March 31st, 2005

Tribute to Bojangles.

I recently obtained the knowledge that a good friend of mine passed away. A great friend he was, but an ordinary friend he was not. Mr. Bojangles was the one cat among the thirty+ inbred cats that roamed Timmy's cat farm on a daily basis. But this cat was better than all the other ones. Among the stoned cats, the tiny cats, the fat cats, the obnoxious cats, the scaredy cats, the perma-tripped cats, and the fuzzy cats, Mr. Bojangles was the one that everybody loved most. Especially Andy.

Andy adopted Bojangles as his own on the day he moved into Timmy's house. Bojangles was the kind of cat that any person on drugs could have the most intricate and meaningful bonding experiences with, because one pet on that kitten's back would guarantee you ten more visits from him in just that night. All Mr. Bojangles ever wanted was to be loved, and to give love back. His hair was so disheveled that it was impossible to pet it flat, and the boys had so cruelly blown smoke in its face so many times that he was destined to always be a little quirky. Apparently he liked it, according to them.

Bojangles was the mascot of the boys. Andy would bring him all the way to Burlington with him on a night he knew he'd be rolling E or dropping acid. Bojangles was best for things like that, and everybody could agree. He was friendly and fuzzy and carried all the wonderful characteristics of a cat. You could just sit there and pet him for hours and he would do nothing but purr for you. It was common knowledge that the cats from Timmy's house were not among average housecats, and Mr. Bojangles was certainly no exception. I'd adopted cats from Timmy that had never grown past kitten size. Some of them had the strange ability to climb walls, and others had licked the sweat of people's faces when they'd been tripping, causing permanently widened eyes and bizarre traits. Others would walk all over their own offspring, ignoring the sounds of their kitten whimpering. And some of them may as well not have existed, because a great portion of Timmy's cats were always outside, making sure the cycle of inbred cats continued. There were always seemingly hundreds of cats wandering and roaming around Timmy's mansion out in Charlotte. To be the one favored above all the others was an impressive feat that Bojangles had mastered.

I, too, had shared bonding moments with Mr. Bojangles. He walked constantly like he was drunk, staggering and stumbling over himself at times, but I only found that made him cuter to everyone. I had gotten bored with the constant pot-smoking going on in the basement, so I'd retreated upstairs for some chocolate milk. In the process, Bojangles had followed me upstairs and was weaving himself between my feet. I grabbed a spoon and began feeding him spoonfuls of my glass, watching him lick every drop up contently, loving me more for every extra spoonful I gave him. I ended up sitting myself down on the floor and realizing I'd fed him the entire glass only after I noticed there was nothing left. Bojangles spent the rest of the night doing only two things: sleeping in my lap, and occasionally jumping up to take three laps around the house at warp speed.

Anyway, the other night, Timmy informed that Mr. Bojangles had been killed by one of our irresponsible friends that was old to smoking pot and new behind the wheel of a car. When Timmy went out to find him there, he saw that his rear half had been crushed and seriously deformed, but he wasn't dead yet. Unfortunately, upon rushing him to the vet, Timmy was informed that there was nothing they could do to save him. I can't help but feel like perhaps they could have attached a wheel to the missing half of the cat, and given him an extra mechanical life.

Mr. Bojangles: Part cat, part wheel, 100% awesome.
Rest in Peace.