Tyler's Twenty First Birthday!

Tyler, my first and still best cat ever, would have turned 21 today.

The sixth year without being able to celebrate your birthday with you. Birthdays with Tyler would involve very expensive cat food, some turkey or chicken, and a new toy.

Life remains incomplete without you, despite the fact that I am surrounded by loving cats. I love to imagine what he would be like if he were still here and still in charge. I expect that he would be loving being the "elder statesman" of the colony.

Happy Birthday old man. I love you, I miss you beyond words, and I cannot wait until we are together again. Say hi to Tiger and Jackson for me.

As is my annual tradition, here's a re-post, or re-blog, or re-whatever, of the first three chapters of Tyler's story.

Enjoy!
1. "I understand, you need something to love."

Animals never did well in my home as a kid.  Even before I was born.  My parents had a German shepherd named Knappie (named for Napoleon Solo from The Man from UNCLE) who had an outright hatred of my mother.  I’ve seen a picture, and he was basically the size of a horse. He LOVED my father, but my mother, not a chance.  Apparently he knew when she was pregnant with me and turned on her.  When my dad would leave for work he would stand eye to eye with her and stare her down.  So….he went to live at a farm out east, or so they told me.  I always wondered what happened to him. 

My first REAL pet was Casey.  Casey Paraguine Tuck.  Apparently named for a character in The Hobbit, which was The Bible to my dad.  I’ve seen the movie, but that is one of many books I have refused to read mostly to spite my father.  Anyway, Casey was a Golden Retriever.  Being 7 I didn’t have much say in the decision making process, but apparently at some point my parents thought a large dog in a small house on a main road in Brooklyn was a good idea.  Well, it wasn’t.  Oh, she was sweet, and a large beautiful dog…..but it was the classic case of the wrong dog for the wrong size house and the wrong lifestyle.  Golden’s need exercise, and they need to be walked.  I took her to the park whenever I could, but she was never happy with us.  She wasn't properly trained, didn’t behave well, and even turned on me after 3 years.  Ceasar Milan would have been able to retire trying to train that dog. One afternoon I was sent to my grandparents for the weekend and Casey was sent to Bidawee.  I’m told she was adopted right away by a family that had a home on Long Island with a large yard, who knows if that was true. I sure hope it was, it wasn’t her fault.

Following that, the animals got smaller and lived shorter and shorter lives.  A goldfish or two, a parakeet or two, even a hamster that never liked anyone named Freodo, maybe he took that name personally?  By the time I got to High School, I pretty much resigned myself to the fact that pets and Trachtenberg’s don’t mix well.  Maybe it was a vibe?  Karma?  Who knows, we just didn’t have luck with a pet of any kind.  We barely kept plants alive.  Many households survived just fine without pets and it was looking like ours would too.  

One animal I always did love, however, were cats.  Growing up, my great aunt and uncle had a lamp shade store in Brooklyn.  Do those even exist anymore?  An entire store for lampshades?  I don’t think they even sold any lamps, just shades.  The store was right around the corner from my grandparents, so visiting them meant a stop in Reismann’s Lamp Shade Store on Avenue U.  This was a family visit I never minded, because it meant….cats.  TONS of cats.  There was a colony of semi-feral cats that lived in and out of the store.  My uncle, the Frank Sinatra of my childhood, even went as far as building a cat door in the back of the store and stacking boxes with blankets for the cats to sleep in….and sometimes make more cats.  I LOVED being there.  My favorite cat was Tiger.  She was literally as old as I was, and had very few teeth.  When I came in she would run over to me and jump on my lap.  She was just the sweetest cat, and my introduction to my love of cats.  I just liked cats.  Their style, their swagger, I liked that you had to earn it with a cat.  A dog will just run up to anyone, well most dogs.  Cujo might have something to say about that.  A cat needs time, a cat is like a relationship.  It takes patience, love, work, effort, and cats don't like just anyone.  When you earned a cat’s trust, you had that trust forever. You had that cat’s unconditional love, and nothing would change that.  I know I had that with Tyler. Anyway back to Tiger.  I would sit on the floor, cuddle with Tiger, and if another cat tried to come and see me, she would chase them away.  I was HER human and that was it. It would take a lot of work to get me to leave that store.  I wanted to take her home so bad, give her a loving life, but my parents wouldn’t have any of it.  One day, when I was 13, I came in to visit Tiger, and was told by my great aunt Laurie, in her awful Brooklyn accent….”Tiger went off to DIE.”  A nice way of saying she got nailed by a bus or another animal and didn't come back.  I was HEARTBROKEN.  You mean cats don't live forever?  

Going to High School meant I had less time for the lampshade store and the cats, and the store was sold not long after that.  Of the many cats that lived in the store, only Mini and Boy (my great aunt was never good at naming cats) went into retirement with them to Pompano Beach, Florida.  Mini actually lived to the grand old age of 25, which in the cat world is quite a long happy life.  Mini 2 succeeded her after my great uncle died, and as far as I know she is still alive at 15.  

My desire for a cat rarely left me, and I vowed that when I ventured out on my own I would have one, or 2….or 20.  Allergies be damned, I wanted a fucking cat of my own!

My first true experience with a cat happened in the summer of 1999.  I had been in a relationship for nearly 6 years, and spent a lot of time at my then girlfriend’s house.  I even had my own set of keys.  Working in Brooklyn and living on Long Island, I would spend a lot of time at her little attached house on East 29^th street.  Her family lived in one of those houses that were attached from beginning of the block to the end, with the driveway sloping down.  You know the type right?  Anyway, one day, I was in their kitchen, eating them out of house and home, when I heard a meowing coming from their little backyard.  Opening the back kitchen door……I was greeted by……..a cat!  A large cat, I didn’t know it then but she probably had some Maine Coon in her.  Then again I say that about every large cat, so who knows if it was true.  She was in the backyard, at the foot of the stairs off their little back deck.  I called to her, and she came right up to me!  She had no collar or tag so I had no way of finding out if she was from a home or not.  Did she get lost?  Did she run away?  Was she just a friendly neighborhood stray?  Being the animal lover I always was, I immediately went to feed her. What the hell should I feed her?  These people had a bird and fish…..should I?  No, they’d never forgive me.  Let’s look in the fridge.  Leftover hamburger!  That would work just fine.  I broke up a little bit and put it in a bowl and she gobbled it right up.  She either was a hungry stray or played the part quite well.  No matter, I was hooked.

For the next few weeks I practically never went home.  Feeding her every day, singing to her, spending countless hours outside cuddling with what turned out to be a sweet lap cat.  She must have had a home and ran away.  My then girlfriend Cheryl was allergic, so I knew they couldn’t’ take her in.  I basically ignored her and spent time with the cat, who by that point in the relationship was far more interesting. I BEGGED my parents to let me take her home, and they wouldn’t have it.  I even suggested she live in the garage, but….NOPE.  No cats.

“Your father is allergic.” My mother said.

“But it’s a big house.” We were living high on the hog in those days. “I’ll keep her out of sight and vacuum every day.” I did anyway.

“Sorry, Daniel, no cats.  It’ll mess up my furniture.”

I finally gave up and brought her to a local pet store, where they knew a nice old lady that took her in.  Not having email at the time (this was 1999,) I never knew what happened to that big girl. I hope she lived a happy life……..

It’s amazing how breakups can alter someone.  Not long after that experience, my 6 year relationship came to a crashing halt.  It was in decline anyway, it was my first “love,” but you’re never really prepared.  Anyway, my mother, who never liked anyone I ever dated, began to soften on the idea of bringing in a pet.  In late 2000, we were sitting in the kitchen, having lunch and watching cooking shows (or the Golden Girls,) and I brought up the subject again.  Now, being single, and nearing 28, I posed it less as a question and more as a demand. I had also read “Cats for Dummies” from cover to cover, so I was a budding authority on the subject.

“This house needs a pet.” I said.

“No it doesn’t. Daniel, a cat will mess up everything and you know your father is allergic.”

“Actually, yes it does, this house needs a cat.  I’m going to adopt a cat. I’ll adopt one that is declawed, so it won’t ruin your furniture, and they are easy to take care of. “

“I understand…..” my mother said. “You need something to love.” Just like that, I had tears in my eyes. 

You know something?  She was right.  I did need something to love.  I have always considered myself a lover, not a fighter. I can defend myself, but I would rather laugh than quarrel.  

It was settled.  The Trachtenberg family will be adopting a cat.  The long 17 year dry spell between pets was at an end.

2. Shelter Visit

To say I jumped full force into adopting a cat was the biggest understatement of the century. I went online (yes I was online by then) and looked up every fucking shelter on the island. Made some calls, made some visits, but few had what I was looking for.  A declawed cat.  This being my first experience with an animal shelter, I was introduced firsthand to the experience of the…..crazy cat lady.  Wow were these ladies intense!  

Almost every visit went like this:

"Hello, can we help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking to adopt a cat.  I'd prefer one already declawed.  It was kind of a decision to get my parents to agree to adopting a cat."

“You don’t believe in declawing a cat, do you?”

“No, like I said, I would NEVER declaw a cat,  I would like to find a cat already declawed.”

“OK, that’s fine.  You do know that removing a cat’s claws is the equivalent of your fingertips?”

“Ouch.”

OK, OK, I get it.  Jesus, I won’t declaw a cat, but my argument is: what would you rather have, a declawed cat that has a home or a cat with claws that gets passed over?  If removing the claws, which if done young enough and properly doesn’t really do any harm to the cat,  and gets that cat a home, what’s the big fucking deal?  All of my cats have been at least front declawed and I can tell you it had no difference or bearing on their lives.  They all act, and think, like they have their claws.  I can tell you Tyler was never told, never emailed, never texted, about the fact that his claws were gone.  He acted until literally the day before he died as if he had every single claw. 

Anyway, the next shelter on my list was a big one, or so the website claimed, even though it was called….Little Shelter. 

Not caring about anything else (I kind of tend to get that way when I’m on a mission to get something, I'm that way to this day) I went one late Friday after work out to Huntington, New York, to check out their “cattery” or so they called it.  

I was immediately impressed with the place. Little Shelter is one of the premier shelters on the island, and I knew almost right away that I would find my cat here.  It was just a feeling. 

Parking my car I was first met with…..a pet cemetery.  Yup, it seems Little Shelter goes full circle.  Cat and dog shelter and cemetery.  Convenient I guess, get a cat, enjoy a life with it, bury it, and adopt a new one?  Interesting prospect. Morbid, but interesting.

I digress…..

I walked into the lobby and was met by a nice older lady who asked me to fill out an application. Once that was done, I was escorted to what they referred to as “the cattery.”  It was basically a house on the grounds where all the cats were sheltered and cared for.  Cats was an understatement.  At that time, I was told, they had no fewer than THREE HUNDRED FIFTY cats living in the cattery.  Now that’s a lot of cats.  I knew, I just KNEW I would find my cat here.

3. Tyler

My escort to the cattery was a shelter employee named Gayle.  Or Gail.  I never asked how she spelled it.  Anyway, she had 9 cats and was the resident expert on every cat.  

“What are you looking for?  Any specific color?” She asked, obviously expecting a snobby Long Island answer.  Apparently on Long Island (Lawn Guyland) people matched their pets to their decor.  That always pissed me off.  Match their PERSONALITY to your decor, not the color of their fur!

“I’m looking for a cool, friendly cat.  I still live at home with my parents, so we prefer one already declawed.”

“Oh, we have a few.  You would never declaw a cat would you?”

“Never, been there asked that.” I did not want to get into THAT again.

A short walk behind some barking dog kennels and we were at the front door of the aforementioned cattery.

“Now, don't expect them all to approach you.  Many have been here for years and are really unadoptable at this point.”

That made my heart sink a little for some reason.  Lifers.  I felt bad.

The first cat to greet me at the door was……Tyler. 

What a handsome cat he was!  A black and white cat, they call them tuxedo cats.  They always look sharply dressed, ready for a night out on the town. He had this look in his eyes like he just knew what you were thinking.  Like he was looking into your heart.  Your SOUL. He knew, even before I did, that I was the one he was going to come home with.

“Oh, that’s Tyler, I had him in mind for you.  He’s one of our declawed cats.” Gayle said.

I knelt down and he came right over, smelled me, rubbed me with his head, and rolled onto his back. 

“He has the longest tail and a very shiny coat. He’s got attitude but he's really a sweetheart.” She explained, already selling.

"How old is he?" I asked.  "About a year and a half."  The truth is they didn't actually know.  Apparently you can sort of guess the age of a cat by checking their teeth, sort of like checking the rings on a tree trunk.

“How did he end up here?”

“Apparently his old owner moved and abandoned him.”  Gayle explained.  Was that the truth?  At that point it didn't matter, I was pretty much hooked.

“He was adopted and brought back in October because he didn't get along with the other cats in the house" she cautioned. 

Sure enough, walking away from me Tyler was bickering with the other cats, many presumably with claws.  Yet he was holding his own.  He never got into a fight, no swinging, no scratching.  He would hiss or growl, and they would all back off. He had swagger, that’s for sure. He seemed to be ruling the place. He had a little Jimmy Cagney about him, or was it Edward G. Robinson?

To be safe, and to be sure I did my due diligence, I let Gayle show me the other cats.  There sure were plenty to look at.  I felt like I was in the Star Trek tribble episode.  Literally wall to wall cats.  Some cute, some less than cute.  I saw what she meant.  Many were never going to find homes.  They just gave you a look that said it all.  Come near me and I’ll scratch your damn eyes out.  I wished I could take them all home.  I truly did. Many were very sweet.  One in particular, Vincent, an all-white cat, sat on the small counter in the kitchen area where the staff would wash food bowls and prepare meals for the population.  He just sat there watching the staff, supervising, and head butting each and every visitor.  He also had no ears.  Being an all-white cat means being prone to cancer from too much sun, and that’s how he lost his ears.  Poor dude.  He was cool though, the greeter cat.

Throughout it all, Tyler never left my side.  Literally, he would walk either at my feet or up on a shelf or cubby or whatever they had set up and did his best to be at my eye level.  Whenever I would turn, there he was, head butting me and flipping onto his back to show me his white stomach.  It made me laugh every time.  He trusted me from literally the first second we met.  I never lost that trust.  NEVER.

Why was I looking at other cats?  I had found my cat.  Or rather my cat had found me.