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EVERYBODY’S DANISH Fred A. Nielsen
By fred | September 9, 2008
Sometimes in life, you wonder what it is all about. I am a very fortune guy to have so many friends, many from since I was a child. The closest of them is also family - for over sixty years has been my brother in law and best buddy, Jack W. Anderson, Sally’s brother and the rock that much of my life has been built around.
When needed in all those sixty odd years Jack was there for me, never once did he stab me in the back, never once did he fail me when I need help, any kind of help, never did he condemn a stupid decision on my part. Jack knew every thing about my life, secrets I may not want shouted to the world, they were safe with Jack. When my son Rick almost died in the hospital, he is the one that said the words I have repeated here so many times, “Fred, you don’t get to deal em, you just get to play em!” Words that are so true in life.
The reason I feel so down in the dumps now? He has cancer of the throat, they found it last January, but we figured he had whipped it – it is back. Hard decisions have to be made, operations? – more chemo? – radiation? I guess the reason I feel so down in the dumps is that when he needs me, I can’t help. Oh, I told Jan, his wife and another best friend for over half a century that she should tell me if there is anything Sally and I can do, but that will not cure anything, make it go away. I could write a book about Jack and our adventures fishing, parties, just being together, our family life. Likely that will be an extention of Everybody’s Danish.
If you have a few seconds, I hope all of you will just say a few words in prayer about my buddy, Jack. I will be in your debt forever.
This week from Everybody’s Danish I will be telling you about another friend. A friend I had until he passed on at the old age of eighteen years, at least we ‘guess’ that is how old he was, his birth, and early life was something he never told us about. His name was “Kitty” – just “Kitty” no last name although my Dad figured he was a Nielsen, at least an adopted one. Yes, he was a cat, a animal, but nobody ever told him that, I sure as hell never did.
CHAPTER (“Kitty,” my childhood friend was family too!)
We had a cat – ‘Kitty’ was his name. My best buddy, one link between Grandma and me that was at least a friendly one, cause Grandma loved this cat, every bit as much as I did. A normal cat is about six pounds. Kitty became a monster stud Tabby of sixteen pounds.
Many days he would sleep on top of her big square canary birdcage Grandma put a blanket there so he was comfortable. The canaries were so used to him, they would keep singing away. We also had a little Banti hen (chicken) in the yard Kitty and her were also buddies-well, lets say if not buddies they knew they were both family and that messing with each other was not gonna work. In this relationship – don’t feel sorry for the chicken, she was as tough as they come often ‘challenging’ Kitty to dispute her right of way. Kitty would sleep under my blankets at night, way down at the end the bed where my feet were.
Memory escapes me as to exactly when Kitty showed up, one day he was there. Maybe someone pushed him out of a car in the neighborhood you hear about stuff like that. He was not fully-grown he was more like a teenager, only a cat. He was hanging around the house and store, probably because of the wonderful smells coming out of the store kitchen and Grandma and Mom started feeding him. Kitty was certainly no dummy, and figured if they eat that good around here, then he is staying.
Stay he did for almost eighteen years. A few months later he got taken to the pet hospital for an operation, because Mom said if he was going to stick around, she did not want him spraying on stuff. I remember Kitty giving her a lot of dirty looks after that trip. Mom knew that a sure way to a ‘pissed off’ cat’s heart was through his stomach. A little liver pate’ and roast pork seemed to be accepted and they were friends again.
Kitty just joined the family it was his decision. He was free to go at any time. It was decided that he would be an outside cat only. This very firm family decision lasted about a week. It was very cool one evening, Mom said, “I’ll bet its cold out side.”
Grandma said, “Yes it is, that’s why I let Kitty in the house. He’s sleeping on Fred’s bed now.”
To say he lived high on the hog would be putting it mildly. Kitty never saw a can of cat food, I doubt if he would consent to eat any of that stuff if you gave it to him. He ate what we ate, or better. When he needed a snack between meals he would go to the back outside store kitchen door and scratch and meow till Mom opened the door and give him some Danish liver pate, cooked pork shoulder meat, sausage, or whatever she was making.
Kitty never knew a day of hunger from the day he joined the family. Grandma would feed him say breakfast. If he felt a little empty spot a few hours later, he would scratch at the store kitchen door. If that did not work, a few meows would. Mom would look out and say, “Are you hungry? – how about some liver pate. He did not mind a little pork shoulder, Danish sausage, or a slice of cheese in a pinch either.
I will lay odds that that cat ate at least six or seven times a day. He would play Mom and Grandma one against the other. Neither knew if the other had fed him and neither had the time to go up to the house or down to the store to find out. The simplest solution was to just trust the cat. Do you wonder that he only got to sixteen pounds!
Kitty’s domain was our house, backyard, driveway, and my next door buddy Marvin’s house and back yard. Our home was a big old rambling Spanish style frame house, on a deep lot. Dad had our small store built on the front yard where the lawn used to be. From the street all you saw was the store. On the left side was a long asphalt driveway leading by the store and house to the back of the lot where there were three detached garages.
Our wholesale warehouse was built onto the garages, and a large old Navy surplus refrigerator in front of everything. This made our back yard very tiny, only about ten feet between the back of the house and the walk in refrigerator.
The only tree was an old apricot tree right near the back door of the house. On the other side, in the front, the store was almost to the property line, just enough room to walk around the building. Attached to the store on that side of the house was the store kitchen. The front room of the house had a very large picture window. Of course, it always had a heavy closed drape because is you opened the drape within a few inches of the window on the outside was the back wall of the store. A cellar was dug under the front part of the house for extra storage.
Our local ‘rat pack’ was Marvin, about my age, and Billy about two years younger. He lived behind us, and had to climb over the fence, to join the pack. Give a whistle, and the little guy would be over the fence in a flash. Marvin, was a little smaller than I, black hair, black flashing eyes, slightly built with not an ounce of baby fat, a darn good athlete, at least for kid stuff, and was always dreaming up wild stuff to.
Then I was in High School Kitty had slowed down some. But, at our age of ten he was in his prime. I cannot remember ever playing a game of marbles in the dirt with out Kitty. Marvin’s back yard was a mess, several overgrown trees, dead grass, tons of dirt to dig in, heaven on earth for us kids. We had ‘forts’ back there, all kinds of hideouts, you name it.
“Let’s play marbles,” Marvin would yell and I would be over the old picket fence and into his yard in a minute. A whistle and Billy would be there with his bag of marbles. Not far behind would be Kitty. A circle would be drawn in the dirt and the game began. Three young kids on their knees with Kitty squatted down watching the game. If a marble came in his direction, whack, it would go flying. “Damn it Kitty, leave my marbles alone,” Marvin would yell.
The games Kitty did not like were our squirt gun fights and rubber-gun fights. Up our old apricot tree he would sit. Looking down watching us squirt reach other. Once Marvin looked up in the tree and gave him a good squirt. Did he get the look – it took Marvin two months of sweet-talking and offered treats before Kitty would allow him to pet him, much less be within ten feet of him. You do not offend a stud male cat’s dignity without paying a price.
Marvin, Billy, and I were often sitting on the front steps of his porch, just shooting the breeze. Our local bully dog usually took his daily stroll around the neighborhood early in the afternoon. None of us knew his name – we used to call him ‘Spike’, because he had on one of those heavy leather collars with lots of medal on it.
Spike was a very big dog, close to a hundred pounds. Must have had a bunch of breeds in him, wolfhound, and God knows what. He lived about a block down, and had the run of the neighborhood. He would march down the street, Lord of all he surveyed. If you wanted to give him a pet, you had to get off your duff and go to him. He certainly wouldn’t brother to walk over to a bunch of kids, this was way beneath his dignity.
One of Kitty’s prime spots when us guys were anywhere in the front of the store or Marvin’s front porch, was right behind the store, in the area where the steps to the front of the house were. There he could keep his eye on us, what was happening on the street, and still have a head start to the back yard apricot tree for safety, if need be.
If Spike saw Kitty he may give a growl, and once in a blue moon chase Kitty down the driveway and up the apricot tree. The whole thing was all sort of half hearted, never expecting to catch him. He was just sort of showing everyone who the boss is.
One day the situation became deadly. Kitty must have been dozing to let Spike get the drop on him like that. We heard a vicious snarl – we stopped talking and looked around. Kitty was only a few feet ahead of Spike headed for the back yard. “Spike’s gonna kill Kitty!” Marvin yelled, and off the porch we went.
Kitty didn’t have a big enough lead to make the apricot tree and safety, so he kept going. Around the back of the house, around the store kitchen, in front of the store and back down the driveway. Kitty was fighting to maintain his lead, Spike a few feet behind, and badly trailing were three scared kids. We could see Kitty was tiring, we were all yelling at Spike trying to get him to lay off chasing Kitty. I really figured that was the end of my cat. One bite from Spike and that was going to be all she wrote.
When we turn the corner looking down towards the store kitchen side of the house, we saw Kitty stop and turn around. From a very frightened cat, we now saw a warrior. Sixteen pounds of high ached back, spitting fury, a very ‘pissed off’ cat to say the least – Kitty had had enough of this crap, fun is fun but, if you really want a fight, lets see how you like it!
Spike may have been big, but he wasn’t stupid. He came to a screeching halt. This was not what Spike had in mind. Kitty jumped at least four feet in the air and landed on Spike’s back. With his head aimed at Spike’s tail he was tearing away a Spike’s back. Hair started flying all over the place. Spike turned around and yelping took off. Kitty stayed on Spike’s back half way down the block. Hair was being torn from poor Spike’s back all the way.
In seconds Spike was a tiny dot down the street and still going like a streak. Kitty was slowly marching home. The hair on his back was still a little fluffed, still a little pissed that this event had to disturb his day. Did he get a hero’s welcome, Kitty knew it, and would now consent to the attention he so rightly deserved. There were black dog hairs all over the place for days, on the bushes, Marvin’s front lawn – Kitty had done a lot of rearranging of Spike’s fur.
Days later we were again sitting on Marvin’s front steps and we spotted Spike coming down the block. Tail high, looked like the same old Spike. It’s funny that after Kitty’s victory, instead of half hiding in the area behind the store, Kitty would come up to the front of the store by the street. There he would sit, keep track of his kids, and watching customers go into the store.
With Spike a few house down the street and headed our way we figured Kitty was in trouble again, so why wasn’t he taking off for the back yard? Spike spotted Kitty from about thirty yards down the block. The tail dropped, Spike glanced around and casually walked across the street, tail lower and lower. Spike never walked in front of our store again, he always happened to find something much more interesting on the other side of the street, well before he got to us.
Kitty was ‘cock of the walk’ and he knew it! We were so proud of him. The story of his heroic battle was told and retold time and again!
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