Pittsburgh News, Ray Mernagh

MY HOOPS BUDDY COCO

by RAY MERNAGH

I still remember the look on my buddy Doug’s face when I answered the door that summer morning.

His glasses couldn’t hide the tears trying to escape the corner of his eyes as he tried to tell me what was wrong, “I lost my best friend this morning.”

I remember thinking two things inside my nine-year-old brain — where did he go and, wait a minute, I thought I was your best friend. My look made him explain it in what he thought were clearer terms, only he failed to grasp how focused I was on A) the bacon in my mouth B) getting back to the family room to the three pieces I left on my plate and C) watching the rest of the Wimbledon Final between Bjorn Borg and whoever he was beating that year. You see, Breakfast at Wimbledon wasn’t just a TV promotion in my family’s home on Cypress Street, we literally had breakfast while watching the championship every July.

“My best friend died,” he said.

Nothing but more bacon crunching.

“Boots died Ray, he got hit by a car.”

Boots was Doug’s cat, and evidently, his best friend. I wasn’t a cat guy (allergies) but I expressed my sympathy to the kid who was 3-4 years older than me and invited him into the family room. Upon entering I figured I’d take care of any potential misunderstandings before they happened — “Boots died,” I announced to the crowd of 12 or so, “he got hit by a car.”

Thankfully my older sisters were a little more compassionate and immediately starting consoling Doug as he talked about Boots. How he’d found him on Romance Road that morning after he failed to come home the night before. My mom offered Doug a plate full of bacon and sausage, while my brother Jim gave me a look like he wanted to smack me. I just shrugged. Like I said, I wasn’t a cat guy. You tend to run the other way when you see things that make you break out in hives and stop breathing.

Nope, had no idea where Doug was coming from.

Until the NBA Playoffs of 2002. That’s when a caramel-eyed Persian cat named Coco entered my life. I was in the middle of one of those weekend triple-headers on NBC when my girlfriend, who had recently moved in with me, opened the door to our apartment and announced “there’s no freaking way he’s living with Gary and Jill, he’s terrified of that damn dog. I have to be at work in ten minutes. We’ll figure this out when I get home.”

I heard the door slam before I could protest and watched as a little 7-pound cat with a flat face scooted out of his carrier and pranced around the room, stopping to smell just about everything. He snorted, did a little scratch thing on the carpet and then sized me up. It took him about five seconds to figure out I was the dude he had to win over if he wanted to stay in these dog-free digs and he immediately jumped right into my lap. All I heard was an extremely quiet “mouw” as he stuck his chin in the air for me to scratch under it. His meow was missing the “e” as if he was telling a secret whenever he communicated. Looking back it should’ve been obvious where our relationship was headed — all my closest friendships are usually forged through basketball and Coco watched the rest of the games with me that day.

And just like that… I was a cat guy. The plan for him to sleep downstairs lasted about 2 hours. Not sure how he did it, but he manged to get over or around the barrier that we’d set up to keep him from getting upstairs. I opened my eyes, saw his baby brown’s about an inch away, and was greeted with “mouw” — he might as well have said “you can’t stop me you can only hope to contain me” before hopping over to Janet’s side of the bed.

But the truth was I didn’t want to stop him or contain him. I played the game for a minute, asking girls at school and work if they wanted a cat, but I wasn’t giving that little guy up. In fact, I found myself thinking about him whenever I was away from home. I always got a kick out of the way he’d shoot straight up out of his position in the front window as soon as he picked me up in his vision. I couldn’t get halfway across Phillips Ave. without him hopping from ledge to ledge whispering his greeting through the bay windows.

Later, when we bought the house on Haldane, he’d pop up and repeat the routine when he saw you coming up the steps. And he wasn’t excited to eat either, at least most of the time. Nope. First he’d look up at you coming through the door — “mouw” — run right to the table and navigate his way up onto it and stick his chin up to be combed. Under his chin, on top of his head, down his body and then his tail. He’d then flip over on his back so I could get his belly. Things always wrapped up with him extending each of his front legs for a massage. First the right, then the left.

Purrrrrrrr.

The allergies were there, but I’m allergic to about 144 things, many of which I deal with every day without even knowing it. Baby Schmoop — that was my nickname for him — wasn’t even that bad on me compared to other cats. Just itchy eyes and skin every now and then, plus some sneezing that I was doing without him in the picture anyway. I learned to deal. I started getting shots again and popping the occasional Benadryl when my Allegra didn’t do the trick.

He’d sit in my lap and we’d watch hoops, the Steelers, and lots of bad TV for hours at a time. He’d start out with his face resting on my left knee (my left
shoe always rested on my right knee to create a space he liked to contour into) before eventually turning around and lying sideways along my midsection, resting the side of his face against my chest and looking up at me with his gorgeous eyes. His eyes are so beautiful. He’s so beautiful that people refused to accept he’s a male, always referring to him as she or her. I’d rub his belly until his eyes shut and he drifted off to sleep.

He’s my guy, my Coco. For the last seven years he’s been my companion and best friend, sitting on my lap as I write late into the night. When he gets tired he’ll jump down and lay at my feet. He never goes upstairs to bed until I do. Every now and then he’ll get a little cream as I have my coffee. He loves it, begs for it every time I go to get another cup. The speed with which he runs is unusual for his breed, he literally gets stuck in the threads of the blanket holes and falls over because his change of direction/cutting ability is the feline version of Barry Sanders.

But he hasn’t been able to play lately. We found out last week he had high blood pressure, heart disease and a lot of other problems. His belly had filled with fluid. He was in the hospital for three days and put on all kinds of medication for his heart, his ears and his eyes. He seemed to be making a comeback as early as this morning but made it clear to us this afternoon that the end is near.

He’s almost 14 years old.

He’s had a great life.

He’s so damn beautiful.

He never brought anything but joy to people — in fact it makes complete sense that his heart was too big.

He’s my best friend… and he just left me while sitting on my lap.

This morning I gave him a little cream and then I thought about Doug West.

Sorry man, I finally know how you felt that day.

It sucks.

Be Sociable, Share!

•