It was a long day at work, made less agreeable by the persistent and draining Texas heat of summer.  When finally I arrived at home, I was already wiped out and sullen, lethargy having taken over my very being as the heat drained what little energy work had not already taken from me.  It was an exercise in pure willpower simply to get up the stairs leading to my front door.  I did eventually make it, dripping with sweat from head to toe and feeling much like I imagine a roasting turkey must feel after its flesh begins to cook in the extreme heat of the oven.  I stood in front of my own door and sighed.  Did I even have the energy to find my keys and let myself in?  I sure hoped so.

After rummaging in my pockets and locating the elusive key, I unlocked the door and stepped inside the glory of air conditioning, rapidly closing the door behind me in the hopes of avoiding more abuse by the heat.  I fell back against the door, sighed yet again — only much louder the second time, and called to The Kids to let them know Daddy was home.  With my eyes closed and unaware of my surroundings, I stood resting against the doorway while I absorbed the cool air and wished it to subjugate the sweat running down my face.

I inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly to bring rest to my weary bones.  I repeated those steps several times.  How tired I felt at that moment.  I was glad to be home for the evening.

Finding the energy necessary to even open my eyes and survey my surroundings, I realized only then that The Kids were not with me.  How unusual.  Normally, once I arrive home, even if only after I call to them, they surround me in welcoming fashion and ensure they each receive a share of the lovin’.  Not this time, though, and I found that curious.  I looked up from the desolate floor under my feet and looked about the house from my perch in the entranceway, glancing around the living room until I finally saw them: all four of them sitting in front of the patio doors looking outward, infrequently glancing back at me with a look that seemed to request something.  What are they up to?

As I stood momentarily in my position just inside the front door, my gaze fell upon each of the cats as they remained practically motionless.  What a curious event.  I watched them closely as they glanced quickly at each other, out the door to the patio, at each other again, down to the floor in front of them, and then back at me, all before repeating the process.

It occurred to me suddenly that prey must be involved.  The Kids knew I’d always be around, but prey was something that was fleeting and to be enjoyed while it was there lest the opportunity be lost forever.  As predators, they were so predictable.

Finding the strength finally to support my own weight, the sweat having disappeared in the company of the interior coolness of home, I was refreshed and feeling human again, less like Thanksgiving dinner baking away for hours.  Standing on my own two feet, I began my journey across the room to where my curiosity might be sated.  The Kids, fully aware of this movement, looked at me suddenly with anticipation and longing.

I moved slowly and deliberately toward them.  If some creature was indeed just on the other side of the patio doors, I dared not frighten it away with an abrupt arrival.  For that reason, my approach was methodical, the entire way marked with my queries to The Kids about what they had.  “What is it?”  “What do you see?”  “What’s outside?”  Their excitement grew in response to my approach and questioning.

Grendel spoke first.  He looked directly at me and squawked in a way that said he wanted something from me, something he was rather eager to get his paws on.

I giggled quietly, hoping not to disrupt them, suddenly realizing this was a hunt and they needed my assistance to get the prey within striking distance.  The smile on my face would certainly betray a father’s joy at seeing his kids demonstrate communal skills and adult behavior.  Sure, I’d seen them all hunt before, but this was a group effort.  Their success to date, however, would not deny appreciation for the help of a parent.

Loki called out to me, shouted at me for attention to his desire for help.  My own entertainment was growing.  The agony of the long day and Texas heat was far behind me, my mind already losing touch with the past memories of fatigue and stress.

Kako stood briefly, her tail snapping back and forth in anticipation and excitement as she too bellowed for immediate intervention in their plight.  She sat back down as suddenly as she had stood, returning to her anticipatory vigil with the others.

They all looked at me eagerly in response to my not so silent chortle.  I obviously had a lot to learn from them about stealth.  This brought the subdued chuckle into full focus resulting in a hearty burst of laughter.  Each of the cats immediately sat more upright, excited by my approach and impulsive joviality.  Oh yes, they want my help.  It seemed so obvious.  They watched me intently, rapidly glancing outside and to me then back again.

Kazon, his eyes dark with the thrill of the hunt, let out a broken, almost pathetic meow ripe with urgency and the childlike need for parental aid.  The smile I wore surely was ear to ear.

When I reached their location I immediately let out a disgusted “What is that!?”  Their distance from the patio door made perfect sense: scattered about between them and the glass were remains.  It was at first not identifiable as any particular creature.  In fact, my first guess would have been a small bug.  There was not much left; this I could tell before I leaned closer in the hopes of identifying the dead interloper.

Is that a leg?  Thoughts ran through my head with frightening clarity and rapidity.  This was once a living creature, but even then I realized there were scarcely a dozen pieces left.  One might have called it carcass remains were there so little of it left to identify.  There, that piece — perhaps part of a wing.  And that one could be a leg.  The one over there could be part of — Oh, yuck!  That’s its head!  This inventory of devastated biological pieces and parts continued for only a moment before all of the victim’s debris was located.

At first, I wouldn’t claim I successfully identified the corpse.  Well, it couldn’t be called a corpse in any stretch of the imagination.  There was so little of it left.  Despite this, visual inspection — sans touching — of what remained made clear to me that it had been a palmetto bug^[1].  A very large palmetto bug if its leg and head size were indicative.  The Kids had certainly been busy.

My heartfelt laughter sprang forth from within me, rising to decibel levels I was not aware I could achieve.  How very entertaining.  The Kids all began to talk and gesture and look in a cacophony of feline joy, pride, need, desire, and anticipation, my immediate presence an apparent invitation for their requests for help.  They glanced down at what was left of the toy bug.  I knew this look well.

“Daddy, we had this toy and it broke.  It wasn’t a good toy at all.  With only a little play its pieces began coming off until finally the whole thing was in shambles.  Can you help?”

I love my kids.  They can be so entertaining.  As predators, however, they can also be merciless, and perhaps I find as much joy in that as I do their friendly and loving demeanor.  It is a dichotomy of the ruthlessness of the hunter versus the love and affection of the companion.  At that moment, I saw both simultaneously.

Imagination in its most raw form could not picture the size of the beast, and that realization I based on only the initial inspection of the few body parts available.  Should its legs and partial head be a clear indication, The Kids had destroyed what might have been someone’s beast of burden, one large enough to be saddled were one to find such a thing worth doing.  My awareness of its enormity — its previous enormity, that is, before it fell victim to a pack of wild felines — gave rise to the immediate concern regarding the whereabouts of the remaining body mass that was not with the carcass debris laying before me.  Somehow, I already knew the answer to the query, and it at least fleetingly made me question the wisdom of letting any of The Kids ever kiss me again.

In my hasty disgust at the carnage, I seemed to have lost sight of the fact that the hunt was not over, that The Kids desperately wanted my help with something that heretofore I had not seen.  Still leaning over to inspect the biological mayhem they were disinterested in, I merely turned my head to look at each of them in turn.  This motion caused them to voice their need for assistance, one by one and in turn.  The incessant meowing rose forth as a sudden chorus.  Again I laughed.  Yes, they want my help with something.  I know those calls.  That’s a request for assistance.

I studied their faces one at a time.  They would look at me, say something, look out the patio door, murmur something under their breath, twitch their tail back and forth in anticipation, then look at me again and more loudly voice their need for my help.  I turned my head slowly and looked out the door to the patio beyond.  There, just on the other side of the door, already hobbled with two noticeable appendages missing and one wing horribly disfigured, was yet another palmetto bug, large, behemoth in fact, and trying desperately to act unaware and disinterested in the sudden death which waited just inside.  I laughed so hard that I was certain the bug would scamper away in fear.  It did not, although I realized it might have been unable to move quickly given its already compromised body and reduced leg count.  The Kids cried to me with overwhelming clarity.

“Daddy, this toy broke.  Can you get that one for us?”

“You should call the manufacturer and ask for a refund, Daddy.  This one was defective and it didn’t stand up to much play.  Still, we’d like that one now.”

“Daddy, do you think you can bring that other toy inside?  We’ve been good and we deserve to play with it, too.”

“This stupid one is broken.  It’s not fun anymore.  Hey, maybe you could get that one out there and give it to us instead.  Please?”

“You should get better playthings for us, Daddy, not these.  They break too easily and don’t last long.”

“These are fun even if they are fragile.  They run fast.  Can we have that one now?”

Yes, a menagerie of questions and entreaties was lobbed at me from all four of them, begging and pleading for an opportunity to play with that poor hobbled insect who somehow escaped the same doom represented in the not so tiny bits of body strewn about in front of the door, pieces that once in a while called for a brief swat or curious touch from one of The Kids hoping to spur it back to life for just one more chase.

This had been no hunt.  It was a massacre.  Somehow two very large — and by the looks of the still living example outside, I would say massive — palmetto bugs had made their way into the house.  With four cats, such a move is never wise or conducive to long life.  One of the interlopers had met with a ghastly end, torn limb from limb, partially chewed and consumed, and ultimately what little was left scattered about in front of the patio door, perhaps as a warning to anything else that might enter: Beware! There be cats here!  The second made its escape, perhaps saved by the sacrifice of its friend, but did not get out of the house before suffering horrible and irreparable injury.

I knelt beside The Kids and stroked them all lovingly, showering upon them kudos for a job well done, for protecting the home from invasion.  I laughed the whole time as their excitement grew in the hopes I would indeed retrieve the second toy from the patio.  I assure you, there was never an intention to bring that thing in the house.  Instead, I went to the kitchen and got treats for them, a congratulation for being such good hunters as well as something to get their minds off of what they really wanted long enough for me to dispatch the monster from the patio and clean up the debris in the living room.  I would never let anyone know of the horrible events that took place in my home that day.  No one should be allowed to fully comprehend the ruthless act of carnivorous ferocity inflicted upon the palmetto community by my not so innocent children.

Notes:
[1] palmetto bug: a colloquialism of the Southern United States referring to a very large cockroach, also called a waterbug.  Because it survives best in moist conditions, the largest examples exist near readily available water sources.  It grows to an average length of 2.0 inches (5.0 centimeters), although they have been measured as long as 3.0 inches (7.6 centimeters).  They fly, yet rarely can they demonstrate successful navigational skills in short distances (they’re clumsy).  Unlike their more common counterparts, cockroaches reaching this size no longer demonstrate fear of light.  They are also naturally armored due to their size and exoskeletal design (the size of their body increases the strength of their exoskeleton, and that advanced durability provides them with natural external reinforcement greater than the average roach).

I’m tired.  I mean really tired.  There has simply been too much going on lately. 

Grendel is doing better, but he has been so sick for two months that daily improvement for the last week to ten days still brings him to a level below normal and healthy.  He does not play as much, nor is he as active as he would normally be.  Despite his continuing improvement, the entire situation has been draining both emotionally and physically.  It is not possible for me to watch an animal suffer, let alone a member of The Kids: they are my children.

Work is increasingly stressful, although one might wonder how it could be more stressful than it was a year ago, or even two years ago.  Tedious bureaucracy constrains me at every turn; political machinations birth stupidity like multiplying bacteria; the service level provided by other groups, even in personnel matters, is inefficient and substandard, making even the most menial of tasks excruciatingly laborious and difficult.  I fight constantly with other technology groups for the unannounced and unplanned changes they implement.  Anyone having dealt with such an environment would certainly understand what I mean: it is the typical American business environment where the clueless get promoted and those who do the work get stepped on.

I am worried about my family.  There is much joy in reporting that my grandmother is out of the hospital now, but her health continues to be poor and her overall condition is deteriorating.  Despite the tidbit of good news, the tasty morsel sours bathed in the tartness of a much more complex picture that unfolds as you step back from her situation.  Mom remains unemployed, her family is reeling from the loss of Jan and Charlie, the ongoing Texas drought has affected costs and conditions at the farm, health issues are popping up like cubicle workers who smell food, and a general veil of hardship seems to befall every member in some way that foretells certain doom…  Perhaps not doom, wishing not to contrive some horrific situation from general life events, but certainly it feels dark and foreboding.  Age, disease, finances, and all manner of living curses take shape in day-to-day living.  None of it is surprising or out of the ordinary, yet a family as large as mine increases the reach of the skeletal hand of statistics and probability.  I see its chilly shadow creeping from corner to corner, towering above everyone who shares my blood, and increasingly touching family members with its cold dead breath.

Restful sleep has been distant and infrequent.  Broken to its core by Grendel’s illness, I have unsuccessfully pursued its embrace for two months.  I lay wrapped in blankets with the cold surrounding me on all sides.  Kazon often rests next to me under the covers, his soft warm fur caressing my skin while his lead lays gentle on my arm or chest so that I feel his breathing — and it comforts me, yet not enough to engender sleep.  Grendel curls up between my legs or behind my knees depending on what position I’m in, his demonstration of habitual behavior a comforting normalcy, his presence always known to me based on his position and regimental approach to routine.  Loki, his motor running if there is but one bit of wakefulness within him, places himself always to be on me in some way, whether he lies on my arm or on my chest or draped over my abdomen.  Kako may or may not be with me; she is an independent woman who does as she may without regard for others, tending to her own needs above any other, but succumbing from time to time to her daily Daddy requirement and finding a place near Grendel where she might sleep both in contact with him and with me.  Despite being surrounding by such unmitigated love and care, the night brings me no comfort.  Its darkness cloaks me in its deep embrace as sleep beckons to me from a place I am unable to reach.  Perhaps it’s stress and fatigue, perhaps it’s the plethora of worry that now besieges me at all times…

I continue to focus on my writing as much as possible, yet even this comes at a price.  Spending so much time dealing with work lessens the time available to tend personal matters.  This often forces me to decide between writing or addressing the needs of living.  Do I take an hour and work on my novel, or do I sit down and pay the bills and work on laundry, dishes, and a litany of ignored chores demanding attention?  When I dedicate time to writing, do I focus on the career aspects (such as my novels) or do I seek the emotional catharsis inherent to blogging?  Both help me in some way, yet there is insufficient time to address both dutifully.  It is possible to weigh them separately and devise time for both that ultimately seems lacking.

America has become the enemy which for so many years we sought to overthrow.  We spy on our own citizens, we torture dissidents and enemies, we incarcerate based on presuming guilt rather than innocence, and we rob ourselves and others of the very human rights we claim to cherish and uphold.  Our sacred Constitution has been violated and degraded in the name of security, and fear now drives the American herd.  Disagreeing with or questioning the government is now considered treason.  Radical elements have taken control of government at every level, and we see elected officials passing laws meant only to segregate our society and legalize hate and intolerance while destroying equality.  People like me are made to feel that we are less than human and worthy of fewer rights than the fundamental majority and power-holders. 

The obligations of friendship are all about me, besetting me with needs and desires both subtle and gross.  Such pining does not diminish my love for these people; neither do the spoken and silent demands of friendship fall on deaf ears or a cold heart.  Lacking adequate time to fulfill my own needs and desires in this area while also satisfying the hunger of others gives rise to a depressive betrayal within me: I feel as though platonic disloyalty unabashedly vexes the unfulfilled promises of today.  When last have I visited with xocobra and LD?  How often are Jenny and I capable of spending time together?  Were not multiple assurances of seeing Wayne broken by unforeseen obligations and events?  Did not I just miss dinner with Rick, Mark and Brian because the calls of urgent attention cried out to me at an inopportune time?  Libby has been quite ill this week, probably with nothing more than a cold or flu, yet I have been unable to check in on her as frequently as I feel essential because the flurry of activity steals from me the time needed to do so.  Lee’s father passed away earlier this week and I was unable to see him before he left town because of my own job.  There are other examples, of course.

Unlike my normal tendency to shun and hide it, my own depression has been at the gate of my mind for many months struggling to break into my thoughts and invade my living.  Rarely am I unable to manage this, yet its beckoning call is omnipresent and venatic, stalking my happiness and cheer from the darkest reaches of my being.  My own weariness and anxiety conspire with this demon to wrest control of my soul and drive my journey through the days ahead.  What once was a path filled with light now appears to me as a darkly tangled slope surrounded by hands pulling me down to the fatal grave called progress.

Deep within my ancient heart beats the drum of a life wishing to be free.  Its rhythmic thumping pierces my very being, torturing my soul with solemn promises never to be fulfilled.  I have become my own living, clothed in the writhing flesh of space drawn ever deeper into the blackened tapestry of the night.  My spirit’s essence finds muted expression, and its calls are muffled and strained.  The life I wear is now alien to me, somehow transformed into that of another who is unknown yet familiar.  Whose life have I become?  What flesh do I now wear?  Whence comes this thrashing and dead doom?

What promise life gives measures only in a grain of sand.  Therein lies no other vow save one: this life is yours to do with as you please.  Empty of claims for longevity or happiness or health, living guarantees nothing except that I am on my own.  The proclamation is written upon my very being.  Yes, others may add to my life, but ultimately it is mine alone, and that aloneness is always evident.

I see it in the death of children and hear it in their voices on the TV as they ask, “Have you seen me?”  More little faces everyday torn from their world and thrown into the unknown…  I see it in the empty smiles on every face I meet and pass, hollow attempts to make me think they’re happy.  It is a game I myself play.  The suffering of animals, the extinction of whole species, and the compromise of our environment continue to suppress nature with human whim.  I say that things are fine as I hide the empty longing that I feel, keeping my heart concealed behind deception meant more for my own wellbeing than that of others.  It paints my face with the tears that no one sees, dried only by time and my own hands.  Lonely days give rise to aloneness, and aloneness breeds lonely days.  My silent dreams fall victim to circumstance, held in eternal limbo by the requirements of survival, forever squandered under the guise of tomorrow’s empty promise.

Where can the heart go free?  When does our advanced culture and society provide for rest and relaxation?  How many struggles must we endure simply to arrive at death?  I am caught like a life in the wind, always trying to wrest control of my own life from the grips of whatever may blow, tossed about near aimlessly toward ever darkening places and times.  Where can I turn?

The call of life cries out to me in whispers audible only in the stillness of silence.  Things happen that I just do not understand.  I gaze at my life from a lonely mountaintop and stand face to face with the emptiness of the writhing space I wear.  Looking for the riddles of why leads to the search for reasons, a circular swim in the winds of time.  I climb higher to escape the pain only to find the air thinning around me, breathing now labored, my chest heaving in a desperate grab for life.

So often, there is no why.  There is no hope for tomorrow because it is not promised.  That which is not promised quite often becomes all that I have, my todays stolen from under my chin while I am too busy to notice.  I am vexed by the secrets hidden from my mind.  For all I cannot understand, I flow on the mysteries of time like all others who share the roaming of life’s peaks and valleys.  It is always more than I expected, this living thing, certainly more so recently than I had ever imagined.  Time’s predation is replete with answers always held in the hands of another, quests unimaginably fruitless.

All things end.  Thus is the birth of good times and bad times, the rollercoaster of life upon which I ride.  With shadows closing in around me, I struggle.  This too shall pass.  It is only in the most complete darkness that we fully appreciate the light.