Tribute to Levi

I certainly appreciate your all being here on such short notice. I realize that some of you are in attendance at great personal sacrifice, and I want for those who have selflessly left their families and children at home to be with me here at Marie Calendar's to know that your efforts will not go unnoticed. I will remember each and every one of you, and the overwhelming and heartwarming sentiment that we all feel as we gather to commemorate a very dear and a very old friend of mine. My cat, Levi.

I had absolutely no idea that I needed a pet when I first met him. I recall I was in my office in Boulder, Colorado, looking out over the courtyard to the flatirons when Rusty Pinkerton, a business associate, walked into my office cradling him in his arms. He couldn't have been more than a couple of months old, but I could see that he was special. What I had yet to discover was the impact this little fluffy guy would have on my life.

Rusty's cat Saturn had been pregnant, and when she disappeared for a day and a half Rusty began a search for the kittens. What he found was a single living kitten among several 'less complete' kittens. It seemed that Saturn had eaten Clorox or rat poison or a near lethal dose of LSD-25, any of which were readily available in Rusty's kitchen cabinets. The entire litter [except for Levi] was born missing some integral component like a head or legs or a front or back half. Recognizing a disaster when she saw it, Saturn had abandoned the litter in favor of a new boyfriend and a father of slightly more attractive kittens.

Rusty had been obliged to play the mother figure for Levi. Apparently realizing his lack of maternal drive and instincts, he wanted to secure a more appropriate home for this orphaned kitten. Having been barely weaned, Levi was a tiny ball of gray and white fur with a two foot long tail and feet the size of your hands. In fact, he was so unique that everyone in my office immediately decided we should designate him the company cat, which we did.

To everyone's delight, Levi's appetite was equally as uncommon as his appearance, ranging from snails to baklava. He enjoyed Greek and Chinese. God knows how much money I spent on lunches of sashimi for him and sushi for me. With all that food and a warehouse for a living space, Levi grew up quickly, developing a dusty dry wit and a style of his own. Not being one to take all the credit, I have to blame my co-workers for bits and pieces of his character and charm. But not much. He did grow up in my office. All right, I'll take most of the credit for his eclectic tastes and his big opinions, and I'll give my associates credit where credit is due. They named him Levi. I suppose I could blame my decision to adopt him on them for a couple of reasons. There were those at the office who were seducing him with mass quantities of very addictive, mind altering drugs like catnip, and he kept tripping the light beams on our new twenty thousand dollar addition to the alarm system. Levi's forced departure from the company was purely for economic reasons. My decision to adopt him was of course entirely selfless, and was made to keep him off drugs and away from those supplying them.

We were two guys living alone. Together yet separate. We didn't really appreciate each other. I'd come home and he'd go out. I'd leave, and he'd return. There were problems at first. Remember that Levi's only exposure to the outside world lay solely in what few insights he had gained from the crew at the office and from me. Not a pretty sight. He had never been outside or even seen another cat. He'd been raised by a bunch of cartoon characters at the office who shared my warped, cruel sense of humor. In other words, Levi had no social skills, and he had grown into the amazing colossal cat. Weighing in at over twenty pounds, he beat up every cat in the neighborhood. Every time he left the apartment, he got into a fight. My neighbors learned to hate me. But, through a series of near death experiences (my little twist on discipline for cats), he learned to behave. It was tough, but we both felt better about the experience.

And I somehow became attached to that damned cat. Isn't it strange how people do that? When he repeatedly escaped from a friend's house during my move to New York, I flew down to find him. Once, after three days of searching, I finally caught up with him in the parking garage of my former residence in Boulder. I booked a flight for him, and smuggled him into my new building under cover of the dark of night. I redecorated for him so that no one could spot him in the windows. I hate pigeons, but I tolerated a nest on my balcony so they could raise their young just to the pre-flight stage and then let Levi out. Somehow they disappeared. Maybe they suddenly learned to fly?

I loved that cat so much that when he suddenly lost half his body weight in New York, I put him in the hospital and he started steroid treatments. His body suddenly began to break down, and no one could understand why. His doctor thought at first that maybe it was something he drank except that I didn't drink the water up there, and I certainly didn't let Levi drink it. Perhaps it was the residual effect from whatever Saturn had eaten before he was born that required treatment, but the treatments didn't work and we had to make some tough choices. I'll never forget the look in his eyes when the shot took effect and he died in my arms. He was looking right at me when his eyes just dilated, and he was gone.