A Tale of Two Cats
Memories of Psycho and Tony
Note to my Substack readers: Until now, everything I’ve posted has been music-related. While the following article does contain paragraphs about Buckethead, the majority of it focuses on the lives of two inspirational pets.
As most full-time writers can attest, ours is a solitary profession. For hours on end we create with our imagination, inspiration, research, and hard work. We minimize distractions and focus intently to, hopefully, take readers on emotional, spiritual, and intellectual journeys.
Some of us—the lucky ones, I’d offer—have quiet, appreciative, non-intrusive friends nearby to keep us company. With the exception of a six-week period, for the past 33 years I’ve been blessed with two such companions: Psycho and Tony.
The Psycho Years, 1991-2009
During my heyday as a music magazine editor, non-writers would occasionally make comments like, “You’re so lucky! You get paid to spend all your time hanging out with rock stars and other famous musicians.” I’d respond, “Truth is, I spend 95% of my working time alone, looking at a computer screen and saying no to distractions.”
These distractions could come in many forms: drugs, sex, partying, and, perhaps most dangerous of all, the kind of praise that leads to ego-inflation. Keith Richards put this into clear perspective when I asked what he felt was the most dangerous aspect of fame. “Believing it, man,” Keith responded. “That’ll get you every time. That’s what killed Brian Jones.”
During my twenty years as an editor for Guitar Player magazine, I dutifully showed up every workday morning at 9:00 and wrote and edited copy until 5:00, with an hour or so break for lunch. Working alongside friends like Tom Wheeler, Tom Mulhern, Jon Sievert, Joe Gore, and James Rotondi often made it feel like a family affair—a very happy family, at that. But I often felt that something essential was missing during the dozen years I lived in a Cupertino, California, apartment complex that didn’t permit pets.
Growing up in Michigan, I was always around animals. My mother adored cats, and we had two of them. My father kept a pair of hunting dogs. At various times we had pet chipmunks, turtles, fish, and a rabbit named Thumper. Unable to keep pets in my college dorm or in grad school, I was glad to see our cats and dogs when I came home for holidays. On occasion in Cupertino I’d look after the occasional stray cat, but once the apartment managers spotted them the cats would disappear.
In 1991 Joe Gore made a convincing argument that he and I should move to the San Francisco office of the magazine’s parent company. My pal Jon Sievert, our staff photographer, lived in a stand-alone house on Chester Avenue in San Francisco, right off of 19th Avenue. When Jon noticed that the house across the street was about to become available, he arranged for me to rent it.
Not long after I signed the lease for 258 Chester, I went to the San Francisco SPCA. In one of the cages in the back, a white kitten with a black tail and black, Dalmatian-like spots had climbed to the top of the bars and was frantically yowling and clawing the air with one paw. In that instant, I knew he was the cat for me. I went to the front desk and told the attendant, “I want the psycho kitten.” She smiled and said, “I know just the one you mean.”
I brought the little guy home and named him Psycho. Despite the name, he turned out to be one of the most gentle, loving, and intelligent animals I’ve encountered. And what a loyal companion! Right away, we enjoyed an easy camaraderie. He trusted me.
Psycho soon became an endless source of amusement, such as when he’d stick his head under the gently flowing kitchen faucet. He also enjoyed playing a game where I’d slide my hand toward him, he’d tap it, and I’d say “Ow!” and quickly pull it back. We’d repeat this over and over, much to his delight.
Studies show that petting a cat can significantly lower our heart rate and blood pressure and help us deal with stress. When Psycho would jump up to commune with me at bedtime, I found this to be true. Focusing on him, I could push aside any troubling thoughts and easily fall asleep. This aspect of our relationship endured for all of our 17 years together.
Soon after Psycho moved in, we got a third roommate. Up until then, Brian Carroll had lived with his mom and dad in Claremont, California. We’d first met a few years earlier, when he was about 16, and immediately hit it off. Not only was Brian unusual, funny, and very likeable, he was an extraordinarily gifted and visionary guitarist. While still in Claremont, he put together a band called the Deli Creeps and came up with the crazy idea of performing with a white plastic mask covering his face and a KFC bucket atop his head. He decided to call his character “Buckethead.”
On occasion Brian would visit me in Cupertino and crash on my couch. I’d advise him when he’d ask about potential career moves. We became friends. Given his immense talent—and believe me, by then I’d seen the best of the best—I volunteered to take an active role in helping him launch his solo career. We filmed the Young Buckethead DVDs together, and I took him to meet with executives at MCA and Relativity Records.
Since there were more playing opportunities in San Francisco, I invited him to move into the large basement room of the house on Chester. He talked it over with his folks, with whom he was very close, and everyone agreed. During the many months we roomed together, Buckethead seemed to enjoy having Psycho in his life as much as I did. He nicknamed him “Psycho Buddy.” Psycho was unbothered by the sound of guitar music—good thing, because Brian played compulsively. Psycho watched us record the Acoustic Shards album in the living room. (Tony was the exact opposite—as soon as anyone would reach for a guitar, he’d run from the room.)
Around the time Brian got his own place, I began dating Michelle La Place, a warm, brilliant, lovely San Franciscan. As we drew closer as a couple, I began to think that at long last I’d found “the one.” Trouble was, I had the reputation of being a “player”—deservedly so, I reckon.
Relationship-wise, Psycho completely turned the tide in my favor. And he did it in a way that has allowed me to quip ever since that I owe the existence of our daughter, Ava, to him.
Here’s how it happened: Security bars on the front window of the Chester house allowed me to leave the window partially open. Psycho could climb in and out at will. He enjoyed roaming the street, perching under cars, climbing trees, and terrorizing gophers, which come springtime he’d bring home as trophies—his record was five in a single morning.
One cold rainy night Michelle and I were sleeping in front of the fireplace in the front room. Sometime after midnight, I heard Psycho climb through the window. He came over soaking wet. I got up, fetched a bath towel, and swaddled him. I sat him in a rocker near the fire and dried and warmed him. Unbeknownst to me, Michelle witnessed this and, she says, had a sudden revelation: “Jas would make a good father!”
This was a major—and one of the best—turning points in my life. We decided to rent a house down the peninsula in Belmont and try living together. We agreed that if we got along together for six months, we’d get married. Michelle’s cat, an older calico named Cattiva (Italian for “bad”), joined us. And so we became a quartet in our home atop a canyon. Luckily, our cats got along. Those six months were rhapsodic, and we made the commitment. Jon Sievert performed the ceremony on the balcony of our home. Eleven months later our daughter Ava was born. I felt then—and still feel today—that I’d won the lottery of life.
As all this was going on, I continued to work full-time at Guitar Player and branched into writing books. I co-authored a completed but unpublished autobiography with Carlos Santana, wrote My Son Jim with James “Al” Hendrix, and edited Rollin’ and Tumblin’: The Postwar Blues Guitarists.
As Michelle and her Sicilian mother Antoinette tended to baby and toddler Ava, I devoted most of my evenings, weekends, and holidays to book projects. Psycho kept me steady company. His favorite spot was atop my desk, in the lid of a box used to ship ten reams of Xerox paper. I lined it with a small, folded Polartec blanket and placed a banker’s lamp near its edge, to add extra warmth during cold spells.
When I was finished writing or editing in the late afternoon, I’d take a hike to decompress and clear my mind. Psycho would trot alongside me, often traveling with me for more than a mile.
In some ways, Psycho became the son I never had. He understood many words and phrases, and had a recognizable language of his own. For instance, he used different meows when he wanted water or food, when a storm was about to hit, or to indicate that his passage to the outdoors had become blocked.
Some of our friends who got to know him proclaimed him an “old soul.” They enjoyed watching me prepare his meals—including a daily dose of “real food” that humans eat—and dote on him in other ways. After a visit to our home, my pal James Rotondi announced to our office mates, “In my next life I want to come back as Jas’s cat—except for the part about being fixed!”
In 1998 I left Guitar Player. We moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan, and bought a house on the edge of a large field and forest. The near-constant din of traffic and other city sounds were replaced by birdsong and wind. With a pet door that allowed them to go outside whenever they wanted, the cats loved it there. So did I, as I settled into a life of freelance writing and part-time college instruction.
When Cattiva passed away, we went to the Ann Arbor Humane Society and let Ava chose her successor. She was transfixed by a black-and-white kitten who seemed to be dancing in her cage. Ava named her Rosa, after my cat-loving mom.
Psycho seemed to become smarter as he aged–or perhaps I just got better at understanding his meows and mannerisms. At times he was even paternal. When I felt ill or downhearted, for instance, he’d climb alongside me, place his paw on my arm, and look intently into my eyes, as if to say, “I care.”
If I had to choose a film character to compare Psycho with, it would be Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid—wise and self-contained, but someone to be reckoned with when a friend needed protection. One example: While taking an afternoon hike to the pond near our home, I saw a young guy I didn’t recognize down the street. He had a unleashed dog about the size of a German Shepherd. I yelled out, “You’d better grab your dog, or my cat might attack him.”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered with disdain. At that moment the dog noticed me and charged full-tilt, snarling and showing teeth. Suddenly a flash of white shot past me. Psycho leapt onto the dog’s face, claws out. The dog let out a piteous yelp and scurried away, Psycho in pursuit. He chased that dog clear out of sight. The young man, dumbfounded, went to find his dog and I didn’t see either of them again.
Glancing down at the scene of the attack, I found a hunk of dog fur with a broken cat nail embedded in it. That evening I treated Psycho to his favorite meal—fresh mahi, just out of the oven. He purred contentedly, knowingly, to the refrain of “You’re a hero cat!”
Nothing living lasts forever, and by the time he turned 17, Psycho had slowed down considerably. He still watched me write and joined me at bedtime every night. When he was no longer able to jump onto the bed, I built him a staircase out of boxes.
In early September 2009 his stomach began to swell and he cut back on his food intake. Concerned, we drove him to the vet on my birthday. A tumor was diagnosed and we were told that the most compassionate act would be to immediately put him to sleep. In one of the most difficult acts I’ve had to perform, I held Psycho in my arms, just like I had thousands of time before. He looked into my eyes as the injections anesthetized him and then stopped his heart.
As I drove home from the vet’s office, I turned on my car stereo. As fate would have it, the Rolling Stones’ “Almost Hear You Sigh” began to play. As I heard Mick Jagger sing the second verse, my world suddenly came crashing down:
“What’ll I do without you?
They say that life goes on
I’m feeling sorry for myself
I can’t believe you’re gone”
To this day, I still cannot listen to this song without reliving that moment.
In time, the sadness faded. But for weeks after Psycho’s departure, everywhere I turned—in our home, in the yard, in places we’d walk—I saw reminders. For years afterward, I could not enter the room at the vet’s in which he was euthanized.
I’ve come to believe that Psycho was, as they used to say in the Middle Ages, my familiar. And a loving and inspirational one at that. I was lucky indeed to have so many good years with him.
The Tony Years, 2009-2024
About six week’s after Psycho’s departure, it felt time to find another cat. Ava, by then 14, volunteered to help in the search. I hoped to find another Dalmatian cat—or Harlequin, as the breed is sometimes called. We scoured the internet for giveaways and found a listing for one on a farm in Dexter Township.
When we arrived, we were shown two young kittens. One was a Dalmatian, sure enough, and the other an orange tabby. The Dalmatian was cute and subdued. The tabby was something else entirely. He darted around the room and then attacked and chewed the edge of a corrugated paper box. Long ago my mom advised that it was best to get a cat that showed a lot of personality. Ava and I talked it over, and we came home with the tabby. Ava named him Tony.
Being a barn cat, the newest member of our family had fleas. Before bringing him indoors, we put him in a tub of warm water with a dash of Dove and combed out all the fleas. Once dried off, he leapt onto a narrow, low ledge along the porch, took a few steps, and promptly fell off. The next day he followed us to a pond in a neighbor’s yard. As Ava and I leaned on the railing of a bridge overlooking the water, Tony walked along the outside edge and tumbled into the water.
At first, little Tony seemed hopelessly uncoordinated, but he soon developed into a skilled climber and intrepid explorer. He was especially fascinated by a chimenea that he claimed as his own. When he got bigger, he scooted up trees and figured out a way to climb onto our steeply sloped first-story roof, and then the second.
During our first weeks together, he’d join the family as we watched television, tearing around the room, climbing furniture, bounding from lap to lap. A favorite memory is the time he landed on my lap, flopped over into my palm, and instantly fell asleep.
Where Psycho was like Mr. Miyagi, Tony’s closest Hollywood equivalent was James Cagney. While Psycho seemed guileless and easygoing, Tony was bold, willful, opinionated, and set in his ways. As time went on, he became almost doglike in his loyalty to a single person—me. When Michelle and Ava were combing or petting him, he would glance my way, as if to ask, “Is this okay?”
I know of only one time when he was aggressive with a human. At the time I was hosting a weekly writing seminar around the kitchen table. As an editor and professor, I’ve always preached the gospel of using the active voice wherever possible. A new attendee decided to challenge me on this, saying that someone else had told her it was better to go passive. Out of the blue, Tony came up and bit her ankle. I guess he preferred the active voice too.
Like Psycho, Tony often joined me as I wrote, lounging or sleeping in the paper-box lid under the banker’s lamp. With him a just few inches from my computer screen, I never felt a twinge of isolation or loneliness. This, in turn, allowed me to comfortably work with words six or seven hours a day. As the years rolled by, I wrote Early Blues: The First Stars of Blues Guitar, Talking Guitar, and the still-in-progress Let It Roll! The Essential Blues Sessions. Thousands of student essays and creative writing portfolios were edited, hundreds of articles written and published.
Unlike Psycho, Tony never followed me on my after-writing walks. He did have another ritual, though. On warm, sunny summer days he’d find me around 5:00 and meow at me to accompany him to a paving-stone-bordered area in the yard. It used to house a wooden play structure, which had somersaulted during a windstorm. Pea gravel covered the ground. “Tony’s Castle,” we called this area. He’d race me to his castle. Once there, he’d tuck and roll on the hot stones and then lay on his back, enjoying the feline equivalent of a hot stone massage. Invariably, he’d glance over to ensure I was watching him.
Tony hated other cats. When Rosa passed away while he was still quite young, we were unable to replace her. The vet told us that some cats are just like this—she had one at home. Whenever we heard a strange, operatic cry, we knew Tony had spotted another cat on our property. He’d bolt through his pet door and chase the trespasser away.
In his youth Tony was an avid hunter of baby rabbits, field mice, and birds. As time went on, though, he abandoned this avocation. Michelle was grateful. During the stay-at-home phase of the pandemic I installed a section of paving stones outside our kitchen’s sliding glass door and created a feeding station for bluebirds, cardinals, finches, ducks, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, deer, and any other hungry creature passing by. By then, Tony was content to watch the show. And, day or night, he was expert at avoiding the many coyotes inhabiting the large field bordering our yard. In fact, throughout his entire life he never suffered any injury.
During hot weather, he’d spend his mornings and afternoons in the two or three “apartments” he’d staked out in the foliage around our property. One of them was alongside an often-visited patch of catnip. During cold weather he hang out in my writing room and then follow me when I’d go upstairs to take a nap or call it a night. When I’d read a book before sleep, he’d rub his face against its corners. When I lay my head on the pillow, he’d stay by my side, purring until I fell asleep. Then he’d leap off the bed and go exploring.
Near first daylight, he’d return, jump up on the bed, and make barely audible meows to summon me from my dreams. In our final months together, I often awoke to the feeling of whiskers on my face. Opening my eyes, I’d see him staring at me from just two or three inches away. Such was his loyalty that I felt no concern about this.
I can honestly attest that I enjoyed every hour Tony lived with us—all 5,700+ of them. He never angered me or caused me stress. He made me a better, more disciplined writer. His presence made life fun and better, especially after Ava moved away for college, grad school, and law school. (Happily, Ava has inherited the “cat loving” gene from her mom, dad, and grandmother.) Michelle was just as attached to Tony as I was. I often overheard her telling him in a sweet voice, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Hardly an evening went by when he didn’t walk back and forth between us as we watched TV.
Even in his later years, Tony looked youthful. His weight stayed constant, and like Paul McCartney’s grandfather in A Hard Day’s Night, he was immaculately groomed. Naturally, it helped that I combed him every day with a flea comb—a ritual he cherished—although after that first day with us he never again had fleas.
In mid-March 2024 Tony began having a discharge in the corner of his eye. I took him to the vet. While there, she gave him his annual checkup, declared him healthy for a 15-year-old cat, and sent us home with eyedrops. After a few days, I noticed Tony wasn’t eating as much. I tried tempting him with his favorite foods—freshly cooked turkey and chicken, “tuna soup” (the liquid from a can of Trader Joe’s Skipjack), fish, and various flavors of canned and dried cat food. He’d nibble little bits, then walk away.
He still behaved the same, checking in with me throughout the day, napping alongside me, meowing at Michelle to pet him, doing his nightly back-and-forth and other routines. But he seemed to have the blues and began losing weight.
Michelle called the vet, who advised us to bring him in that day. I dropped Tony off, as per her instructions, and nervously awaited her phone call. About a half-hour later, the call came in: Tony had lost 12.5% of his weight in a week, and an X-ray confirmed the presence of a fast-growing, inoperable tumor that would quickly claim his life. The vet told us that it was best to end his suffering.
We sure didn’t see this coming. Michelle, who was teaching a class at the university when the call came in, met me at the vet’s office. We were given private time to say our farewells. As I warmed Tony with my hands I thanked him for being such a great companion and asked him to look for me if there is a kind of afterlife.
I kissed the top of his head as the drugs kicked in, and he was gone. I got in my car, turned on the stereo, and the first words I heard were Paul McCartney singing “Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you.”
That was less than a week ago. Since then I’ve been dealing with grief and a strong sense of loss. I know that in time, like with Psycho, the shock of Tony’s sudden passing will fade and I’ll remember the good times with a glad smile.
I suspect that a visit to the Ann Arbor Humane Society is in order after Ava graduates from Penn Law next month.
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May the memory of Tony be a blessing to all who knew him.