Archives for April 2015

As you may recall, Bryan and I embarked on the Feral Cat Socialization experiment in early February. We fed an outdoor feral cat, Young Graymund, for several months, then trapped her in our home in an attempt to Stockholm syndrome her into loving us. She was never allowed outside. She staked out a den under the couch, emerging mostly to eat, crap and hiss.

Gray still hates all humans. So the original experiment, to tame a feral feline, was an abject failure. HOWEVER. Unbeknownst to us, we’d trapped a knocked-up cat. On March 27, Gray gave birth. We are now the proud owners of one queen and two catlings. (That’s cat-person talk for one un-neutered female [we will neuter her as soon as she’s done nursing] and two kittens. Also, a male cat is a tom [duh], a neutered male is a gib, and a neutered female cat is a molly. Together, they are a clowder of cats. FASCINATING, no?)

I am pleased to announce TOTAL SUCCESS with the Feral Cat Socialization experiment. Here’s why:

1. We started the experiment with the goal of owning a loving cat. Now we will have TWO loving cats and one hateful cat who’s still a darned good mom.

2. Because Gray was trapped inside during the bulk of her pregnancy, she had food and shelter during a time when she and her in utero catlings direly needed both. I am sure the whole cat family is way healthier now than they’d have been if they were living on the streets. Their life expectancies also are longer than those of feral cats.

3. Three cats with healthy reproductive systems will now be vaccinated and neutered, ending a cycle of cat pregnancy and reducing our neighborhood’s feral cat population.

4. BABY CATS ARE FUCKING ADORABLE.

5. Gray takes care of all the parenting: she feeds the babies, teaches them to eat, groom themselves, crap in a litter box… this turnkey-cat operation is super simple AS WELL AS FUCKING ADORABLE.

We started daily handling of the catlings when they were three weeks old, because everything I read suggested it’s not beneficial to separate kittens from their mothers sooner than that, and ages 4 to 7 weeks are peak socialization times. Gray hissed something fierce when we first started handling her kittens, but that was all she did. I scoop them up with an oven mitt if she’s within swiping distance. Unlike their mother, the kittens show no fear of humans and are quite content to be held and petted. It’s interesting to watch these first-generation indoor cats develop. I’d worried they may learn to distrust us from watching Gray, but that hasn’t been the case.

Isn’t this clowder so cute? Don’t you just love them?

In 2005, I submitted this essay to SCAT, a magazine published by Light of New Orleans. Editor and publisher Joshua Clark accepted it, but Katrina happened and the magazine folded. For the last 10 years, this essay has been rattling around in an old email account. Enjoy!

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Wearing an orange reflector vest over his uniform, Winston Cavendish stands with his feet planted widely apart, patrolling a Bank One parking lot as a Mardi Gras parade rolls down Veterans Memorial Boulevard. His posture is as crisp and upright as the starched collar of his oxford shirt. A silver-and-blue patch on his left arm reads “US Security Associates.”

“Yep,” he says, leaning against a sign that says Commercial Lane Only. “I guess I’m the only person to get his ears scratched by the President.” 

Cavendish isn’t technically talking about his own ears, but the floppy, brown ones belonging to McGruff the Crime Dog. In a national ad campaign in the 1980s, McGruff urged young Americans to “take a bite out of crime.” McGruff’s signature gravelly voice belongs to Cavendish. One of the first McGruffs, Cavendish logged more than 162,000 air miles promoting the dog and its message of civic responsibility.

Cavendish’s gentle smile suggests 40 years spent helping old ladies cross the street. He possesses the sort of radiant contentment characteristic of monks and very small children. But during his years of crime prevention, Cavendish has been shot, stabbed, run over by a Bronco, and pushed down a flight of stairs. Work-related injuries have sent him to the hospital 18 times.

Cavendish was born in the parking lot of a New Iberia funeral home in 1943. His mother was a French and English schoolteacher from Lafayette, his father a major in the British Indian Army and intelligence officer during World War II. “He hunted Nazis,” Cavendish says reverently.

When Cavendish was five years old, he and his family left Louisiana to live out of a 1948 Ford named Jenny. Their travels spanned the 49 contiguous U.S. states. Cavendish shunned formal education, working as a rancher at the Gunster Cattle Company in Canada, a game guide (he killed a cougar with a hunting knife and a bear with a bow and arrow) and a taxidermist in New Orleans. He embalmed 120 buffalo heads for the Mounted Police Headquarters. When asked how long this task took, he responds, “Oh, not long at all. About four years.”

Inspired by his father’s ideals, Cavendish enrolled in night classes, studying criminal justice. Crime prevention became his passion.

“I love stopping crime before it happens,” Cavendish says.

At age 35, Cavendish became a Mandeville police officer. Within four months, he was promoted to assistant chief of police. His newspaper column, C.O.P. (an acronym for “Constable on Patrol”) was syndicated in the The News Banner, Slidell Sentry News and The Bogalusa Star. It ran for eight years and led to a radio show on WSDL Radio called “Behind the Star.”

Cavendish took correspondence courses from Columbia Broadcasting to develop his diaphragmatic breathing — a technique that served him well when he became the voice of the crime dog.

During this time, Cavendish attended a crime prevention practitioner’s conference in Louisville, Kentucky, where he and other attendees came up with the idea of a crime dog in a group brainstorming session. The National Crime Prevention Council loved the concept. Armed with an old London Fog trench coat, pants from Goodwill, a cloth dog head and a well-cultivated voice, Cavendish became McGruff.

His hardest task was convincing officers in other precincts to give the lovable dog a home. Many police departments were less than receptive.

“’You gonna make me wear a dog costume?’” Cavendish says, curling his lower lip in imitation of the resistant police machismo he often encountered.“’That’s bullshit.’”

In spite of this adversity, Cavendish says he was “blessed with McGruff.”

“I received wonderful letters from children thanking McGruff for protecting their lives,” he says. “Wonderful stories.”

McGruff garnered appreciation from more prestigious sources, too. The Postmaster General invited Cavendish to do commercials. He attended a gala at the Smithsonian, where McGruff’s 20-cent stamp was unveiled, placing McGruff alongside such luminaries as Smoky the Bear. Cavendish also received his fair share of accolades. He was made Policeman of the USA and decorated in FBI headquarters. He also was Policeman of Louisiana and Deputy of Louisiana that same year. He received the President’s Award from the International Society of Crime Prevention. He received the keys to New York and Los Angeles. He became honorary mayor of Selma, Alabama.

“Meeting President [Ronald] Reagan was a pretty big thing for me. I was dressed as McGruff… I said, ‘Good grief! It’s not every day a dog meets the President,'” Cavendish recounts. “And Reagan said, ‘You’d be surprised how many dogs there are on Capitol Hill.’”

In 1988, Cavendish resigned as a policeman after a dirty election for sheriff. Since then, he has worked as a security guard. Cavendish and McGruff have taken separate paths—McGruff spends most of his time in a four-story office on Madison Avenue in New York. Meanwhile, Winston devotes his energy to a memoir titled In Security. which chronicles his decades in crime prevention.

“I’m writing this book as closure or finality to a career. Maybe to vindicate my existence. Maybe to be an example to others. Maybe that’s it. I wish I could give you a clear, Johnny Carson-type answer.”

Cavendish frowns, trying to crystallize his statement of purpose as parade revelers pass by, one tossing an empty daiquiri cup onto the sidewalk.

“I guess it’s for others,” he says. “I like to think I did this, not for self-gratification, but for others.”

 

I‘ve already raved on this here blog about my sister Laura and how great she is. Among her many virtues: she is a tattoo collector with refined taste. I pretty much want to steal every tattoo she has. So it was part ink envy and part urge for sister bonding that led me to suggest we get matching tatts.

Laura was hesitant at first. It’s a challenge to get matching tattoos…we’d have to agree on a design, artist and body part. Then we’d have to get to the same tattoo shop, even though she lives in Rochester, New York and I live in New Orleans, Louisiana.

But I wore her down. And we built an entire trip around our tattoo adventure.

Laura is a meticulous tattoo researcher. She also has a policy of only being tattooed by female artists. She found a tattooer who did freaking amazing roses, was accepting new clients and seemed really nice. So we put down deposits, booked plane tickets and went to Portland, Oregon to get our sister tattoos done by D’Lacie Jeanne of Optic Nerve Arts Tattoo.

D’Lacie greeted us with sketches of four possible roses. After hashing out the finer details, it was needle time. I volunteered to go first, because I’d been marinating my shoulder all morning under a thick coat of Dr. Numb. If you’re planning on getting tattooed, do yourself a favor and get Dr. Numb. Spread that shit on thick, until it’s almost opaque white, like a cake’s icing. Wrap it in plastic wrap and let the doctor work for two hours. Unless you like gratuitous pain, in which case, maybe you should also munch some habanero peppers during your appointment.

“Pain is weakness leaving the body,” Laura reminded me.

“Sometimes pain is needles entering the body,” I said. “Again and again … for hours.”

Anyway. Here’s the sketch and color inspiration we decided on. See D’Lacie filling up a tiny cup with red ink?

We started a little before 1 p.m. and the tattoo took about three hours. It was rough at points. The worst part was when we were ALMOST finished, and I kept thinking, “I’m not even halfway done.” Because I was coming back for rose number two the next day.

Then it was Laura’s turn. I got nauseated and threw up after my session was over, which had never happened to me before, but D’Lacie said it’s not an uncommon reaction. Laura, however, sat like a champ.

By 7 p.m., we were both very pleased with our roses. Perhaps a little too pleased, because we couldn’t stop talking about how great they looked over beers and grilled cheese sandwiches at StormBreaker Brewing, which must have made for dull dinner conversation for our lovely and gracious host Rebecca. If she got tired of listening to us gloat, she didn’t let on. (REBECCA IS THE BEST.)

Sunday, I had a hearty brunch with Laura and Rebecca at Pine State Biscuits and then got rose number two. I have never sat on back-to-back days, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The roses took, total, about 6.5 hours. I’m glad to know I can handle sitting for that long, because it opens up an array of tattoo options. I don’t have to be limited to New Orleans tattoo artists (not that they aren’t talented and fantastic).  I might plan all my future trip destinations around artists I’d like to be tattooed by.

Here I am post tattoo session, a little shellshocked but very happy with the end result.

Here’s me and Laura with our matching sister tattoos. I am grateful for D’Lacie for sharing her incredible talent and being such an all-around wonderful person to spend time with. And I feel super lucky to have an awesome sister who’s down for sibling tattoos. Now every time I look at my shoulders, I’ll remember just how lucky I am.