with the same crappy outcome.  Or output, in this case.

Anyway, poor Baby went to the Great Litter Box in the Sky a couple of months ago.  I had boarded him at the vet’s office while I was out of town, so it was decided that Baby would be cremated and then I could put his ashes in the backyard.  What I didn’t realize was that his ashes would come back to me in a small white box with the name “Baby Rodenberg” printed on the front.

I forgot to take the box out of the car, and it sat in the front passenger seat for a few more days until the next time I was traveling.  I pulled up to the Park-N-Ride near the airport and turned over my keys to the attendant.  As I did, I saw him stiffen up when he saw the box containing the ashes of Baby Rodenberg waiting to be chauffered to the lot.

I still keep Baby with me in the car.  The love of a cat…or at least it’s ashes…is a gift that keeps on giving.

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