An Old Man Who Lives Alone and Talks To His Cat

By Jerry Lane

A collection of slightly fictionalized, autobiographical short stories from one man's life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Lane
• Release date: Apr 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476145006

Jerry Lane

Born in Wichita, Ks in 1950. Attended Southeast High School and Wichita State University. Married twice and divorced twice. Currently lives alone and writes as much as possible

Book preview

I used to joke that someday I would become an old man who lived alone and talked to his cat. That joke from my youth turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy. I am an old man who lives alone and talks to his cat. This book is a collection of a few stories from my life. I felt like an outsider, an observer, and not a participant in life. My life feels like it was lived by someone else. My life feels more like a work of fiction at times than a real life. Perhaps others have felt or feel the same way. I lived without much understanding of the choices I made, the actions or inactions I undertook. I was a stranger to myself.

I realize that it is not possible to understand everything and that mystery is good for the soul. I accept what I can’t understand. This book is primarily for me. Others might find some use or entertainment in it. I write these memories with a maturity that comes with time and aging. The memories are tied together in ways I don’t fully understand. One memory opens pathways to other memories.

The experiences were full of immediate emotion when they happened. They were my reality at the time. Some of the memories have emotion for me now. Some do not. None will have the intensity of the original experience. I write these memories as they enter my mind. I have tried to write with different writing styles so that they are more readable. It didn't work. I have changed a few minor details to protect the innocent and not so innocent, including me but they are essentially as they happened. I guess they could be called a slightly, fictionalized reality but they are my fictionalized reality. The stories are as they are when I first remembered and wrote them. They are what they are. They are in no chronological order.

Chapter 1 - Smokey

It was a perfect spring afternoon in our neighborhood. Butterflies floated on the gentle breeze. The sounds of young children playing joined with the sweet melodies of songbirds. Bumblebees buzzed, crickets chirped, and cicadas whined. Flowers bloomed. The faint odor of lilac and honeysuckle drifted from nearby bushes. Children played on a carpet of lush, spring grass as the afternoon sun bathed them in light. It was the rare day that makes everyone happy to be alive. Heaven on earth wouldn't be an exaggeration.

I was nine. My sister Jenny was eight. We played in the front yard with Smokey. Smokey was an eighteen-year-old English Sheep Dog. He was the mascot of the neighborhood. He gave unconditional love to all who needed it. This was his mission in life. He was kind, loving, and the gentlest creature God ever made. He was also blind, arthritic, and could barely walk. But he did. He officially belonged to the widow Parker that lived four houses north of us. Unofficially, he belonged to himself and those who needed him. Smokey was stubborn when it came to his self-appointed rounds of care giving. He would not go home when his mistress called him as long as there was one child left to visit. He knew his way around the neighborhood but was oblivious to the dangers of street traffic. Jenny and I usually took him home to safety, away from the passing cars.

Mrs. Parker's husband had owned him from a pup. She couldn't bear to have Smokey euthanized despite the infirmities of his age. He was the child they never had. The children wouldn't have stood for it either. He was our mascot and surrogate pet. The neighborhood wouldn't have been the same without him. Jenny and I lay in the grass stroking Smokey’s soft brown and white fur. Mrs. Parker called him home for his afternoon meal. We started leading him home when we heard the familiar growls from Tiny, the boxer next door. He was upon us before we could react.

We stood there in shock as the boxer tore into Smokey's throat. His massive jaws locked in a death grip. Smokey yelped in pain. We screamed and trembled as the dogs rolled in front of us. Tiny was a vicious, snarling, drooling beast. He wasn’t neutered. He was aggressive to everyone but his owners. He was kept in the back yard behind a chain link fence that he escaped regularly. We had run from him several times to the safety of our front door. Tiny was as savage as Smokey was gentle. He seemed to hate everyone and everything except his owners.

Tiny ripped into Smokey's throat and shook him, turning over and over like we’d seen crocodiles do with prey on the National Geographic specials. We saw the pink and white flesh of Smokey’s throat. Smokey didn’t stand a chance. Blood spattered us and the ground around us. Our mother screamed from the front door, Run. Get up in the tree before he goes after you. She held our dad's single-shot shotgun. She brought the weapon to her shoulder and fired. The force of the blast knocked her to the ground. She only managed to hit Tiny's leg with a few pellets.

It didn't stop him. It increased his ferocity. He growled louder and ripped at Smokey's throat with brute strength. Smokey's yelps were softer now. He was was getting closer to death. He couldn't defend himself. The sounds of the dogs filled the neighborhood. Children and mothers cried and watched from the safety of their homes. We clung to the branches of the young elm and watched the carnage below us.

Neighborhood men with baseball bats, shovels, and rakes tried to beat Tiny off Smokey. Tiny's owner used water pressure from a garden hose. Nothing worked. The dogs rolled in the grass and flower beds. Tiny continued growling and didn't lose his death grip on Smokey’s throat. Smokey's painful cries grew faint. Life flowed out his throat and stained the green grass, red. The horrible sounds of the dogs were mixed with sobs, wailing, and shouts from the neighborhood children, mothers, and fathers.

A police cruiser with flashing lights and siren finally arrived along with the animal control wagon. Three shots from the officer's service revolver silenced the sounds of the dogs. Children and parents left the safety of their homes. The children ran to Smokey's side with parents walking slowly behind them. Jenny and I climbed down from the tree. We were spattered with blood. Children and mothers sobbed uncontrollably. A few cried silently with dazed looks in their eyes. Even some men wept openly.

My mother drove Mrs. Parker to the hospital. The ordeal had been too much for her. The animal control officer wrapped Tiny's body in a black tarp as the police officer wrote Tiny's owner a ticket. He was sitting on his front porch drinking a beer and smoking with my father. Two bloody baseball bats lay at their feet. The children's grief and shock turned to rage. We stood in a group staring at him, not saying a word. The pressure and guilt finally got to him. He sobbed and said I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's all my fault. I should have got rid of him years ago. I am glad it was just that old good for nothing dog and wasn't one of you kids.

Jenny and I screamed at him. It was more than we could take. Raw emotion erupted from inside us.