As the Republican Party Animal Says Goodbye, a Final Post: A Cat Tale that Deserves to Be Told

I’ve had some good times with this blog. I scored some decent victories. I got the Department of Defense to drop two separate Obama-inspired leftist programs, I forced the NAACP to remove a rabidly racist and anti-Jewish official, I exposed a DHS/DOJ program instructing law enforcement officials to obey Islamic gender Apartheid, I revealed that the new SoCal Edison legal counsel was a suicide bombing proponent, I publicly humiliated Noam Chomsky, I had my work read by Limbaugh and featured on FNC, and, all totaled, my viral videos got about 5,000,000 views. I was called a “fucking retard” by the organizer of the PBS “Million Muppet March,” a “no-name asshat” by Pam Geller and Robert Spencer, and a “fagatronic craphole” by the blogger “Warchick.”

Good times indeed.

But it makes no sense for me to call myself the “Republican Party Animal” anymore, as I have been banned from all local GOP organizations and similar groups. It’s time to wind down this blog, and, on January 1st, there’ll be something entirely new here, a combination of shameless promotions for my book, political commentary, shameless book promotions, a podcast, and book promotions that might be seen as shameless.

So here be my final blog entry as David Stein the Republican Party Animal. And it’s about my cat. I need to exit on something good and pure. 2013 brought a lot of nastiness into my life. In the space of this one foul year, I saw more of the ugly side of humankind than I’d ever seen before. And back in 1994, people were actually trying to kill me. Yet, oddly, I respect those folks more than I do the cowards, weaklings, morons, feebles, back-biters, and malevolent schemers that abandoned me this year.

But those names and details are best left for my book (wait, I’m not supposed to be shamelessly promoting yet). The more important personal earthquake that hit my life this year was the loss of my 17-year-old cat Simon. He was probably about 11 months old when he followed me home from a park in May 1998, so I think he was about 17 when he passed in October.

When I found him, I was walking through a local park late one night with the young lady who was living with me at the time, and this massive young tabby came running up to us, meowing up a storm. He was a stray, and he needed a friend. He followed us back, about three-quarters of a mile, to my house, never leaving our side. We called him “Simon” because, much like “Simon Says,” he would do whatever you asked him to do. I’ve had cats my entire life, and most were contrarian by nature. Not Simon. He only wanted to make people happy.

Simon exemplified everything that is decent about this world. He was exactly what a cat should be. Loving and affectionate indoors, a fierce mouser and territorially protective guardian outside. He loved children, he was never finicky about food, he never threw up (for you non-cat owners, let me tell you — cats and vomit can be a major issue), and he loved nothing more than to park his 16-pound frame on my lap.

In 16 years, I never had to say “bad cat.” Not once. And in 16 years he never smacked a human, even if he was distressed (like having a bath or being taken to the vet). He used his massive paws in the most prehensile way I’d ever seen in a cat, holding people’s fingers, or – as in the picture below – holding a flower.

I only raised my voice to him one time. It was summer 2012, and I’d just realized that I’d been taken to the cleaners by the foul young lady who would end up ending my Republican Party Animal days. It was 4am and I was drunk and pissed off. As I was getting ready for bed, Simon got underfoot and I nearly tripped. I yelled, mainly because I had a great deal of anger inside me about other things. Simon’s reaction wasn’t to run or cower. He jumped up on the bed and purred alongside me until I fell asleep. He sensed that I was in pain, and he knew what to do.

Now, the thing about when a pet passes away is that it never really has the same meaning to other people that is has to the pet’s owner. You can feel bad for a friend who loses a pet, but it’s only the person or persons who had the daily bond with the animal who truly feel it. That’s why talking about a pet is like showing baby pictures. It has way more import to the person doing the showing and telling.

But there’s a story about Simon that I want to blast into the webnetosphere before I abandon this blog. Simon deserves to have this story preserved. Because as much as he provided me with 16 wonderful years, he also saved a bunch of people from a fire.

True story: When I found Simon, it was obvious that he was extremely comfortable with people. And he knew how to use a litterbox. So I assumed he might have wandered away from someone else’s home.

I put an ad in the L.A. Times’ found animal section. I withheld a specific detail – the unique polka-dot pattern on his belly, because that unique descriptive feature would help me know if the actual owner called.

I fielded a good dozen calls, but none of the people searching for lost pets described him correctly. Until the call from a woman in Canoga Park (a neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley). She described him to a tee; his age, his color, and the polka-dot pattern. She told me her story. She and her husband lived in a run-down welfare motel. The owner was rigid about no pets. A few months ago, the couple found a kitten. They named him “Gray Dog,” for his marble-gray coat (Simon’s more traditional orange tabby colors didn’t come in until after he was a year old), and for his amazing ability to follow commands like a dog.

They successfully hid him from the motel owner, until one night, when a fire started on the motel’s second level. “Gray Dog” meowed and meowed to wake the couple up, and when they opened the door, he charged out and began meowing at the doors of the other rooms. He kept going back and forth meowing frantically, as the residents woke and came outside.

Nobody was hurt. And the next day, the cat vanished.

My guess was that the motel owner drove him to the Westside (if you try to drop a cat off too close to where it’s staked out a home, it can find its way back). Parks are often used as places to abandon cats, so I assumed that the owner let Simon go in the large park where I found him. And there he stayed, looking for a new family.

I asked the woman in Canoga Park if she wanted him back, and she told me there’d be no point to it, as the owner would only get rid of him again. So it was agreed; “Gray Dog,” now Simon, was mine.

Two different couples – the man and woman in the Valley and me and my lady-friend, both – independently of each other – gave this special cat a name indicative of his intelligence, obedience, and loyalty.

After 16 years of love and service, Simon left this world on October 22. His kidneys were failing, and none of the treatments the vet and I were giving him could make a difference. The final night, I sat with him on our favorite chair, watching “Boardwalk Empire,” a show we’d always watched together. After the show, I held him for a while as I felt his breathing become labored. I sat him next to me and we held hands. He went painlessly, knowing he was loved and cherished. I lost my best friend, and the world lost a hell of a good cat.

And on that note, I will see you all at my new site.




3 Responses to “As the Republican Party Animal Says Goodbye, a Final Post: A Cat Tale that Deserves to Be Told”
  1. OldManC says:

    That’s a beautiful tribute to an awesome kitty. I’m sorry he’s gone but I’m glad he got to have a good life with you.

    Can’t wait for the new site and the book.

  2. Shoop says:

    Bless you and Simon!!! >–<It was an honor to have met the fur kid and an honor to know you! <3

  3. This is another thing my fellow Revisionist Dave Cole/Stein and I have in common, cats. He was great cat. I’ve had make it to 176 or 17 and spend bsically their whole lives with me. Great story, Dave…our friend Bradley R. Smith says Hi – to both of us. Peace! – R.A.S.

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