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I met Charlie in 1973.  You might say it was a case of mutual need: two individuals in two more or less identically desperate situations.  I had finally settled in to the Viking Hotel in San Francisco, after returning to the states from an extended stay in Amsterdam; then, briefly Sweden; then, in California: Atherton, Palo Alto and a couple of places in The City.  Had it been over a year since I got back?  Hard to believe, unless you consider that I’d already lived in three towns, suffered a mean bout of hepatitis, and suffered even more from an excruciating spell of culture shock during which I learned at least one important lesson: after speaking English in foreign countries and blurting out whatever colloquialism or curse that came to mind, it is wise to catch your tongue when once again you are in a place where English is preeminent.  More than once I found myself cursing or speaking ill of others who were within ear shot, the result being to my chagrin and embarrassment the object of my derision flashing the look-that-could-kill. Nowadays, of course, having learned to know better, I rarely cast dispersions on strangers—or even people I know—saving most of my loathing for political leaders, governments, zealotry, miscellaneous trivial things and advertisers. Another, greater lesson, maybe, was that, although probably eventually we can all go home again, it is sometimes the better thing not to buy round-trip tickets. God, did I firmly scold myself upon returning to the USA at the particular moment when my plane landed in Los Angeles on a miserably hot and smoggy day.  Sure, the USA is a great place to live, but so are plenty of other places on the planet. Now, having landed in one of the exasperatingly far flung and frantic areas of the states, I longed immediately for  the gentle pace of Holland, which I'd only hours ago enjoyed and, in hindsight, taken for granted.  I left Holland with no money and but one bag which contained everything I owned. At LAX I had to walk from the terminal to the nearest highway in order to start hitchhiking—north, this time, instead of south to Orange County and my childhood haunts—for now I guess I called San Francisco "home." Once alongside Highway 101, a pair of butterflies landed on my shoulder. This I took as a sign of good things to come. But I digress (surprise, surprise).  Where was I? Oh yes, a year had passed since my coming home.

Although I had rekindled many friendships in San Francisco, I was lonely for the warmth of more intimate companionship.  And, after being deathly ill for several months and in a new living situation, I felt that need even more.  Charlie was in similar straits, except in his case there were more outside influences at play against him.  He had recently been evicted from the home he had known since birth, and now was trapped in an institution for the homeless where, if he knew anything at all it was this:  only the most sincere and selfless and qualified person could free him.  It was true that we never spoke about his past, but it soon became evident that I was indeed that special savior.  He looked up to me.  He practically worshipped the ground that I walked on.  The feeling was mutual and I told him so.  To be frank about it, Charlie’s situation was incalculably direr than my own.  My emptiness was only a few ratchets up from casual loneliness.  Charlie had no emptiness.  Only an incredibly unspeakable need to be saved from a future that was but partly unknown.  Left to time and time alone, he may well have perished, his predicament so dependent on others.  He had literally nothing to his name but the coat on his back, and prospects of neither food nor shelter beyond these Spartan, sterile quarters. The facility was so resourcefully taxed that it was bereft of furniture enough for all – and not even a bed for Charlie. He depended on the most meager nutrition and virtually no real contact with others, except when some passerby would stop for a moment, stare a bit and mutter some empty nicety. The idea that this miserable time might soon end never would enter his head unless some passerby chanced to glance his way, upon which recognition Charlie’s heart must surely have filled with an unimaginable sense of hope.  But over and over again, those who saw him passed him by.  He had no control over his life at this time. He was utterly helpless and unknowingly wrought that his life at any moment might end—and those moments now ticked away at an ever-quickening pace—on a grim schedule that only the reaper would follow to its last sickening entry.

But the reaper did not come for Charlie. Instead, it was at the last possible moment for rescue to come that I found him there—and took him into my home—after my own affirmation: I would enter into my next relationship with my eyes and heart open; check my ego at the door and pack my neediness away someplace high up and out of reach. Charlie’s life was miraculously turned around. And my own existence took on a kind of meaning that I before had never known. We were joined. Inseparable.  Even as my travels had not yet ended. Through cities and towns, on journeys brief or wild; to new climates, through hills and to dales, the meandering stream of my life.  Amidst packing and unpacking, and filling out yet another change-of-address form; looking for work; finding new friends.  By our association, Charlie had now become the vagabond, too.  He never let on that he minded one bit. Settling down was difficult—settling in was a breeze.

In conversation it was I who kept the chatter going.  Charlie was mostly a listener and though his responses were brief they seemed heartfelt and I could tell he was rapt and that I'd almost always manage to keep his attention, no matter how inane the topic or how clumsily my words sometimes tumbled from my brain.  We shared a very small room at the Viking and maintained a free-to-come-and-go (nowadays “open”) relationship: our devotion to one another was implicit, and our mutual need for each other’s love was not only great but sublimely unspoken as well.  Still, there were times when I wanted to really do my own thing and not have Charlie hear of it. With his need somehow so much greater than mine, he never assumed I was anything but loyal—even when I told him I had strayed.  He would sometimes stay with me too closely, day or night, inside or out. Sometimes he was so insistent on being with me every single second that I'd have to reassure him that I would never leave him for another and that he was free to do his own thing whilst I went about mine.  It would be some thirty years before the term “separation anxiety” would enter the lexicon, but Charlie (and, well, me, too) was that condition's earliest poster child. I never felt oppressed or harassed by his clinging. And although he truly was free to wander about and go his own way, he would invariably be home before me, as if to say “where were you? I've been here all along.”  He would anticipate my return from errands or work and, while patient when I tarried, his tolerance could be tested. This I could tell from the way he said hello. If he was lounging, then he hadn’t become impatient and was biding his time. But if I found him pacing and fidgety upon my return it was obvious that his biding had been bitten and was now wearing thin.  Only on the rarest occasion would I come home and find him asleep as though it meant not a whit that I'd been gone for hours or days upon end.  He’d always manage the same brief welcome, usually delivered with cheer and the beguiling nod of his head that had become his trademark amongst our small circle of friends. (He spoke not a word but his hearing was exceptional.)  And he’d always get my heartiest hellos and hugs.  Then we’d settle into our routine, often after a short, cuddly nap:  chit-chat, dinner, visiting each other, visiting friends; sometimes a walk through the neighborhood just for the sake of a stroll, and weekly to shop at the mom-and-pop stores that made the city seem to bustle even in the quietest of neighborhoods.  Luckily, most all of our circle lived within easy walking distance. The Viking was near Market Street and Hayes, and our most distant confidant was not far into the Castro district.  There were many storefronts to window shop, from the little groceries previously mentioned, to antique shops, boutiques, small international cafes and such.

For three years we slept each night in the same cozy way.  We were snugglers and that was the extent of our physical love.  Charlie treated me and any guests to whimsical games – with some moments of true brilliance thrown in -- and never did he want for attention from others whether from friends in frequent gatherings or from strangers who encountered him in the town with or without me by his side. Our most fun parlor game was one Charlie’d made up. We called it “What Are You Thinking About?” It was a variation on Twenty Questions. There were no real answers and the rules consisted only of intently watching each player and not asking questions about what might or might not going on at the moment.

Charlie was the first individual in some years with whom I shared close quarters with for any real length of time, and so it was that I reacted with quiet surprise that he was able to thrive amidst what normal folks would instantly recognize as chaos. So beset by the patterns that my life long ago established, there were seemingly monthly moves to new quarters and jobs, and Charlie went along with each new crimp, neither suffering terribly nor cooperating fully with my emotional whims and the illogical threads of my life.  Those years with Charlie were full of many exciting times, and of course you, the reader, already know about many of them, having read what chapters I have finished up to now.

Starting during the summer of 1976 and stretching way into 1977, I was beset and by an onset of arthritis in my hands.  The pain was horrific at times, and to add to the discomfort, the uncooperative joints made it impossible to continuing taking drum lessons which I'd begun in the winter just passed.  I’d probably still be gripped by that gnarly grapple had I not visited a friend in Austin, Texas, for three days in May, 1977.

Immediately upon my return to San Francisco I began making plans to again pull up stakes and plant them somewhere else, hopefully this time not just in topsoil – as hopeful I had been at every previous time.

Charlie and I flew to Texas in July. By the end of August he was dead. My constant companion of the past four years was gone forever. Looking back on it now, as I have done countless times, I wonder if that last great move was the ultimate cause. I do know this: Charlie was the last great love of my life.  I cannot bear to think of him now – nearly thirty years later. And when I do think about Charlie, the good times, the ba – no there were no bad times between us—I cannot avoid a good welling up and sometimes, when I'm laid too low, I can’t make it thru without bawling, even after one third of my life since his passing. Then always it’s a smile—Charlie's smile—that saves me from myself.  Try as I might, it’s always his smile that wins over. He’d invariably nod his head this way and that; smiling and saying hello; in his own particular way.

The funeral was without much ceremony. Our large circle of friends was back in San Francisco. Never one to shy away from disturbing the status quo, I made plans without official permission, and buried Charlie—not in an official cemetery—in a tiny plot overlooking the hill country west of Austin. Atop his grave was placed the simplest marker hewn from the commonest stone.  It would be nearly four years until I again visited the site, but what a remarkable and surely unique visit it turned out to be.

Through much planning and wrangling and without contacting appropriate authority, Charlie was exhumed in 1981. Austin was now growing so fast that his innocent grave had become encroached upon by incorporated, private property, and it was time to move to more or less traditional grounds. I was there to witness his unearthing and the removal of his remains, which ultimately made their way to Baylor University in Waco, for anthropological study and, finally, to a special destiny that would take another four years to achieve, and which I would not fully appreciate until 1994.

Felis Catus In Memorium Perpetua

Okay. So I blew it. Everyone knows by now that I've been talking about a Maine Coon that I rescued from the San Francisco Chapter of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, on Howard Street, walked him 4 miles to home and named him "Charlie" after Charlie Ruggles, a character actor who was never very famous (and if you Google him you'll see why).  But what happened to my Charlie is probably much more interesting than what happened, finally, to Mr. Ruggles. Heck, Charlie the human was simply buried and almost forgotten (until now), but Charlie the cat?  Read on.

Walking With My Dog Name Cat

I’m a wee bit sorry that I've started this chapter this way, but now that I have, I guess I'll continue it so.  Those of us who are of a certain age will happily recall Norma Tanega’s 1966 one-hit-wonder “Me and My Cat Named Dog." It was a fun little tune and not a huge hit (it was on the charts for a mere six weeks and only got up to number twenty-two) but just the same a sweet song.  It wasn’t until I met up with Charlie that I learned first hand that some cats, at least, were almost exactly like dogs.

Charlie found me, really.  I decided to go “pet shopping” because at last I felt more or less adjusted after several moves over the past year since my return from overseas.  I had such a positive feeling about my excursion that day that I didn’t even get the usual pang of trepidation I normally got before going to “the pound” in search of a companion.  That pang of trepidation is the excuse I use today for not finding myself another pet—emotionally unable to cope with a visit to our local shelter.  A better excuse would be that I have a small apartment on the second floor, and I would never have a cat if it meant keeping it indoors. Adding to that is the fact that I am having such difficulty walking these days and have so little real time to devote to anything other than working, writing, and doing nothing, that to get a pet now would be unfair to us both. In other words, I'm much too selfish to have a pet—not even a Five-And-Dime goldfish. Maybe next week this will change. Probably not. And I've pretty much decided that next time I have a pet it'll be a dog. Hell, at the rate I'm going, I'll probably wind up needing the seeing-eye version. Can I get one of those from Medicare? Will I even be eligible for Medicare, having never been good about taxes?

The animal that first caught my eye that day was a big, beautiful, silky-coated, jet-black monster with incredibly bright yellow eyes. Stunning, really.  But when I came to the next pen, my decision had already been made by the beast that had involuntarily taken up quarters there.  Instead of just meowing, or coming up to run it’s form along the bars, this animal shook its head while it spoke, this way and that, and almost gleefully meowed “I'm the one.” And it was. He was the one. Charlie was on the SPCA's short list. He'd been at the shelter 2 weeks and was due to be gassed the day after my visit. Nowadays, San Francisco, like many other enlightened communities, has a policy against euthanizing unclaimed animals at tax-payer supported shelters.  A new baby had come to Charlie's former home and his owners felt safer without a cat in the house. If it were possible, I would volunteer to train cats to suck the breath out of babies. Why be superstitious when you can get the real thing with the aid of a misanthrope instead? Oops! My bad, as they say nowadays.

I paid my thirty bucks or whatever, and walked into the cool, bright light of that day.  Charlie had no name but he was in the SPCA’s cardboard carrier. We boarded the bus. Yikes. It would take three transfers to get home via public transportation. And the box? He had no intention of taking that kind of treatment either lying down or standing up. He clawed his way out after we'd only gone but a block or two. I did what any responsible parent would do: I acquiesced to the demands of my child:  pulled the stop cord, tossed the box away and began carrying my new charge a-home. I walked with him cross-armed, cradled, his chin on my shoulder, his nose pointing back.  It was at least two miles from the shelter to Market-near-Hayes.  We were just about half the way there when again Charlie made another decision for me.  With a swipe of his claws he drew three very determined scratches across my cheek.  I took that to mean, “let me down” and I was right.  If I was walking, then Charlie was, too. What choice did I have? The carrier was a mile or so back in the trash. There certainly wasn’t a store anyplace close where I could buy a replacement, and I wasn’t about to go begging from strangers an empty box. We were on the sidewalk that goes around Dolores Park. I let the beast walk wherever he'd walk, and stayed on the lookout for hazards. I use the word “beast” because that’s what I called him when we “agreed” he'd be carried no more. He didn’t run off. Never really strayed but a shadow's length away.  I had to carry him across some trolley tracks, but at red lights and stop signs he seemed to know what to do. He walked all the way home with me and ran up the stairs that pulled up inside the Viking’s front door—but only after sniffing the entryway, outside and in. He got to my landing before me.  And there at my landing he waited.

My room at the Viking was first to the left, second floor off the stairs.  I rarely locked the door (the street-level door was always locked) and today was no exception. I opened it up and the cat followed me in.  I’d already brought in supplies: litter and box, cat food dry and wet. He went first to the box and then right to the dry. Great for my pocket book, I must surely have thought.

It didn’t take long for Charlie to take.  My friends Kevin and Donna, who lived on the same floor, were delighted I'd made such a good choice. The fact that half the time Charlie would meow, he’d do so while shaking his head, this way and that, almost as if he was laughing with us – that trait alone made him instantly unique and utterly loveable ‘round our little hotel in our heavenly hell.  Kevin quickly identified the beast as a Maine Coon cat and proved it with a photo example from a cat book he’d found that very day,  for a buck, at the used bookstore across the street from the Viking. The same little shop where I found Mary Astor's autobiography, "My Story," which opens with her banging her noggin on the shower head in her small retirement apartment and uttering, "How many movies do you have to make before you can get a decent shower!"  It might as well have been a photograph of Charlie himself.  He was a classic: ringed tail, long white bib and britches, calico coloring. Everything an original Maine Coon cat should be (before they started breeding them for solid colors and such).

We tossed around suggestion for names.  Kevin liked "Ruggles" and that led me to decide on Charlie.  It didn't take long for my new friend to learn his name.

Yet Another Pet Story

Everybody who's had pets has stories about their wonderful animals, their peculiarities and charm.  I'll cut mine short.

It didn't take long for Charlie to settle in, and the fact that he was a most unusual cat became rapidly obvious. He played catch and fetch with balled up note paper. All cats fetch but this one brought the ball back for more - endlessly.  He followed me everywhere. He loved it when I'd play the stick game. Using a 2-foot long, 1/8" diameter wooden dowel, we'd play "Lion Tamer."  Of course, one never can tame lions but, I'm sure, like all cats, lions love to play. And the whip that the lion tamer uses is nothing more than a lure. The cat's attention is all toward the end of the stick farthest away from the hand that holds it.  You can make a cat do just about anything if he's in pursuit of the end of that stick. Hell, if you're simpatico enough, you can make a full grown tiger jump through hoops of fire, all in quest of the end of that stick! One lazy evening, after a rigorous game of lion tamer, we'd left the doors open to both Kevin's room and mine.  The dowel was in Kevin's room but we humans were at my place, probably smoking some of the marijuana that I'd grown in a window box next to my kitchenette.  We practically fell out of our seats when Charlie entered the room, the 2-foot doweling firmly in his teeth, perfectly centered and balanced. Now I know that doesn't seem like a very big deal, but the darn cat actually walked that 2-foot-long stick through Kevin's door, down the hall, and into mine. The doors are only 28 inches wide. It was like threading a needle. This feat occurred only a few days after I'd brought good ol' Charlie home.

I'd taken a temp job typesetting in the Wells Fargo Bank Headquarters communication arts department, a nine-to-five assignment that put me out my door at 8:30 for the bus ride downtown and brought me home no later than six on most weekdays. I was only a few days into this routine when Charlie had it figured out perfectly. The way my room was situated, one could climb through my window and onto the roof. If the stairwell window was open, you could climb through it and have access to all three floors of the building, as well as the streets and the yards of the houses behind the hotel. After only a few days into my routine, Charlie had his routine pretty much as well set. He would usually be waiting for me to get from the bus stop. But he wouldn't be waiting in my room, but at street level, right there at the front door. It was uncanny—as if he had a San Francisco Municipal Transit System schedule tucked away in those classic white britches of his. And if he wasn't there, waiting, he was on the roof sunning, or dozing away on my couch.

When I'd set out for evening stuff, Charlie would invariably want to come along. This I discouraged, at first, but soon learned that his persistence was second to none. It was a chilly, foggy evening. I was off to visit my friend Steve Hinckley, who lived about 10 blocks from my place. Steven was actually born in Hinckley, Ohio, home to one of the world's largest layovers for migrating buzzards.

I closed the door behind me, let the Viking's entry door close and turned to head uptown. There was Charlie at the corner, about 1/3 of a block up the street. Took him less than a minute to find his way there. He was shaking his head, this way and that, and meowing happily or demandingly (it was impossible to tell; he expressed everything more or less in the same, gleeful tone).  Without hesitation I decided against picking him up and depositing back home. "Okay, let's go." And we were on our way for the first of countless neighborhood walks.

The Viking Hotel on Market Street was pretty much halfway between the Ferry Building downtown and Castro Street uptown. "Middle Market" Street was not the busiest stretch of San Francisco's main downtown artery, but it was a busy stretch nonetheless. Four lanes wide, with trolley tracks down the middle, electrified bus lines, considerable automobile and pedestrian traffic. The United States Mint was but a block north of the Viking, then the big Safeway Supermarket. The street was lined with little shops dispensing the widest variety of goods and services: hardware, bikinis, flags, tea, coffee, records, sheet music, rare books, dollar books, sex (in the flesh), sex toys, Xerox copies, printing needs, real estate, attorneys, surveyors, postcards (only). And food: pastries (Italian, Greek and American); entrees Chinese, Greek, Italian, Mexican and Scandinavian. The Noe Street Cafe served the best French Onion Soup in the world. There was a mini-mall that catered to the tourist trade. And these shops were located just on Market Street alone. By the time you got to Castro Street, the number of shops doubled. More of the same. But more nonetheless!

My friend Steve lived on Nineteenth Street near Noe. It was a zigzagging route that took half-an-hour to walk. Charlie would follow me just like a puppy would. He'd sniff around hydrants and poles, mailboxes and doorways. When it came time to cross a street, I'd call him and he'd come a-runnin'. It didn't matter if it was full sun or in the dark of night. We'd visit with Steve, then walk back home in the same leisurely manner. Our farthest destination was Peter's place over on Collingwood near 21st - easily another half-mile that took us right into the heart of the Castro District.  If I needed to stop into a market or other shop, nobody seemed to mind that I carried a cat in with me.

When we moved to Austin in July of 1977, the walking continued. We lived on 25th and San Gabriel right in the heart of student housing and fraternity row. Charlie seemed to take the move to mid-summer Texas in stride. Pets were forbidden in the complex we lived in and one day we got caught. I took Charlie to a friend's house until we could make better arrangements. A day or so later my friend came by my office at the University of Texas. He had found Charlie on his front stoop that morning. Charlie was dead.

It was one of the worst days of my life.

Five of us gathered for Charlie's burial. We found a lovely spot off Rosebud Trail near Cat Hollow Drive. I wrapped him in a polyester sheet, along with a sealed Tupperware bowl of Cat Chow, and his favorite 1/8" by 2' wooden dowel, broken in thirds to fit. The little bundle was tied around with a straightened-out wire coat hanger (I'm sure that Joan Crawford would approve the wire used for this purpose.). We put him in a fairly deep hole and secured it with a large rock, hopefully sturdy enough to keep predators out. I knew I would one day come back to his grave and unearth his bones for my mantle (in case I eventually did have one, that is).

In August of 1983, six years after Charlie died, I returned to his grave with my friend Anne Craig, who, surprisingly, leapt at the idea of retrieving Charlie's bones.  Over the years, the area had grown in leaps and bounds. It took a bit of orienting but we soon came upon the gravesite, which was now at the edge of a rutted road leading to a new batch of houses (with spectacular views of Central Texas Hill Country). Where before you had to walk a quarter mile or so from the roadside, the road was now fairly right up against the site. It was a miracle that the grave appeared exactly as I'd left it, a busy six years before.

With pitter pats of trepidation, and having brought no tools along to do the job, I removed the rock. Here was our first surprise. From beneath the stone emerged three animals: two absolutely crimson, octagonal arachnids, the likes of which I'd not seen before or since. Hey! I think I'll go to the Web right now and see if I can find these creatures. Over the years, I've looked through many "Spiders of America" type books, but until this very moment never thought to search the web. The other animal was a sterling example of the Scarab Beetle: large, shiny, with a deep green-black sheen. Like the spiders, it was a beautiful example of its species. Just as Charlie was of his.

.

[Well, it's three hours later, and I've looked at just about every spider picture there is. Didn't find my crimson ones—nothing even came close—but I did accidentally learn that it was a Cleopatra Beetle that we saw that day. Scarab Beetle. Cleopatra Beetle. Whatever. Close enough.]

.

I dug down and found the polyester shroud which I knew would be intact, having beforehand found the stone marker exactly in it's place.

Pitter patters now increasing, we carefully undid the little bundle. The wire hanger was a bit rusted, but the polyester sheet, with it's million-year half-life, was out-of-the-linen-closet fresh. The Tupperware was also untouched by the passing years, although the star-shaped Purina Cat Chow, had devolved into gelatinous star-shapes.. Gently unfolding the shroud, we gazed upon Charlie's remains—which appeared as nothing more than a sleeping, rust-colored cat. I picked him up and his skin, which was bark-like in texture, crumbled away. The only fur that remained was in little patches by his ears. Odor? It was nothing more than the smell of fresh earth. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

We found a shoe box in Anne's car and therein placed the remains and headed back to Austin, mission accomplished.

We dusted off the bones (296 of them, in a typical felis catus) and soaked them in a mild solution of water and bleach, and set them in the sun to dry.

I had an empty box in my office at Capitol City Playhouse. It had once held greeting cards and had a clear plastic lid so you could see the greeting card design without having to paw over the cards at the store. It was just big enough to hold Charlie's bones comfortably.

What to do next. I wanted something more than just a box of bones hanging around my place. That would be Plan A. Too easy.

Plan B

Does your town have one of these—a newspaper columnist who finds stuff and answers all manner of questions?  If not, you should run out and get one. In Austin, Texas, we had one of these true know-it-alls, or, if not, find-it-alls. Her name was Ellie Rucker. She's still alive, I'm sure, but no longer with the Austin American-Statesman, the paper in which her column appeared five or six times a week. She answered questions like, "Where do I find Milo's Splendid Silver Dip?" "What's my city's longitude and latitude and where is such information displayed?" "How do you remove candle wax from a fine antique table top." "Can you get me Brad Pitt's autograph?"

The following item appeared in the Wednesday, August 31, 1983 edition of The Austin American-Statesman newspaper.  It was addressed to Ellie Rucker and signed either by me or by someone with a name darn similar to mine.

   "Q. When I moved to Austin several years ago, I brought along my faithful companion, Charlie, a Maine Coon Cat, who died in 1977. Charlie was buried up on Red Bud Trail just beyond Wild Cat Hollow, wrapped in a polyester sheet and reverently entombed so that scavengers couldn't violate his final cat nap. Last month we exhumed ol' Charlie. Is there someone out there, perhaps a biology class, who can mount Charlie's skeleton for me in much the same way as dinosaur skeletons are mounted for display in museums? This is not a grim joke sent in by a sick-o, and I have no morbid feelings about wanting this done.   (signed) Chris Wang [sic]"

(Yes, dear reader, the paper misspelled my last name. It's Wing, you idiot. W. I. N. G. Criminie!  Reminds me of the time some 13 year old called me at 2 in the morning and asked, "Is this Wing?"  Not letting on, I replied, wearily, "yeah." "Well," the little girl wiggled, "it's good we don't live in China. I could have easily gotten a Wong number." Then there are the sporadic mass-mailings offering special rates for telelphoning China or Taiwan – presented in Chinese characters, of course. And how can leave out the most recent assaults, which came in two automatic phone calls to my "blocked" land line. The recorded message urged me to vote for Jennifer Kim who was running for some trifling city council seat. Each of these messages made it clear that a vote for Ms. Kim was a vote of support for Austin's "Asian community." Exactly what or where this "community" can be found in these parts was a mystery until I discovered that a certain Starbucks entertained an almost exclusively Asian clientele.)  Okay, that was a major digression. If only my editor didn't demand payment up front!

   "A. Whatever you say. It seems grim to us, but what do we know?    Actually, we found someone who will do this and who took it all very seriously to boot. Get in touch with Calvin Smith at Baylor University (817-755-1110). 'We have students who do this as part of their graded work in Comparative Anatomy class,' Smith told us. "Each student is required to provide their own skeleton but since every student is not able to come up with a skeleton, I would have no problem using this skeleton for a student to work on. I would prefer he bring the skeleton to me, but if this isn't possible, I come to Austin on a regular basis and could pick it up."

.

I was out of the office on the day that Dr. Smith came to town and picked up the box of bones. (I have an ancillary problem here: is a bunch of bones in a box really a "skeleton" or are they just a bunch of bones until they're formed into a skeletal shape?) That was in September of 1983. Two years later I wrote to Ellie Rucker again, but alas, I've lost the copy of that second query which went something like, "a couple of years ago I wrote to ask about having my deceased cat, Charlie's bones mounted as if in a museum. You referred me to Calvin Smith, of the Stecker Museum at Baylor University. Well, Dr. Smith picked up Charlie's bones and I've been unable to track down neither doctor nor bones. Can you follow up on this for me?" Ellie's column was quick to reply, in print, no less: "One of my staff has taken pity on you and has chased down Doctor Smith. The project was just recently okayed and your precious bones will soon be on display."

Time Marches On

In subsequent years, I would go through several cataclysmic changes, including The Worst Day of My Life. Charlie's bones more or less slipped from my thoughts. That is, until 1994, in my 50th year on this earth.

That's when I bought my first car, a 1988 Mustang coupe, with fading "silver" paint and red bucket seats. Cost five hundred bucks and worth every penny. One of my first motoring adventures was a storm-chasing mission. Oh, I'd driven several cars, on several fun adventures—see the Chapter: Designated Drivers Are Me—but this was the first big excursion in my own car. I'd been watching great globs of red bubbling up on the radar channel, and could see out my front door that, some distance to the north, there were menacing skies, with flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning and the wonderfully muffled sound of distant, high thunder.  I love lighting, and thunder, and menacing skies; so off I drove in Old Paint. Hoping to catch up with these storms that were moving north from Travis County (of which Austin is the seat). I kept up a good pace going Interstate 35. Freeway speed plus five. The limit in those days was a mere 55. To save gas we were all supposed to drive 55 MPH—in modern, highway-ready vehicles no less—and this was years removed from president Gerald Ford's WIN button mania (Whip Inflation Now). Hah!

The storms had those amazing billowy clouds, the tops of which rose to at least 40,000 feet. I could almost feel the rain shields, though many many miles away they were. And never before had I delighted as much in the fantastick display of lightning as it ricocheted from cloud to cloud and cloud to ground. This was a great storm to watch. I was so excited, and thrilled to be able to do this on my own (now that I had my own car) instead of begging some innocent bystander to undertake the adventure with me, which doubtfully anyone hereabouts would. Oh, I knew a handful of people who might enter into such an exploit but these guys were back in SF. With Todd I scaled steep cliffs by the sea - even after we nearly got swept out to sea. And with Steve I did more - and once unwittingly trespassed onto a not-so-long retired munitions range near Fort Davis in Marin County, north of San Francisco. The MP's came tearing after us, totally dumstruck at our stupid mistake. But they allowed us to hide our marijuana under a rock - where we retrieved them a visit with "The Lieutenant."

But now I was out on this black Texas road. Alone with nobody to call me a fool.

Detour

So sure I was of catching up to one of those great cells, that I didn't think a detour would delay my quest long enough to make a great deal of difference. Actually, I had no choice. Here I was, suddenly, in Waco. And there it was, suddenly, the sign. Exit 354. Baylor University.

I was now hopped up, as if on drugs. Okay, I was already hopped up on drugs. Crap, I'd probably been awake for two or three days. Back then, well, if I was awake, I was on speed.

Nevertheless, I felt almost legitimate as I carefully made my way off the freeway, following the signs that led first to Baylor campus, and then . . . I found it while driving around, knowing for sure there'd  have to be a sign pointing the way . . . Stecker Museum!

The museum is far from the scale of Big City museums. Baylor is a small school in a small city. But its museum, if tiny, is nevertheless big on bones. Texas, after all, was once dinosaur country, and there are many dry creek beds that bear the impressions of dinosaur tracks (occasionally you read about some jerk gouging out specimens and dragging them home). I dropped something into the donations box at the entrance and made my way from room to room. There were only three other people touring the place: a family of three (if only one kid and its parents is a "family" at all). The kid was all gaga and I didn't care much for him. In fact, I hated him on sight.  Back in those days, I hated kids. And their parents. In my view, it was irresponsible to have kids. Even today, you cannot prove to me that the Human Race has exhibited any right to the world it has inherited only by chance of evolution. Okay, that's a bit extreme. But while individual people may be wonderful things, the ones with the power over our lives, and over the life of our world, are barely more than Neandrethals. [Actually, to soften, somewhat, this attitude I have, spend some time reading Lanford Wilson's Pulitzer Prize-winning play, Talley's Folly (1980), in which two individuals, each for reasons well explored, are deeply opposed to procreation.] Oh but I digress (What? Again? [If I'm writing, I'm digressing.]). It's just that there was this kid in the museum. My museum. And he was running around and yipping about monsters this and dinosaurs that. I tried to get ahead of him but while his parents lingered at everything they encountered, their tot was flirting with danger by spurting ahead, and now he was hanging around me! I growled at him and he giggled. That's the hard part. Kids love to be growled at by grumpy old farts like me. And I love to get 'em going.

I knew I would find what I had not even been seeking; just two hours earlier, when I was lolling at home back in Austin, idly watching the radar turn red.

And here it was—there he was—in the third room of displays: Charlie's bones. I knew they were his even though the plaque beneath them read only, Felis Catus Domestica. And how was I sure they were Charlie's bones? They were the newest, whitest bones in the place.

Several minutes went by.

Chapter Published 10-21-05

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