“Alas for those that never sing, but die with all their music in them.”
As a public defender, Dave Pearson thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes more than most people – although no one, really, thought about Oliver Wendell Holmes much anymore. Still, the former Supreme Court justice was Dave’s idol, and that quote was one that stuck with the hard-luck lawyer.
As Dave grew older his world grew darker, and he feared there would come a day when he simply couldn’t claw his way back to the light … couldn’t find the music.
Sometimes, it seemed like that day was dangerously close.
Dave suffered from depression, and likened it to a pack of demons that had taken up permanent residence in his head.
As a kid and young adult, he was able to beat them back with a broom – buoyed, perhaps, by the optimism that sometimes comes with youth.
But now those bastards were kicking him in the groin day in and day out.
Often the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness were so deep and profound he’d just lock himself in the bathroom, pretending he’d stowed away in an escape pod hurtling toward the sun. Eventually he’d snap out of his funk, but not without a new scar.
He’d never sought therapy because he wasn’t much on one-on-one confessions, couldn’t really explain what he was feeling, and didn’t think anyone could help, anyway.
And why take pills for depression when he could self-medicate? Beer and liquor were readily available over the counter. Hell, you could even have it delivered to your door.
And he did. Often.
He wasn’t out of bed yet on this particular morning when he started thinking about how soon after work he’d begin throwing back cocktails.
“Pity, party of one,” he’d say, pouring himself another drink.
But before the darkness of his thoughts could consume him, Sparky hopped on the bed.
Dave had no idea how old the orange cat was, only that it showed up at his garden home door late one night, meowing frantically. He leaned down to pet him and got a small shock due to static electricity, hence the name “Sparky.”
He assumed he must belong to a neighbor, but no one claimed him – maybe because he had runny eyes and a bald spot just above his left eye. Soon, however, Dave was inviting him inside, and within a week he’d purchased a litter box and cat food.
Now, the cat was his – or maybe he was the cat’s. Either way, they had each other.
After taking a long stretch, Sparky looked at Dave intently, crawled on his chest and started making biscuits.
“Buddy, that hurts a little,” he said as the cat’s claws kneaded rhythmically and furiously. “You’re gonna draw blood.”
Sparky looked at Dave, and it was though the kitty understood. He stopped pressing, laid down, and nuzzled his head on Dave’s neck.
“You’re a sweet little guy, aren’t you? Lemme get up and check your food bowl.”
Dave hoisted himself on the side of the bed, slipped on his Crocs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Sparky – high-tailed and purring – followed close behind.
The cat’s bowl had plenty of food in it but Dave nevertheless topped it off, and Sparky quickly went to work on the fresh kibble. Dave flipped the switch on his coffee maker, looked at Sparky and smiled.
Funny how simply staring at a cat was a day brightener. And knowing Sparky depended on him made him feel less alone – made the world seem a bit more tolerable.
The demons weren’t gone, of course, but they weren’t overwhelming, either. They’d be back in full force, but not today – not right now.
And that was good enough for a cold Wednesday.
Dave walked over to Sparky, gently scratched his cheek, and started singing the silly song he’d made up about the feline:
An old orange cat came up to my door
Gave him some food but he still wanted more
Now he lives with a lonely old fool
But we’re best friends, and that’s kinda cool.
Dave shook his head and chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all.
And it made him happy that he was in tune with Oliver Wendell Holmes – at least for the time being.
