Archive for March, 2011

Palmer Tycho

March 17, 2011

Note:  The bozo’s at Word.Press keep taking down my photography of Mister Palmer.  They fear the power of images.  I snapped photos as he lay dying.  Check back often, I will keep re-posting them.

Stricken with the loss of an old friend, I did what I always do — adopt a new one.  Just having begun my academic steep, I needed all the whisker-lovin’s I could get.  Cats are, after all, good at algebra.

Ridn.Katrina2I got Palmer from a foster home in Minnesota called “Last Hope.”  A nice lady had turned her basement into a play room for kittens.  A small, manageable gaggle.  Over the phone she said, “I have some spotted ones, a striped one and a black one.”  I told her,  “hold that black one.”  She warned that he was feisty.

I scooped up the  cinder puff and headed back to our digs.  And so began our long rapport, Palmer’s and mine.  I named him Palmer Tycho-the-Magickat.  And that was that.

He would see me through many years of higher education.  Sitting on my desk, watching me work math problems, read Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley.  Cram for tests and burn the midnight oil.  We played in the snow where he could never be lost.  And hid in the foliage of a northern summer.

“Stick with me kid,” I told him.  “I will show you places you have not dreamed of.”  He commanded pastures, headwaters and corral posts.  Roamed a vast range of emerald expanse.  Kept the company of pedigree horses.  And charged with the lovey neighbor dog into Sherwood*Forests.Sherwd1Last night, it appears, that my new neighbors stomped Palmer to death.  According to the vet, his vital organs were crushed and his tail was broken.  They must have swung him around by the tail.  This morning I found large swaths of his fur ground into their concrete driveway — sticking by the hair follicles.  It looked like they kicked and stomped him on their driveway after they cornered him in a garage.  Else he would have bolted and escaped.  The vet said that all his claws were torn out.  He must have marked them when he fought them.

Three days ago, two kids came up my driveway, flanking Palmer and asked, “Diss yo cat?”  The same day two other kids from five houses down came up our driveway.  They went up to our garage, apparently looking for Palmer.  These children appeared to be ages four and five.  Hardly murder suspects.  But possibly scouts for their parents, no?

Palmer’s maxillary canines were both fractured as though he sunk them deep into his attacker.  Whoever killed my beloved friend is now in the hurt-locker. Whoever did this to Palmer is in need of a doctor.  Let their dangerous, deep-tissue infection be a sign to other mercenary thugs.  If the fang struck bone, you’re lookin’ at a bone infection, punk.  Let God’s Justice speak for Palmer.  And for me.  Blood poison is a good possibility.  Better get that penicillin pumpin’.  Or lose your limb.

Palmer’s suspected killers have not been in our neighborhood a year and do not know us.  They had no motive to kill my cat for other than mercenary reasons.

Palmer loved everybody.  He liked perfumed ladies whose scent he carried home to me.  “Palmer, you two-timer,” I’d say.  He visited nearby houses and would greet the neighbors.  My cat was full of good will and friendship. Here he is riding out Hurricane Katrina.


Since there was not a drop of blood on Palmer, the neighbors’ story didn’t fly.  Their assorted tales did not match.  Each nervous character had another version of the lie.  They said that “a pack of wild dogs attacked him.”  But they couldn’t get the count right.  Nor the direction in which the dogs supposedly fled.  Well oops.  That’s the thing about a lie — it’s hard to keep it straight.  Been here for six years and never seen a wild dog.  And neither did the police last night.  What we did see, however, was scientific evidence of what killed Mr. Palmer.  Medical technology has come a long way with DNA.  It looked like somebody spit all over him.

The doctor who examined him said that my cat was a fighter.  He stood his ground to the last and marked ‘um good.  The man who paid rabble to kill Palmer has pig-sticker money on his side.  But Palmer and I have the Excalibur of Truth.