A dead friend

For the first time on Mibba I've asked people NOT to comment on a poem of mine if you don't like it. It's the latest one I've written, "Obituary of a tough Motherfucker," It'll be on my page. It's about a cat. Yeah, and the cat is one of the toughest things I've ever met, man.

I'm going to talk about the cat; Feel free to look at something else now, because here's a skinhead whining over a dead cat, or you could hear me out because to me it was a lot more than just some animal.

First of all, the cat was a He. It was not an it, He was never neutered or anything, and I'm glad. He really was a jumpy cat. He didn't jump like he was silly, though, I'll tell you. It was like he had business. He was a true American gangster, Not like those hood-rats who throw signs but like Al Capone and his posse, In a smart grey coat and Determined eyes. Those things would stare you down like no street-hardened thug could. And he had been around as long as I had known my best friends; As just a kitten. He was always very... primal, killing birds and squirrels and very nearly dogs.

But why would that make him great? Any asshole can be violent. And cats are cats, for the most part. So as a human would he be an asshole, or as a cat would he just be normal?

It doesn't matter, because he was a hardass nonetheless. Often fights are not what defines one's life, what you fight for is and what you do when your not fighting is. And that cat fought because it was instinct, and it stopped when you needed something the most.

Needed something the most? Yeah, right, you're thinking. Everyone gets the blues. But no, the cat knew that. If you were sad because you were in a mood the cat was just as likely to tell you to get fucked as a blood is, but when you were REALLY down, the cat was right there with you.

For example, The first time I ever NEEDED someone, and no one was there I was nine, alone in the basement my mother and I were living in. My parents were divorcing and things were ugly. I was crying because they had been fighting again, and I was afraid, as any nine year old would be. Soon I'd be living in texas with my dad, and soon, or maybe alread he'd given my mother a good fist in the eye, but it was in that time of my life that murphy came up to me, and layed with me. He licked me and my mom came in. I know you don't know my mother, but she's a cynic. She doesn't beleive in cats like that, I don't think. She'd be more likely to call it " just an animal" than to ever give a cat a place in our household, but my mother said this instead: "He knows you're sad".

And fucking Christ I was.

I loved the cat then. I can never remember being mad at it once, but before that I had never loved it. I hadn't had anyone be there for me like that cat since, and because of that I shun the human race today even more for being outdone by that tough bastard,

The second time I can remember; The years inbetween I'm sure he was there but I was stretched out on drugs; Weed, Paint, glue, Pcp... No good, but the next time I had been clean for a year and a half. I wasn't clean that day because I had lost my marbles, and when no-one saw me contemplating taking my own life, that cat did.

I had been dumped by my first love. It was reminiscent of my parents divorce in every way, I'll tell you, and it brought up all of those old memories, and let me tell you I contemplated murdering the guy I was left for. I had smoked so much weed I turned little Wayne into little bitch and I was on the couch crying, really tears. The cat came up and laid with me, and was there for me, while not even my friends were. I had a chance to get laid that night, but I chose the furry grey pussy over the stupid loose ones, and I'll never regret that.

The Bastard had been hit by two cars, and had his leg broken in half once when someone stepped on Him, and every time he kept hunting those god damned birds. The dog in the house; One of them tried, to fuck with Him and the cat laid down the law.

To this day that cat has done more for me emotionally than many of my firneds have. What my friend have said in words he's met with affection, and do you know what counts more?

I sure as hell do.

RIP, Murphy.