You might be 12 years old if:

* You've drawn a skull on the front of your school notebook.

* Your mother is fighting a losing battle to keep you in pants that don't show your ankles.

* You've figured out how to play the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars on your guitar.

In case you don't remember the Darth Vader theme, here's an example randomly selected from YouTube:

Guinevere

It seems horribly unfair to you, dear reader, that I should write nothing for long months at a time, only to come back and dump another pet's obituary in your lap.  I apologize for that, but writing about it makes me feel better.

A year before we married, The Love of My Life and I visited the local animal shelter to find a companion for my cat, King Arthur.  There, we found a room-sized cage with a few dozen kittens inside.  We sat down, and waited to see who would introduce themselves.

One cat approached boldly.  He climbed up onto my shoulders and declared himself King of the Mountain, hissing at any other kitten who dared approach.

"This is the one!" I said. 

Happily, my wife-to-be was (and is) much wiser than I.  She gently pointed out that I needed a cat who could get along with other cats, and this one didn't seem likely to play nice.

So we sent that cat packing, and looked for other possibilities. 

A tiny kitten shyly approached.  She was gray, with a stubby little tail to match her small frame.  But she was friendly, and seemed to get along with the other kittens.  So we chose her, and I named her Guinevere.

The shelter workers estimated she was only six weeks old.  They told us she had been abandoned outside their door a couple weeks prior.

In the lobby, I placed Guinevere gently on the counter so I could sign her adoption papers.  She promptly walked off the edge and fell to the floor.  She wasn't injured, but I had an inkling that she might not be the smartest cat I've ever met.

What Guinevere lacked in brains, she made up for in beauty.  Much to our surprise, she grew to be a longhaired cat with a magnificent tail.  She also had a voluptuous figure and a strut that would have done Mae West proud.  As she grew, it became clear that she had a great deal of Maine Coon in her genes.

Guinevere was a dedicated lap cat.  She would curl up, purr loudly, and suckle on her leg.  The vet said she did that because she was separated from her mother too soon.  He also said she would grow out of it.

17 years later, she was still suckling on that same leg.  Maybe if she had lived longer, she would have given it up.  Probably not.

When my wife and I moved in together, we combined our cat families.  I had two, she had four.  Guinevere was the youngest of those original six, and the last of them.  As tends to happen to older cats, she suffered from kidney failure. 

Today, we took her to the vet for the last time.

Fox News

It snowed today.  A heavy, fluffy snow of the kind we don't see much in Georgia.  Chip went out to play in it for a short while, before retreating into the kid next door's house.

The Love of My Life spotted this guy (or gal) frolicking in the snow in our backyard:

What?  I told you this entry would be about a fox.

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Don't Fear The Reaper

So I was driving home from the funeral this evening, listening to the radio.  Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear The Reaper" started playing, which I thought was appropriate in a morbid sort of way.  A few minutes later, Don McLean started singing about "The Day The Music Died." 

I turned off the radio. 

This was my first Christian funeral, and I must admit that Christians know how to do a nice sendoff.  The sermon was very touching, and my sister-in-law delivered a terrific eulogy.  There was a lot of standing up and sitting down, but I can always use the exercise.

I'm a little concerned about the effect of this whole thing on my 11-year-old, Chip.  He behaved marvelously throughout the whole funeral.  As instructed, he refrained from talking, whispering, or fidgeting.  Coming from a nonreligious family, this was Chip's first experience with a religious ceremony.

We met some of Randy's relatives during the cookies-and-punch gathering afterwards in the church's common room.  As one cousin walked away, Chip called out "God be with you!"

Why, we asked Chip, had he said that?

He shrugged, "For Jesus, I guess."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.  One little funeral with minimal proselytizing, and Chip seemed ready to become a missionary.  We explained to him that he could think about converting when he grows up, but for now it was impolite to pretend to be a Christian.

At least, I think he was being impolite, in the sense of just parroting something he'd heard during the service.  I'll need to gently further explore Chip's thinking on this... without making a big deal of it.

In the meantime, I'm going to make sure to keep him away from the Hare Krishnas at the airport.

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The Surreal Death

I know.  I have a helluva lot of nerve showing my spinning green face around here after disappearing for two months.  But since I'm banned by my workplace from blogging about current events, I'm sort of at a loss most of the time for something to write about.  The fact is, my day-to-day life is pretty dull and I really don't want to make you feel like you have to leave a comment every time I see a movie or my child proves his awesomeness yet again.

Also, I'm generally pretty lazy.

Sadly, it's a family tragedy that has roused me from my blogging lethargy.  My wife's brother-in-law, Randy, died this week.

He had a heart attack while driving his van, which crashed.  He went into a coma from which there was no recovering, and his family made the decision to let him go.

Randy was 53.  About eight years older than I am.  He was a musician, and in his younger days part of a very influential, moderately successful rock band called "Pylon."  They toured with R.E.M., U2, and the Talking Heads.

It's weird to read the obituaries, of which there are many.  They call Randy a genius with the guitar.  I knew him as the nice, quiet guy who was the father of my two nephews.  He was an art teacher for awhile and he never failed to make my son Chip laugh.  He had a wonderful collection of toy robots.

I never asked him why Pylon broke up just as they were on the verge of becoming famous.  The official story is "it wasn't fun anymore."  That may be true.  But I suspect that Randy and his bandmates simply chose life with their families over a life on the road.

Oddly, the immediate effect of such a heart-wrenching disaster for myself and my wife was a sudden flurry of clothes shopping.  I haven't worn a suit or a tie in at least five years.  Maybe 10 years, I don't know.  I just don't need them for work, and most everyone I know is already married.  So when Randy died, the first thing I did was try on the last suit I bought.  Of course, it no longer fit.  It wasn't even close.

As it turned out, no one in my family owned any clothes appropriate for the funeral, which is tomorrow.  Thus we've spent a considerable chunk of the last 48 hours in clothing stores.  My wife wasn't convinced a suit and tie were necessary for 11-year-old Chip.  I insisted that nothing else would do for a funeral, which is strange considering my normal aversion to ties in particular and shirts with buttons in general.

Tonight, my wife is with her sister.  They're no doubt attending the viewing... which is another surreal aspect of the whole thing, considering that Randy was cremated.  I think Randy would find that funny.