Ten things I know…

I don’t want to spend too much time on this, but I feel that I should encourage potential pet owners to adopt from your local shelter. The Humane Society of the United States estimates that 3-4 million cats and dogs are put to death every year in the United States alone. Stop for a moment and try to imagine that: that is a number larger than the population of many major world cities. You do not need to pay huge amounts of money to breeders (many of whom breed and raise animals in very inhumane conditions, no matter what they tell you) for a purebred animal; an animal that comes with papers will not love you any more than an animal from a shelter. Besides, the HSUS also estimates that 25% of the dogs in shelters in America are purebred.

Please also consider trimming your pets’ nails instead of having them declawed. A little research will show you that declawing is a crippling operation, and an improper declawing procedure can cause your pet pain and trauma for life.

The pictures in this post don’t do Missy justice, especially to her huge, lovely eyes. I grabbed an ancient digital camera and snapped off a few shots, but she wasn’t in a photo taking mood.

I’m a dog person, through-and-through. I always have been. That’s not to say I don’t like other animals, because I do. I grew up in South Florida and, as I often joke with my girlfriend, in South Florida, if you want a pet, you just open your door and wait for one to come in. In fact, I’m back in South Florida after a sixteen year hiatus from the state, and my girlfriend and I have already acquired a second cat using pretty much the method I mentioned in the last sentence.

Anyway, I’m a dog person. I’ve owned literally dozens of cats, dogs, birds, and fish in my life, but I’ve always bonded most closely with the dogs, enjoying their warmth and open affection. I like having an animal companion who seems genuinely happy when I come home, even if it’s not feeding time. I like having a pet who wants to romp and play and who sleeps at the foot of my bed just to be near me. Given my ‘druthers, I’d have a dog, and a big one at that. I like Collies and Irish Wolf Hounds and other strong, bulky dogs, the kind of dogs that walk you.

I have a cat. Good Lord, I have two cats. For now, we’ll only talk about Missy.

My girlfriend never had a pet as a child, at least not a furry one; her mother kept some fish, but fish aren’t terribly cuddly. My girlfriend often expressed her desire to have a cat after we moved in together, but the time never seemed right. Our first apartment was a dive and we were barely scraping by. Our next apartment was much nicer, but by then, the whole idea of adopting a cat had become intellectual; we’d discussed and rejected it so many times, that we’d forgotten it was a real possibility. Besides, I’m a dog person.

We were fighting, who knows what about. We’d been having one of those stubborn silent periods where we just huffed at each other and infused our movements with anger, never simply picking up an item, always snatching it. Those of you have been in long-term relationships know exactly what I mean. I have no idea what possessed me to do it, maybe it was a subconscious effort at reconciliation, or maybe I just wanted an animal around the house, but I grumpily offered to head down to the shelter and have a look at the cats. She grumpily agreed and we had a few more petty exchanges over how fast the other was moving, or whatever lame things we could think of to argue over, and we headed down to the local no-kill facility.

By the time we got the the animal shelter, I was actually feeling a tiny bit excited. I do love having pets, and it had been years since I’d had one of my own. In we went, and, while the place was nice enough, it’s almost impossible for me not to feel a little depressed in these pet prisons. I actively avoid pet stores because the cramped conditions for the animals really bother me. After a brief discussion with the staff, we went into the cat room to have a look around. I’m a big boy (north of 6′5″ if I’m in thick-soled shoes, and north of 300lbs all the time) and this was a small room. My girlfriend and I could just fit in the aisle between the cages that lined the walls. There were all kinds of cats, but no kittens. Kittens and puppies are like blond-haired, blue-eyed babies in the adoption world: long on demand and short on supply. There was a cat with one eye, who we may very well have taken home out of pity and a fear that no one else would have him, but the shelter staff assured us there were other people interested in him. There was a cat with an incredible jet-black coat of long, glossy fur. There were fat cats, and a few skinny ones; cats that were sleeping, cats that were meowing, cats that were prowling restlessly around, and cats that were sniffing other cats through the bars. There was only one cat who reached her paw through the cage bars and grabbed my sunglasses and belt loop, though, and she’s the one we took home.

Missy was trouble from day one; she doesn’t squat when she uses the box, she doesn’t bury what she leaves, she sometimes pees and poops outside of her box even when the box is immaculate, and she ruined an entire bed by repeatedly urinating on it. Some of this improved when we discovered she had bladder crystals and got her a surgery to get rid of them, but the behavior never completely disappeared. Missy can also be downright ornery. Missy does not like to be picked up and is not a lap cat, which was very disappointing to my girlfriend, she doesn’t like to eat out of our hands, and she is not particularly inclined to playfulness. I’ve always had a way with animals and I treated Missy in the way that came naturally to me. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve just expected animals to like me and they always have, and Missy is no exception. Over the weeks and months after we brought Missy home, I made it clear to Missy that I was the boss and wouldn’t be bullied and she eventually came to accept and even enjoy the arrangement. When we took Missy for her first visit to the vet, the vet’s assistant was impressed with the way Missy went from a frightened, spitting cat that wouldn’t come out of the corner to docile and purring just by introducing my presence to the room. “Wow, she’s daddy’s girl, isn’t she?” My girlfriend rejected all my advice on the matter of the cat and to this day doesn’t have nearly as good a relationship with Missy as I do.

Missy is a big cat, over ten pounds when we got her, although she dropped a little of that once she was no longer confined to a cage at the animal shelter. She’s also four-paw declawed, which is how she was when we got her. I didn’t think much of Missy’s looks when we adopted her; she just seemed like a fat cat with a standard black-and-gray coat and nothing special to make her stand out. When I look at her now, I can’t believe I ever thought that. For one thing, Missy has some of the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on a house cat; huge, round eyes set into shallow eye sockets. Her whiskers are long and elegant, sprouting from an attractive muzzle. The little black spot on the end of her nose, which I initially thought of as a blemish, now strikes me as a beautiful feature that adds character to an already unique face. Missy’s body shape, which my girlfriend and I always jokingly referred to as “fat” now looks regal and strong to me.

Missy and I have evolved a pleasant relationship over the years. I leave her alone the vast majority of the time, and when I’m up late at night working on this computer, she perches behind my head and keeps silent company with me. Every once in a while, she comes down off the back of the couch that I sit on to use the computer, and puts her paws on my chest, kneading and butting me with her head. Then, she curls up next to me and I stop what I am doing to pet her, so I can hear her purr. Missy’s purr all by itself makes up for almost everything she’s ever done to cause me grief. Missy has a loud, deep purr that rumbles her whole body and can be heard from halfway across a room. I find myself petting Missy for extended periods of time just so she won’t stop purring.

I wrote this essay because, lately, I’ve been finding myself struck more and more often with how beautiful a cat Missy is, and how well she fits my personality. Yes, I still love a rambunctious dog who wants to play tug-o-war and wrestle and fetch, but I also enjoy the low-maintenance relationship I have with Missy. After nearly six years of Missy’s company, as she approaches her dotage, I am finally starting to really enjoy her as she is. I’ve also been struck very often lately with how much it’s going to hurt to let her go when the time comes. Missy has been in my life for so long, it seems like she’s always been there. Missy has lived with myself and my girlfriend in three cities in three states from the snowy midwest to the Nevada high desert and now on the Atlantic coast. Some awful things have happened in my life during that time, and some good ones, as well. Missy has been silent witness to all of it, always watching quietly from some corner of the room. Missy knows all our secrets, has seen us at our best and our worst. Whatever I do, good or bad, Missy just takes it in with those incredible eyes of hers and, when she feels the urge, she curls up next to me and purrs and makes me glad that she’s here.

I’m a dog person, through-and-through, but I love my cat.

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The Nuts

I’m standing in the poker room at the MGM Grand, looking up at the boards that display which games are going. I’ve been spending a lot of time at the MGM, lately, hoping to close out 2006 with a bang. It’s 1:00am and the December weather is chilly by Las Vegas standards. My cheeks still have a bit of flush from the wind chill outside and I feel good, energetic and invigorated by the cold. I see the game I’ve been looking for flash up on the board: $5/$10 no limit Texas Hold’em, one seat open. I make my way up to the desk to reserve the open seat then head to the cage to get chips. As the cashier finishes counting my money and pushes fifteen-hundred dollars in chips my way, I take a look around. The room is pretty busy for a Thursday night and the atmosphere is pleasant. Tonight, for the moment at least, the gamblers are happy. I don’t hear anyone arguing about who has to show his hand first or whining about the bad beat he just took. This is a good sign in my book; I prefer my work environment to be calm and happy.

I run a finger down the rack of red chips on the counter in front of me and cut the stack of black, verifying that it’s all there, then I slide the rack off the pass-through, grab the stack of hundreds with my other hand, thank the cashier, and head off to find my table. I spot the game almost immediately, just around the corner from the cage. The table looks lively, borderline rowdy, but in a good way. The kid in the six seat, the kind a lot of us refer to as an “internet player”, is banging his hands and making a whooping noise as a sizable mound of red and green chips is pushed his way by the dealer. The woman in the seven seat, mid-fifties with expensive looking earrings and a chest that is probably younger than any of her children, is smiling and congratulating the kid on his win and everyone seems to be having a good time. The rest of the players at the table are swigging their drinks or talking loudly about the hand that has just finished. There is plenty of money on the table and I grin to myself, anticipating that I might get to play a really big pot or two, tonight. I empty my chip rack in front of the vacant four seat, set down my stack of black and settle into the chair, ready for another night at the office.

Television and movies make poker look glamorous. There is always a huge hand in progress, multiple players throwing money in the middle, stacks of ten-thousand-dollar chips being pushed around like they mean nothing. There’s always a million dollars on the line, else it’s the glory of being a champion or the satisfaction of punishing a player who has done you wrong. People like me who play to make rent and keep shoes on our feet know better: poker is a grind. For most of us, there will be no million dollar pots, no glory, and no avenging past wrongs. When you grind mid-limit poker, your job is to get your money in as a favorite over and over and over again, and let the math work itself out in the long run. That’s what I am here to do, tonight.

In less than an orbit, it is obvious who tonight’s game is built around. In the nine seat, two to the right of the dealer, is an Asian gentleman in a business suit and tie, who I privately nickname the Korean. The Korean has a huge front yard, easily $7,000, and is not afraid to put it in play. I wait for the button to go around before I post my blind and while I wait, I sit back and observe the game. The Korean plays hand after hand as I watch, raising, calling, and re-raising pre-flop, splashing around wildly post-flop, using his stack to bully the more timid players. I wait seven hands for the blind to come around the Koran is in all seven, winning three without a showdown and winning one when his deuce-five rivers a gutshot straight to crack internet kid’s pocket Kings. I’ve seen this type of player many times and I know the Korean is not here to win, he is here for the action.

I am running well and playing well, a great combination. I recognize two other pros at the table but they both seem to be off their games and I am having no trouble outplaying them. The rest of the players are unremarkable, neither great nor terrible but, in any case, no real threat to me. Two o’clock comes and goes, then three. I win a little, I lose a little, I win a little more, but I don’t get to play any big pots against the Korean. Once or twice I play back at him with mediocre hands and he either folds or comes over the top, forcing me to go away. The table stays jovial, even the other two pros are drinking and laughing it up. I stick to ginger ale and wait for my shot at the Korean’s stack, the size of which is fluctuating wildly up and down due to his kamikaze style of play. I don’t want to stand out or be perceived as a nit, though, so I join in the banter and crack a joke or two. I even pass a few words with the Korean who, it turns out, is Korean and is here on some kind of business trip. I am having a good time, but rent is due and I don’t forget why I am here.

I spend the whole morning grinding out small wins, fifty dollars here, two hundred dollars there, nothing spectacular, but it’s a living. The Korean is showing no signs of slowing down and I’m not going anywhere as long as he has money. As we come up on noon, the game, which has just barely kept itself alive through the morning, starts to pick up again. I feel a sense of foreboding. I’ve been winning slowly but steadily all night and I have over $3,000 in front of me. I could leave now and call it a good night, but I want the Korean’s money. As a poker player, it’s hard to leave when a game is juicy and as long as the Korean is sitting here jamming pots, this game is very juicy.

Suddenly, my ride is very bumpy. I am catching cards and playing in pot after pot, but the cards are not holding up. I watch hundreds of dollars fly off my stack, landing in the hands of my opponents. I play my best but it just isn’t good enough, I am being forced to fold my hands and when I do make it to showdown, I am second best. I take a quick count of my stack and, instead of $3,600, I have only $2,200. It is now two o’clock in the afternoon and I decide to take a break. As I am eating my club sandwich, I tell myself I’ll just play for another hour and then pack it in. I head back to the table, feeling a little better, and I immediately start catching cards and winning again. The Korean and I steamroll the table, we are both briefly invincible. I enjoy my rush for nearly an hour and let the Korean enjoy his, neither of us getting involved in pots with the other.

It’s four in the afternoon and I have just about convinced myself to go home when the hand I’ve been waiting for all night finally happens. The first player into the pot raises to $30 and the Korean pops it up to $80. This is completely standard for the Korean and could be literally any two cards. The action folds to me on the button. I look at the Korean for a moment then I squeeze my hole cards and see a beautiful sight: bullets. I have two Aces, the very best possible hand you can hold before the flop in Texas Hold’em poker. I re-raise to $200 and both blinds plus the the initial raiser go away. The Korean glances at me for perhaps half a second then calls my re-raise. I have about $3,500 in my stack and the Korean has me covered. The flop comes down Ace, five, seven. I have flopped a set of Aces. My three Aces are the best possible hand at this point, there is no combination of cards the Korean can have that beat me. Yet, the Korean bets $200 into me. Maybe my opponent is bluffing, maybe he also has an Ace in his hand or maybe he has something like two Queens and is just testing the water. Whatever he has, I have the best hand and I am not going to get fancy, here. The Korean likes to throw money around, so I give him a chance to do so. I raise to $600. The Korean shuffles his checks for a few seconds then calls. The turn is a three of diamonds, which does not complete a flush draw. The Korean checks and I bet $900. With no hesitation, the Korean announces, “I’m all in.” My heart jumps and I feel a little sick to my stomach. I no longer have the best possible hand. The Korean is capable of having any two cards at any time and both four-six and two-four have just made a straight with the three that fell on the turn. Time seems to have dilated for me and I am reviewing the situation, going over each street in my head, trying hard to sort the information. I am staring at the Korean, hoping to pick up a tell. Mostly, though, I am kicking myself not leaving the table five minutes ago. Could my opponent be bluffing? Could my opponent have a straight? Could my opponent have something less than three Aces but still believe he has the best hand? To call the Korean will cost me everything I have left in my stack. I started this hand with almost $3,800 and if I make the wrong decision, I could be going home with nothing. I ponder and ponder, trying to find a way to get away from my hand but I just can’t do it. The Korean is way too chaotic and there are only two hands that beat me. I make my decision.

“I call, what do you have?”

“The nuts,” the Korean grins and slaps his cards face-up on the felt: four-six off-suit.

The Korean has a seven-high straight, the nuts, the best possible hand at that point. I can still win if the board pairs, giving me a full house or better, but I don’t believe for one second that it will. As soon as I see the Korean’s hand, a realization sweeps over me, something that has been rolling around in the back of my head and beneath the surface of my life for months: I don’t want to do this, anymore. I am tired of the stress, the extreme highs and lows, the hours of boredom followed by the seconds of sheer, indescribable terror while I wait to find out whether the odds will hold up or whether my opponent will hit a 22:1 shot and break me. Poker makes a fantastic hobby but a lousy job.

Ever the professional, I congratulate the Korean on his win and put another thousand dollars in play. My heart isn’t in it, though. I am tired both physically and emotionally. For the moment, at least, I don’t have the killer instinct. I feel drained and disheartened. My mind wanders from the poker table to, well, just about anywhere else in the world. It’s only been half an hour since the Korean broke me but I have had enough for the day. I play a few more hands, win a few, lose a few, then I get up to leave. I wish everyone good luck and head to the cage to cash out what I have left.

On the way out of the casino, I drop seventy-five cents in a poker-themed quarter slot machine and pull the handle. I hit some kind of combination that sends me to a bonus game where I get dealt three Aces and lose to a straight. I am nearly doubled over in laughter as I stagger my way to the garage elevators. I couldn’t have written a more perfect ending to the night if someone had paid me to do so.

I’m getting into my car, now, reflecting on my two-plus years as a professional poker player. The poker life is an interesting one, fraught with danger and excitement, and I’ve had a lot of fun with it. Poker is not the job for me, though, at least not right now. Right now, I am thinking about my new GED and wondering what it costs to go to school here in southern Nevada. By the time I am on the road, I’ve decided to find out.

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