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| The General on the porch in Lemonstar 2012 |
A feline of immeasurable dignity, loyalty, savvy, unapologetic laziness, and limited mousing skills, The Little General lived an improbably long life of eighteen and a half years. During that time he transitioned from sassy kitten to rambunctious youth to moderately playful middle age and finally to venerable elder, wise and noble and confident in his fur.
Henri was a consistently encouraging presence (when he wasn't sleeping), often took a keen interest in the day's ride, and was, interestingly, a connoisseur of tires. While I would busy myself gearing up, Henri would carefully inspect my tires, paying particular attention to the front tire and rubbing it enthusiastically with his fluffy cheeks to check for flaws and tread wear. When he deemed the tires fit for riding, he would nonchalantly saunter away with the air of satisfaction in a job well done.
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| Checking the tires and blessing the ride |
Of course, Le Petit General could frustrate as well. All day, while I worked at home impatiently waiting for the time to sign out and hit the road, Henri would sleep. All day he demonstrated no interest in the great outdoors. But as soon as I started getting my gear together he would rise, stretch languidly and mosey over to the sliding door to the back deck and casually paw the glass to say "Uhm, Monsieur Dubstoevsky, I would like to take some sun on the back deck now, if you don't mind."
Of course I DID mind because he could not be left outside alone while I rode. So I either ignored his command (wracked with guilt), or I succumbed and let him out and waited around for him to get his fill of the sun or the fresh air or until his thoughts turned to food. Or perhaps some indoor yoga.
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| Henri in nautilus pose |
Sometimes he would disappear when I was filling my water bottles or fine tuning my bike. Then I would mutter curses and stalk around the yard calling for him, looking in the bushes, under the deck, across the street. I would imagine the worst - he'd run away, he'd been hit by a car a block away, he'd fallen asleep in the neighbor's basement and been shut in. Most of the time he was probably just laying low in the bushes chuckling to himself while I stumped around making that silly puckered-lips sound that people make to call cats.
He was steeped in independence and full of himself and surely aware that no matter how annoyed or angry I got, all it would take for forgiveness was for him to come racing across the lawn like a miniature tiger, bound up the deck stairs and in the back door and stand by his food dish looking up at me expectantly and twitching his tail.
As a kitten he pulled over a Christmas tree in playful frenzy. He sassed back.
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| The early years |
There were years of rambunctious energy, wild abandon. He was a great tiger, a stalking king. He learned the ways of the peloton. He chased small balled-up pieces of paper as if they were alive. He ruled the yard in Lemonstar and eventually developed such cycling acumen that he attracted a small cadre of devout cyclists who paid heed his every twitch and stare.
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| The Wise One |
Eventually he became an elder, one who did strange things and practiced odd rituals. We wondered what he knew, how much he sensed.
As a cyclist, I listened to his gaze, his expression, his vibe, and I took his counsel before each ride. Vaingloriously, I pictured us as Ali and Dundee. He was the wizened sage, the veteran, the been-there-done-that wisdom cat, the visionary. And I was his enthusiastic acolyte. I wanted to make every ride a century.
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| The Acolyte and the Master |
Who knows what depths of sloth he plumbed? What rapturously vague places of warm inertia? He was a singular being, a repository of ancient knowing and soulful affection. He will forever be The Little General on my left shoulder whispering confidences and encouragement in my ear as I ride. Captain, oh my captain.
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| Zen mode 2010 |
