In 2002, my life was sliced and diced. Years later I am who I am because of those events. Follow along and maybe you can catch the entire story from start to finish.
We found out on a group text that our cat was dying.
I suspect for families that genuinely loved their pets these moments would be grounds for a phone call or even a video conference that would involve the immediate family attentively watching the last breaths of their beloved friend. There could also be a kitschy burial ceremony with a brief, but genuine program with a eulogy and shared memories. The truly devoted might even erect some kind of memorial for their pet, or at least hang a picture.
In the case of one Thomas Jefferson Welch, TJ for short, there was no such pageantry. I’m still not entirely sure what happened to his remains.
My nonchalant approach to his departure to the big litter box in the sky is probably being passed off as cruelty, and that might be fair. I felt stronger emotions for the animated pups in Isle of Dogs than I did for the cat that inhabited the Welch home for 18 years. His presence alone made him a part of the family but before you judge me for being heartless (as highly accurate a claim that it may be) please try to understand the true nature of TJ.
***
At the end of every episode of The Price is Right, Bob Barker (and now Drew Carey) would conclude by saying, “help control the pet population by getting your pets spaded or neutered.” I like to theorize that Mr Barker had a vision in which he saw our cat roaming the earth and thought, “This cat is bad news. More of him would be a terrible idea.”
To put it lightly TJ very well could have been the devil himself, capable of turning the hearts of even the most ardent feline lovers.
His journey with our family began on the 4th of July, 1999 when my mother brought him home. She went to the grocery store and saw a woman giving away kittens and couldn’t resist. This might be commonplace in some families but the Welch household had never been a home to any pets whatsoever. The closest we ever came was one year when my parents decided to tell us they were going to get us a dog by leaving bowl with some dog food in it under the Christmas tree. I don’t know if my dad stepped in some dog feces or what changed their minds but they backed out and we only found out about the foiled plan five years later we found the bowl and unopened can of Purina buried somewhere in the basement.
The fact TJ came to us free of charge by way of a person we didn’t know outside a grocery store called King Soopers was quite ominous. We certainly got what we paid for.
Those first few months with TJ were such a blur not because they went by so fast but rather the fact that once he grew in size all of those pleasant memories were replaced by nightmares. He was a gentle creature at first but once he discovered his sharp teeth and claws it was a different story. He became a ferocious creature who would prey on anyone who would walk through the front door. And I’m not just talking about a few harmless scratches here and there. TJ would pounce with purpose, that being to inflict a maximum amount of pain on his victim. Or so I assume.
At first we all through it was bare legs that set him off but once we all started wearing pants around the house TJ’s clawing and biting would continue and eventually spread to arms, and in the case of small children, faces. If you don’t believe me you go back through family photos you’ll see pictures of my youngest sister Hannah with scars on her face and arms. Or you can ask any child under the age of six that ever visited our house. No matter how many times we would tell them, “THE KITTY KAT IS NOT YOUR FRIEND” they would immediately run over to try and pet his tail, which was reciprocated with a claw to the face.
Instead of doing the logical thing and getting his claws removed (my kind mother thought it would be too cruel) we decided to fight fire with fire. The only thing that TJ hated more than our presence was being sprayed with a water bottle, one of which was placed in just about every room of the house. A common scene would be the family sitting around the table eating dinner and my father holding his fork in one hand and a water bottle in the other, manning his post and ready to gun down the enemy combatant at a moments notice.
What’s worse is we never knew when to expect an attack. One second he would be completely docile and then at the flip of a switch he would set out on his warpath. Not that there is anything funny about pet-on-owner violence but it was rather humorous to be in a different part of the house when TJ would strike. First we would hear the loud screams, the commotion of a few others leaping to grab a spray bottle and then TJ bolting to a safe place. All of this was followed by more yelling, crying and my dad saying, “ahh that stupid cat.”
And it wasn’t just the pain that TJ inflicted that made him a bozo. There was long list of strange habits including (but not limited too) jumping on top of cars that would pull into our driveway or only drinking water that came out of the kitchen faucet. There was the normal cat stuff, like sitting on the newspaper whenever someone was trying to read it but then there was the pooping everywhere but his litter box and the full on sprinting throughout the entire house for no reason whatsoever.
His true wildcat personality drove everyone bonkers but it played well in other areas. Not once did we ever find a live mouse inside or around our house. He did bring a few dead ones inside to show off his handiwork, making sure we knew of his worth. My favorite TJ moment was when I witnessed a standoff that he had with three deer who encroached on our front yard in New Jersey. Instead of retreating inside TJ held his ground against the three deer, who were on their way to feast on the freshly planted shrubs. After a few minutes of posturing, TJ jumped up and clawed one of the deer in the face, sending the three of them into the next yard.
For about 12 years it was like this, pure mayhem inside and outside of the house, until one day things changed. Much like Saul on the road to Damascus, TJ was transformed from his life of sin and debauchery. His heart was miraculously softened not by way of a higher power but rather thanks to Prozac. Yes, you read that correctly. My cat was tamed by an antidepressant that is routinely prescribed to pets. (Routinely might be a stretch as I have no idea if this is a normal case or if our vet was so vexed for a solution to TJ’s crazy that he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures.)
I wasn’t living at home when TJ first started taking his new medication but apparently the first doses put him into some kind of inebriated trance that wouldn’t allow him to take more than 37 steps a day. He went from leaping over six foot fences to barely being able to walk between the litter box and his food dish. They eventually figured out the correct dosage but once he we was medicated he didn’t go back to his wild ways.
For the last few years of his life he was finally the nice cat that everyone could enjoy, which is a hard thing for me to understand. To me he was a wild beast and then all of the sudden TJ became this beloved creature that even some of my other family members began to forgive and embrace. My niece and nephew love TJ (probably more than they love me) and it takes a herculean effort to restrain myself from yelling, “IF YOU ONLY KNEW HOW MUCH HE HURT ME. HOW MUCH HE HURT ALL OF US.”
Maybe my opinion of our feline frienemy will probably be forever skewed by the fact that I am allergic to cats and everyone just pretended that this was a normal thing. When a family discovers that their kid has a nut allergy do they plant a couple of walnut trees in the back yard? For years I’ve endured itchy eyes, sneezing and difficulty breathing just so he could stick around. Every Christmas I would make a plea for his exile so I could enjoy a holiday break free of Benadryl drowsiness or an endless runny nose but no, the cat had to stay. Until now.
His antics aside, TJ saw our family through what was the largest period of transition as we moved across the country and back again with many changes in between. As each of the kids left the house for college he was there for my parents, not so much to be a warm cuddly friend but someone to keep them on their toes.
TJ made life difficult but maybe in the end he was just preparing us for the challenges that would come our way. Who knows if any of us could have survived disappointment or heartbreak if we were not first betrayed by the only pet we ever had. We usually despised him and in doing so we were united in our disdain, a special bond that can last a lifetime.
So thank you TJ. Thank you for being the cause of evil that unified our family, even if it was you that we were united in fighting against.
And best of luck on the other side because I sure as heck won’t vouch for you.
Let me add some context to that statement because some of you (if not all of you) have already passed judgment. I’m not THAT kind of person. Goodness. Let’s try this again.
I’ve always been very comfortable in my own skin.
While that might sound like a tagline of a new soap campaign that encourages people to love their bodies regardless of their shape, size or regrettable college tattoo, it doesn’t make it any less true in my case. I’m the first to admit that I’m not a sculpted individual by any means but I’ve come to like the way that I look, regardless of the (countless) imperfections.
While I always thought that my somewhat irrational confidence in my body was a good thing, it put me in somewhat of a precarious situation not too long ago.
***
I happen to live in a delightful part of Los Angeles that doesn’t quite have its own distinction, rather it’s best described as just south of something and in between here and there. The blocks are stuffed with mid-sized apartment complexes that house Middle Eastern families, recently graduated UCLA students, retired folks who can’t quite afford to live on the beach and yours truly, an almost-30 Caucasian man with a bubbling (sporadic) social life. Very seldom do these groups intermingle but we all get along, aside for the one instance where someone broke into my car to steal my Ralphs frequent shopper card and my childhood baseball mitt (of zero monetary value) but chose to leave my golf clubs. If the thieves wanted to leave me utterly befuddled, they succeeded.
There is one more group of individuals who live on our block, that being the handful of nuns that serve the nearby Saint Sebastian church. There are a delightful bunch that can always be seen shuffling back and forth between their little house and the church which is about 500 feet up the street. It just so happens that their house and my apparent building share the same alleyway so every once in a while I’ll bump into them we’ll exchange hellos.
I happen to live in the penthouse of the apartment building, which is just a fancy way of saying we get to climb the most stairs. My room is great because on the east wall I have a relative large window that lets in morning light and I also have a door that opens up to the roof of the building, On the roof I have a nice little patio where I can do morning yoga and grow tomato plants. I never do either of these things but it’s nice to think that I have the option if one day I felt the desire to limber up or start my own garden.
This is where the whole “nudity has never…” I mean… “I’m comfortable in my own skin” got me into trouble.
One day after a long run through the city streets of LA, I returned to my apartment and sought to cool off the quickest way possible, part of which included me removing all of my running attire. It was a very long run and the sun was really beating down me that day so I was at peak exhaustion. So there I am in my room, naked as a jaybird, and instead of heading off to the shower I decide to look out my window and take in the view of more apartment buildings and a maybe a palm tree or two.
While enjoying the concrete scenery, I notice two of the nuns emerge from their house walking in the direction of my building. At a certain point the stop dead in their tracks, pause for a few moments and then quickly scurry off to wherever they were going. At this exact moment I didn’t think anything of it because I figured the window was a few floors up and my birthday suit wasn’t visible from there. It wasn’t until a few days later when I was walking I the very same spot where those nuns were and I looked up into my window to see my roommate standing there and I can see him clear as day. And that’s when it hit me.
Those poor nuns saw me naked.
Now I say poor but for all I know they could have enjoyed the view. These devout sisters dedicate their entire lives to the church and surely their strict adherence to chastity forbade them from ever seeing such…things. For all I know I was a source of temptation for one of those sisters and she can’t help but think of that mysterious man in the window. Maybe one of them felt so entranced by the experience that she had to go to confession to absolve herself of her lustful desires.
But if we’re being serious, we all know exactly what happened. There was no temptation and there was most certainly no confession to the priest at Saint Sebastian.
After seeing my awkwardly pale figure one of the nuns probably whispered to the other, “I don’t know about you but I thank my lucky stars in heaven that we took that vow of celibacy. I mean we really dodged a bullet on that one.”
It is the nature of my family to involve themselves in my
love life.
I can’t say that I blame them entirely. It’s a basic human
instinct to provide help to those who are clearly struggling. Someone starts to lose hold of their
groceries and you offer to lend a hand. A child gets lost and you form a search party for the parents. And in the case of my family, if your delinquent
son / grandson / cousin can’t find himself a wife then you offer up your expert
services.
Two weeks ago I ventured north to Oregon for a family
reunion, consisting of my dad’s side of the family. I would have approached the
occasion with some trepidation seeing that I am the eldest unmarried member of that
side of the family however my mind was put at ease by the fact that there would
be three babies in attendance. My thought was that the adults who were usually
concerned with setting me up with their hairdresser’s sister would be preoccupied
by the infants. While my 6-month-old niece Elsie performed admirably in Operation
Distraction, it wasn’t quite enough to divert the full attention of my extended
family members.
The best part of the light interrogation from my family was
how much hope (or lack thereof) they demonstrated in my romantic prospects based
on the types of questions they asked. A cousin who wasn’t worried about my
ability to court a female would say, “Of all the girls you are currently pursuing,
who are you most interested in?” This inferred that I had an abundance of
options and it was only a matter of me making a decision, like the valedictorian trying to decide on which prestigious university he / she should attend.
On the other hand, a certain family member who doesn’t think
I’m capable of tying my own shoes would ask, “Is there ANYONE, maybe even a
former girlfriend or even just a good friend who likes bald men, who would want to date you?” The tonality of this sentence
made it seem like it didn’t matter what I thought so long as someone could put
up with my sorry self I should jump at the chance of dating them.
At this point I should reiterate that I know that my family
members offer up their attention / advice / oddly detailed instruction based on their
love and concern for me. This expression of familial love is unique, but I
appreciate it nonetheless. So while the story that follows is rather embarrassing,
it’s all built on a foundation of love. Kind of.
After the family reunion had ended, I drove back to the
Portland area to stay the night at the house of my aunt and uncle before flying
back to Los Angeles the following morning. After we finished up with dinner I
found myself in the kitchen with my two aunts (both of my dad’s sisters happen
to live in the same city) and cousin discussing my dating life.
Initially we were discussing the types of girls that I have been dating in Los Angeles. “Are most of them working professionals? I hear
there are a lot of nannies that work in LA as well. What about UCLA or USC
students? Would you ever consider dating someone older? I hear you prefer Latinas. What about gingers?”
I was explaining the reasons why my last relationship didn’t
work out when my dear Aunt Julie very firmly said, “You know what Jake, I’ve
been thinking about this for a while and you should date Aubrey. She’s
beautiful, very witty and has a great job. Give me a good reason why you
shouldn’t be seeing her.”
At this point my brain went into hyper drive.
Aubrey. Who in the
heck is Aubrey? I know a couple of Aubrey’s but all of them are either married
or 10 years younger than me. She’s not suggesting that I date an 18-year-old,
is she? And what kind of job could she have that would be so great if she’s 18? If she works at Red Lobster and can hook me up with some of the cheddar biscuits, I wouldn't be mad. I wonder how much their menu has changed since I last went there. Wait, who am I supposed to be thinking about?
I had to fess up. “Julie, I don’t have the slightest idea who you are
talking about.”
“Oh sure you do,” she insisted. “You follow her on Instagram, don’t you?”
“…uh.”
“Come take a look and I’m sure you will know who I’m talking
about.”
At this point she pulls up the popular photo sharing app on
her phone and searches for Aubrey’s profile. As I’m scrolling through the pictures
I see images of a girl that I have never met. Ever. As Aunt
Julie continued to sing her praises, I began to think to myself. If I don’t know who this girl is, then how
in the world does Aunt Julie know her? And better yet, why does she think that
we know each other?
Then everything came into focus.
“You see Jake. When you and your dad were in Chicago,
someone commented on your photo and asked if you and Aubrey were going to meet
up after the game. I assumed that you two were going on a date or something so
I checked out her profile. She was so interesting that I decided to follow
her.”
At this point I was beside myself. “AUNT JULIE. YOU’VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE.”
Yes, a friend did comment on my photo in which she asked if
Aubrey and I were going to meet up after the game HOWEVER that didn’t happen because 1) we didn’t know each other and 2) see number one. I assume our mutual friend also assumed that we knew each other and seeing that we were at the same event, we should at the very least get to know each other. But we didn’t. We are still strangers to this day.
“So you mean to tell me that this girl that I have been
following on Instagram has no idea who you are? And you have no idea who see
is?”
“YES. IT LOOKS AS IF THAT IS THE CASE.”
“Well…I still think you should date her.”
***
Since the advent of social media, family members have made it a point to create embarrassing situations.
Combine an anxious audience (family) with the abundant flow of personal information (social media) and all hell breaks loose.
Unofficial statistics state that millennials are 57% less likely share the full name of their significant other because they fear that their mom will go on an unsupervised photo liking spree. The last thing anyone wants to hear is, “so I see your mom started following me on snapchat.”
This incident, or something similar, was bound to happen and quite frankly I’m surprised that it took this long.
As for now I’m charged with the task of finding Aubrey, explaining why she has a random follower on instagram named @juliewelchandreson and why my aunt thinks we should date. With all of those fancy social media sites out there, that shouldn’t be too difficult.
I know I always joke about looking old but tonight I am dressed the part. Long sleeved shirt with a list of 5K sponsors on the back, tucked into grey sweatpants. Tucking anything into gray sweats will make you look old. (Yes, I did just use grey and gray in the same paragraph. Rules be damed). Maybe these Ugg moccasins will make me…yeah I’m not going to finish that sentence.
I’m not sleeping right now because for the first time since college I downed a Diet Mountain Dew. This had nothing to do with nostalgia, rather I did so in order to drive five hours straight so that I could sleep in my own bed tonight. There is irony in this here situation but soon enough I will get tired and fall asleep and the drive will be worth it because I slept on a pull-out bed this weekend. Two nights on an alleged mattress that was made for sleeping in the same way that high heels were made for walking but only worse because said mattress did not make my butt look toned.
It should come as no surprise that most (all) of my relationships can be quantified by days and weeks as opposed to months and years. Some say that it’s my lack of focus and attention that leads to these short relationships, but I think that duck tacos would be quite delicious.
Wait, what was I talking about? Ah yes, relationships.
To be completely honest, I think my habit of brief relationships stems from my very first romance that barely lasted one weekend. There is no official record of this but I don’t doubt that it was the most awkward three days of the late 90’s. For those who completely missed middle school, let me break down how most of these things worked out.
While I was out exploring the sights and sounds of Los Angeles, of which there are many, I happened upon a newspaper. And when I say newspaper I mean it was one of those useless fliers that go in those bins right next to the newspapers. Anyhow, this piece of paper that was grouped together with other pieces of paper had a massive headline that caught my attention.
“THOUSANDS OF LA’s MOST EXCITING SINGLES.”
Before I could read the rest of the copy that detailed some fancy pants dating network, I thought (waaaaayyyyy to much) about what it means to be an exciting single.
I’ve always looked older than my actual age. Most of my friends point to the fact that I started going bald at the age of 15 but I figured that my mature demeanor is what caused most to mistake me for someone much older. Regardless, this curse has resulted in many unusual situations. At times people have assumed my father and me to be brothers while others thought that I was my mother’s husband. It was embarrassing at first but then I realized it was a lot better than looking significantly younger.
Now that I am 26 years old, I look more my age but I’ve made a recent discovery that I might have the soul of a ninety-two year old WWII vet.
It all started a few weeks ago when I was playing tennis over on the campus of the University of Colorado. I happened hit a ball over the fenced in area and into the parking lot, which is a somewhat regular occurrence. I was going leave it be until I saw a girl going to her car in the vicinity of the tennis ball. To get her attention I said the first thing that came to my mind.
“Excuse me young lady!”
I’m sure she assumed that it was her Grandpa Walt stopping by to drop off a batch of Nana’s lemon bars but no, it was me. Some twenty-something dude that was clearly horrible at tennis. She gave me a very confused look and then threw the ball back over the fence. Since this incident I have noticed other pieces of evidence that point to me being a geriatric.
Take a gander and decide for yourself if I am indeed an old man at heart.
Just a few bits of information that one might gather if they were to come across this traffic citation.
The name of the person driving the cited vehicle is Matthew R Davis.
The offending vehicle is a majestic green Geo Metro this is fast enough to break the law but not so much so that it can elude traffic cameras.
The person operating the vehicle is clearly handicapped, as witnessed by the handicap sign on the rear view mirror. (It should be noted that violators will be ticketed even if the sign is present, contrary to the moronic thoughts of the driver.)
The City of Boulder finds it necessary to tell violators of the law that obedience to red signals is required. The driver will assure you that they are not messing around when it comes to required obedience.
The City of Boulder is outsourcing their traffic violations to the state of Arizona. The residents of Boulder should find this outrageous considering the fact that refuse to buy their organic vegetables that are grown more than 3 miles outside of the city limits.
Moral of the story? If you are going to “borrow” the car of your handicapped friend, be sure to wear a ski mask as to cover up the most identifiable aspect of your being.
Congratulations on stepping up your game. Not only did you discover my phony mailing address but you somehow found out where I actually live. You didn’t stop there though. Instead of sending your documents in the traditional BYU letterhead (because you probably know everything I get from BYU, I throw away…except for miniature diplomas), you outdid yourself by using some other school from Georgia’s envelopes. Impressive, really.
But for the last time, you won’t be getting a dime unless you change the name of the Taco Bell on campus to the “Jake Welch Memorial Taco Bell - May Every Friday Be A Fiesta.”
Better luck next time,
Jake
PS - Use the Postal Service again to try and get me to donate money and I will run around your campus in the buff…again. Our dear mailmen and women have a thankless job and making them deliver such rubbish is pouring salt in the wound. Have some respect.
Today I received a piece of mail. This is not unusual. I receive on average 4 pieces of mail per week. There was a point when I first moved to Colorado that I would purposefully write my address down on mall display raffles and credit card debt surveys knowing that I would receive a litany of junk mail in return. I hold fast to the idea that mail and publicity are the same in that they have now downside. This could be debated heavily, but I digress.
The piece of mail that I received today was in a white envelope and had my named spelled correctly. This is unusual. Very few junk mailers have my real name. They only know my hipster baby name alias Jakup Welltch. Thus the correct spelling led to further investigation.
