I am Frankie’s big monkey
By Fred Malo
Carbondale
Most of the people I know who live with a cat think they own the animal. Nobody owns a cat. They won’t come, sit, beg, roll over, speak or lick your face. They’re their own boss.
I’m an average sized man, but considerably larger than Frankie. Good thing. If I was his size, he would probably kill and eat me. And anybody who’s been to the monkey house at the zoo has to see the similarity between ourselves and the primates.
It’s my job to feed Frankie. He once ate only dry cat food, but his 18-year-old teeth can’t chew that anymore. So, it’s canned, wet cat food now — and when he wants it, he wants it now. Frankie never finishes his bowl, as if he doesn’t trust me to keep feeding him. Frankie doesn’t need to worry about that. Past experience has taught me when a cat quits eating, it’s ready to check out.
It’s my job to make a lap for Frankie. This is also an opportunity to flip on the tube and watch a ball game. Once he jumps up into the chair, Frankie demands to be petted. Judging by the low, rumbling purr that comes from him, Frankie must like that.
No doubt it reminds him of when his mother would lick him clean. The difference is, with her suctioned-cupped tongue, Frankie’s mother really was getting him clean. My naturally oily hands only make him dirtier. Have you ever noticed when you’re done petting a cat, they lick the very area you just stroked?
It’s my job to clean Frankie’s cat box. I’m 75. Frankie and I are growing old together. We both use the bathroom a lot more than we used to. Frankie used to be an outdoor-only defecator, but advanced years have taught him the cat box is much more comfortable.
Frankie’s visits to the great outdoors last less than a minute nowadays. I no sooner sit down in my easy chair after letting him out than Frankie’s crying to come back in. So what if cleaning the cat box is an unpleasant task for the big monkey; his sole purpose in life is to serve my convenience.
A lotta people hate cats. They hate ‘em for the same reason I love ‘em. I love their independence, aloofness and the FU attitude they have for big monkeys.
I’m prepared for when Frankie reaches the end of the trail before I do. Been there. Done that. Frankie is my third cat. All of them have reached at least 13-years-old. Got Frankie when he was nine-months-old. Been together a long time. It’s said Siamese live a long time. Twenty years isn’t uncommon, but he won’t live forever.
I’ll get that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’ll cry. I’ll spend a few lonely, sleepless nights in bed wondering where my warm, little snuggle partner is. Then, I’ll make moves to get another cat. I’ll immediately fall in love with it and it’ll love me as much as a cat can.
On the Metro in St. Petersburg
By Kitty Riley
Carbondale
I met a stranger the other day
On a train underground
Differences were all I could see
Were all that I found
We sat across from each other
Opposite sides of the aisle
Saying not a single word
Mile after mile
His hair was not like mine
His eyes nor his clothes
The book he read was written in
A language I did not know
But when an apple someone dropped
Rolled towards our feet
It slid from side to side
And underneath my seat
I felt a tickle in my throat
A giggle wiggled free
A chuckle came from the other side
As the stranger laughed with me
We smiled at each other then
And nodded a hello
He even gave a little wave
When he had to go
I realized I had been looking
Through eyes completely wrong
I should have seen our shared
Humanity all along