Daddy's Little Fatty

Hank Williams — "Roly Poly" (1958)

Otis Levon Epstein loved to eat.

I mean, most cats love to eat, but Otis really loved to eat. He rarely turned his pink and freckled nose up at any cat food that was placed before him, store-bought or vet-prescribed, and he was almost always the first to the bowls at mealtime.

Back in 2012, when we adopted Otis as a kitten, my ex and I were living in a lovely if slightly dilapidated Craftsman cottage in the hills of L.A.’s Elysian Heights neighborhood. The unevenness of the land it sat upon meant that the kitchen and dining room were elevated four feet above the rest of the house, with a short staircase connecting the two. Every morning, as I ascended those stairs on the way to the kitchen, a small orange-and-white blur would hurtle past me on my right. It was Otis, making sure he was first in line when I doled out the kibble.

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Over time, that orange-and-white blur grew considerably larger, and the image it would conjure in my mind’s eye was of one of those multi-colored Nerf footballs from my childhood, spiraling past me as I ran a half-assed receiver pattern on the grounds of Ann Arbor’s Burns Park. On many of those L.A. mornings, I would turn and try to intercept the “Nerf” as he rocketed by, but I could never get the timing just right.

Otis loved a lot of things in addition to food: His big brother Oscar, who adored Otis and doted on him almost as soon as we brought him through the door for the first time. His mama Katie, who (I have to admit) was the one who convinced me that we should adopt him; I thought Oscar needed an older companion, not a wild and crazy kitten, but ultimately Otis (known at the shelter as “George”) was just too ridiculously adorable to leave at the LASPCA.

He loved watching birds through the window, sleeping in a good sun patch, playing with his cat-dancer, hanging out in the boys’ cat tower, getting his chin scratched and belly rubbed, and lugging a giant catnip carrot from room to room, the latter endeavor usually meant as some sort of offering to me. Because of all the things Otis loved, I can say without ego or exaggeration that it was me he loved the most.

Most of the cats I’ve had over the years have had their own agenda — they’re friendly and cuddly when they want to be (or want something), but mostly they’re content to do their own thing. But the two orange-and-white cats that have been part of my life (Mentos, who was with me from 1995 to 2007, and Otis) made it very clear that I was their agenda. Otis and I were practically glued to the hip from his first days in our house, and he would usually find some way to be at my side, in my lap or tucked inside the crook of my elbow regardless of what I was doing at the time.

Otis regularly “crashed” my Zoom meetings and interviews, usually to the considerable amusement of whomever I was speaking with at that moment, and there were countless times were he would sit in my lap or perch upon the back of my desk chair while I was writing. If I was working outside in the garden, or reading out on my deck, he would sit in the window and complain bitterly until I finally came back inside. At night, he would usually sleep curled up next to my head on the pillow, on a cat bed by my feet, or firmly ensconced between my knees. He was very sweet to his mama, his grandmas and many others as well, but there was no question that he was “Daddy’s Boy”.

Otis was extremely sensitive, and he could be easily spooked by an unexpected noise or the arrival of an unfamiliar person. But when he was happy — which was often — he wasn’t shy about expressing it, often in the form of a dance that we came to call “The Roly Poly”. This involved him slowly and dramatically flopping from a standing position down onto his side, and then gleefully rolling back and forth on his back three or four times, legs and paws waving wildly in the air. He sometimes did this in celebration of seeing me walk through the door, and it was just about the cutest, funniest, most heart-filling thing ever.

This dance, combined with the pounds this growing boy was swiftly putting on, made me think of the Hank Williams song “Roly Poly,” and I’d often sing the chorus to him while he was flopping around on the floor:

Roly Poly

Daddy’s Little Fatty

Bet he’s gonna be a man someday

Like a lot of folks my age who discovered the brilliance of Hank Williams during the 1980s, I was initially drawn to the darker corners of his legacy — haunted and haunting songs like “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” “Lost Highway” and “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive,” the kind of things that seemed particularly appropriate to a country legend who died under mysterious circumstances in the back of a Cadillac at the age of 29. But as I got more familiar with his catalog, I realized that Hank was just as good at writing and singing songs that celebrated life’s simple joys as we was at documenting life’s never-ending struggles.

“Roly Poly” wasn’t from Hank’s own pen — it was written by Fred Rose in the mid 1940s, and originally recorded by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys — but Hank’s version of the song (the one released five years after his death, which was overdubbed with full band and a Red Garland guitar solo) was the first one I ever heard, and I was completely charmed by the paternal pride he exuded over his son’s hearty appetite.

I’ve never had any human children, but I’ve felt a similar sense of pride about my various cats. When we lived in Chicago, Otis and Oscar used to sit in the open windows during the summer, just high enough off the street in our first-floor apartment to be seen and admired by folks strolling to and from Clark Street along Berwyn Avenue. My office desk was just far enough back from the windows that people couldn’t see me, but I could still hear them talking to the boys, cooing at them and complimenting them while the boys meowed and quacked back. It was incredibly precious, and made me irrationally proud.

Otis eventually grew out of being Daddy’s Little Fatty, slimming down so slowly and imperceptibly over the years that it took perhaps longer than it should have for me to realize that he was dealing with various health issues. His appetite rarely seemed diminished — even if he’d just had dinner, the sound of a can being opened would send him running into the kitchen, yowling hungrily in hope that tuna or other canned fish would be on offer. Usually he wouldn’t leave me alone until I shared something with him… or at least put the can under his nose to prove to him that whatever I’d opened wasn’t actually his speed. (“No, Orangey — cats don’t like tomato paste!”)

The last five years put us all through a wringer of challenges and changes, and sometimes I wonder if all the stress took something of a toll on this sweet, sensitive orange dude. Katie and I moved from Chicago to Greensboro, NC; we dealt with the pandemic and the loss of a couple of beloved family members; and out of the desire make something about the hellscape year of 2020 feel good, we added another orange tabby named Angus (a.k.a Tiny) to the family — an addition which Otis and Oscar grudgingly but graciously accepted.

And then Katie and I split up, which led to me moving to New York last fall and taking both Otis and Tiny with me on my 10-hour drive north. Otis started showing signs of illness shortly after our arrival in the Hudson Valley, but it took months to get it effectively diagnosed; various medications, prescription foods and other dietary changes seemed to occasionally improve things, but we couldn’t seem to turn the corner or put any real weight back on him.

I knew, on some level, that Otis was probably making his exit sooner than later; but after a couple of fairly traumatic vet visits this spring and summer, I promised Otis (and myself) that I would not subject him to any continued poking and prodding or hospitalization — if he was going to transition out of this life, I wanted him to spend his last months feeling happy and comfortable and safe with me, rather than being completely stressed out by constant car rides and vet appointments. I would do whatever I could to get him to eat the right food and take the right meds, but things like driving an hour and a half to Albany for scans (as one vet suggested I do) were completely out of the question.

Still, even as it broke my heart these last few months to feel his spine and shoulder blades through his fur whenever I petted him, Otis’s behavior never really changed, so I thought he still had a fighting chance to get better. He still loved to eat (especially the boiled chicken and broth that I’d added to his diet to help with his anemia), still loved to play, still loved to hop up on my lap, still even loved to do The Roly Poly now and again. Once we’d gotten settled, he seemed very content in our new apartment, which offered him several big windows to hang out in, and various sunny spots in which to luxuriate during the day.

Our new life at the base of the Shawangunk Mountains meant a lot fewer visitors than we were used to, but he still loved to be social whenever folks did come over. I knew he’d taken a liking to my girlfriend Shannon once he started regularly sitting next to her on the arm of my couch; occasionally he’d walk over her lap to get to me, but then he’d always go back to her side and angle for some more petting.

Otis and Tiny had a hilarious relationship from the beginning, which further evolved once it was just the three of us. Otis, eight years older, usually acted like he was greatly annoyed by Tiny’s young whippersnapper antics — especially Tiny’s desire to wrestle with him as dinner was being served — but they were still pretty much inseparable, often sleeping just inches away from each other at night or while I worked. Sometimes they would even clamber onto my lap together when I was sitting on the couch or in my favorite chair; to be “oranged” like that was just the best.

The two of them would always greet me together at the door when I came home, and when only Tiny showed up when I returned on Sunday afternoon I knew something was wrong. I found Otis under my bed, and quickly realized that it was “time”. In a perfect world, I would have had someone come to the house to help with his transition; but no such services were available in our area without an appointment, and he was in such obvious discomfort that I knew I had to drive him to an emergency vet immediately.

Letting Otis go was one of the hardest, saddest things I’ve ever had to do. He was my best buddy for 11 years, sticking quite literally by my side as I wrote several books and countless articles, composed music, conducted interviews, or just hung out reading books, listening to records and watching movies. He lived with me in five different cities and towns at six different addresses, and provided me with endless love, sweetness, laughs, soulful companionship and emotional support in some of my darkest hours. And that was all way more than worth the deep pain and sorrow I’m feeling right now.

At the same time, I feel so grateful that I was able to hold my precious boy in my arms, cuddle him and kiss his sweet orange head as he closed those gorgeous green eyes and headed Rainbow Bridge-ward. I had been so worried that I would come home one day and find him gone, without having been able to offer him love and comfort in his final moments. That would have just been unbearable; but the fates thankfully decreed that I could be there for him, tell him everything that was in my heart, and softly sing “Roly Poly” to him one more time. It had been years since he was Daddy’s Little Fatty, but he was Daddy’s Boy to the end — and he always will be.

Fly on, my sweet Orangel. I will love, remember and miss you forever.

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If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you loved Otis, in person or from afar, thank you as well — he loved you, too. Under better circumstances, I would ask that you honor his passing by making a donation in his name to an animal charity of your choice; but as covering all of his treatments, meds and special food this year (and now his cremation and final vet bill) has left me fairly skint, as my British friends might say, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d consider becoming a paid Jagged Time Lapse subscriber.

I could set up a GoFundMe, I know, but I’d rather give something back in return. And for just $5 a month (or $4.17 if you opt for the annual JTL subscription) you’ll get lots of entertaining and enlightening music writing from me — stuff you won’t find anywhere else, plus some exclusive audio and video features that I’m in the process of cooking up — and you’ll help defray the final costs of Otis’s care while helping me and Tiny through this sorrowful time. We would be ever so grateful for your support.

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