C-Rock is very much in his own head most of the time and doesn't always realize how gruff he can come off (or how ridiculous his mismatching clothes are, but that's a post for another time). When asked for his opinion on something, 90% of the time his answer is a predictably timed, "Ah yeah..." (So predictable I can mimic his response with the precision of a synchronized swimmer). "How does this new dress look?" "Ah yeah..." "What do you think of my new job?!" "Ah yeah..." "Check out this photo I just uploaded" "Ah yeah..." "My hair is on fire!" "Ah yeah..." WHAT THE HECK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
At any rate, C-Rock's unintentional in-eloquence puts off an air of indifference that often leaves me wishing I could hit the rewind button and master human ventriloquism. The day Casper died was just such an occasion. Nora is the prototypical Catholic mother who lives for her children even though the nest is long since empty. Empty except for the multiple aging felines leftover from when she just couldn't say no to us as children. More than that, she can't ever bring herself to put them down, so she ends up with these mangled wretches that can barely do more than breathe.
Casper was just one such wretch, poor guy, with tumors on his face and a rickety old-man walk that was jarring to see every time I'd visit home because the spritely cat I remembered could easily leap on and off our second story back porch. When he finally died, we were relieved, but Mom was understandably distraught. She had tried calling me several times, but I guess my phone was off, so she eventually called C-Rock's phone. I heard him pick up his phone from the other room, but didn't pay much attention. C-Rock uttered a few unintelligible monosyllabic grunts for a few minutes and then as I walk into the room I hear him say, "Ah yeah... I'm sorry to hear that and well... (silence) well, at least you still got the other ones there."
Somebody remind me to arrange for a eulogist in the event of my untimely death.
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