How many cats is the right number for you? Some people have difficulty knowing when to stop. Like this lady. When she got to the point that she couldn’t take 3 steps without tripping over a cat, that should have been a tipoff she had a few too many furry house guests.
As someone who’s lived with cats throughout my entire marriage (my wife required me to insert “and our cats” into my wedding vows), I often have people come up to me asking questions like, “Dude, why are you staring at me?” But sometimes they ask, “Tim, how many cats is the right number to own?” My response: “How many potato chips are you supposed to eat? Just one? Impossible! Same with cats.” [And to my neighbor, Bert, who sometimes takes my words too literally, I did not mean to imply that like potato chips, you should actually eat lots of cats. Just pet them, for God’s sake.]
As a lifelong cat enthusiast and part-time lint roller tester, I consider myself a leading authority on the subject of the ideal cats-to-humans ratios. We’ve been cat owners for four decades. Of course, the matter of who in this partnership are the true owners – us or our cats – is a topic of heated ongoing debate with our feline companions.
All our cats joined our family the same way. My wife would go to the local animal shelter without telling me and come home with three to six orphan kittens – sometimes with their mom cat – and would say, “Look, aren’t they adorable?” That’s where her official fostering responsibilities ended. The job of feeding them, scooping their litter, and cleaning up the mess they always created fell to me. And in the process, I’d inevitably start to become attached.
Then, when it came time to return them to the animal shelter, I would negotiate with my wife in an attempt to keep some of them. My opening bid usually was, “Honey, can we keep all five of them?” To which my wife’s response was something along the lines of, “You’re insane. I’ll agree to keep one kitten.” There’s even a term for when foster families fail to return kittens to the shelter. It’s called a “Foster Fail.” I am a serial foster failer. You may be asking, “So, Tim, how many cats do you currently own?” Um, our current cat count is classified, mostly because the head of our HOA reads my columns.
If you’re thinking about adopting a cat, ask yourself, How Many Cats Should I Have? Here’s a summary explaining the ideal number of cats to invite into your home and subsequently take over your life:
1 Cat: Talk about a lame effort. Why would anyone adopt just one kitty? Tell me, who’s going to keep him company when you’re at work all day? You’ll leave him no choice but to rip up your brand new leather sofa in protest to being sentenced to solitary confinement nine hours a day.
2 Cats: That’s the bare minimum. At least now they each have a playmate, and they can re-direct some of their razor-sharp clawed sneak attacks planned for your bare calf towards their furry housemate instead.
This is a photo of our four cats, Zippy, Buddy, Dust Bunny, and Eddie. Our fifth Cat, Monster, was not available for this photo due to a prior commitment he had with a fascinating twist tie he’d just discovered in the front hall closet.
3 – 4 Cats: You’re in the sweet spot. With this number you can be assured there will always be at least one furry friend curled on your lap, another watching you from the kitchen counter where he is clearly forbidden, and one plotting to knock over your glass of red wine onto your laptop keyboard.
5 – 9 Cats: Yikes. You might want to think about getting off the adoption train at the next stop. At this number, you’ll need at least three scratching posts and you’re probably contemplating the need to cover your leather furniture in plastic wrap or burlap. By now you’ve probably purchased a Roomba which you run daily, in a vain attempt to keep the stray fur at ankle depth. You no longer invite friends over, out of sheer embarrassment.
10 – 19 Cats: Whoa, Nelly. I’m starting to seriously worry about you. At this level, you probably have noticed most of your former friends are now shunning you. Nice job on the wall-mounted cat walkway that completely encircles the entire main floor. You might want to consider joining a support group… or better yet, get a life.
20+ Cats: Okay, now we’re veering into “future Netflix documentary” territory. At this point, the cats have totally taken over just about all the horizontal surfaces of your house, leaving you only the moldy futon in the basement as your new sleeping quarters. When neighbors whisper about “those crazy cat people,” they’re talking about YOU.
So, what’s the ideal number? My professional opinion: somewhere between three and “my neighbor just called Animal Control.” More than 15, and I’d say you’re probably a prime candidate for a future episode of Dr. Phil about cat hoarders. If you’re spending more on cat food and litter than on your mortgage, it may be time to seek financial and psychological counseling.
Studies I just made up show that cat ownership reduces anxiety, increases happiness, and boosts your immunity to loneliness and cat-allergic friends. Owning multiple cats has proven psychological advantages, like instant therapy: Nothing calms the soul like several sets of eyes staring at you ravenously while you eat tuna.
Cats provide consistent companionship. You’ll never be alone again – whether you want to or not. Not even in the bathroom. Definitely not during your Zoom meeting with your boss. And at bedtime, enjoy the pure joy of snuggling with your favorite furry friend, as he peacefully falls asleep on your face just before you wake up in terror and suddenly realize he’s about to suffocate you. So adorable.
Here I am with the two latest additions to our fur family: Eddie and Dust Bunny. Our cats give us 60% of our daily laughs and giggles. The other 40% mostly comes from watching cat videos on YouTube.
Owning multiple cats is not a hobby – it’s a lifestyle. Like knitting, but the yarn fights back. Sure, you’ll spend a good chunk of your disposable income on vet visits, cat food, cat toys, and an entire new living room set to replace the previous one that your cat named Monster destroyed. But in return, you’ll receive unconditional indifference, the occasional head bop, and a house full of fluffy, judgmental roommates who you try to convince yourself actually love you back, but, to be honest, you’ll never know for sure.
So my advice is this: No matter how many cats you currently have, there’s always room for one or two more. Over time, they may even help you totally forget about the fact that your spouse left you because they could not stand living in a cat house and constantly tripping over 15 empty boxes from Amazon (cats’ favorite place to chillax).
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Several years ago, I used this image (well, not this EXACT image, actually) in a VFTB article. Five years later, a German company threatened to sue me for using this image without their permission. That began an annoyingly long back-and-forth email exchange that is continuing to this day.
It all started with this picture (not THIS exact photo, but one very much like it). For my VFTB articles and videos, I grab photos from Google Images. Over the years, between my articles and YouTube video commentaries, I’ve probably used well over 2,000 free images.
I never once had an issue – until an image appeared in one of my articles. Several YEARS after I published that article, I received the following letter:
Authorization Request / Unauthorized Image Use – Case No. 4C172L
Dear View from the Bleachers,
We, Herzig Digitale Lizenzierungs und are writing to you on behalf of our client Schmidt-Bildexperten, who has assigned us the monitoring and protection of their licenses and image rights. On November 22, 2024 we have been informed that View From The Bleachers is likely using an image without permission, and the client has exclusively commissioned us with the clarification, administration of the image rights for the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany and, if necessary, the enforcement of any copyright infringement through our partner lawyers. Images are protected by copyright law [blah, blah, blah…]
… On behalf of our client, we must first determine if you have a valid license to use the images in question in the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany. If you have a valid license or any other legal justification to use these images, please reply to this email no later than 18 December, 2024 and include proof of license purchase and/or any other necessary information to validate the usage so our client can verify the lawfulness of such usage.
The day I received this notification, I wrote back to apologize and inform them I had removed the offending photo. I figured that would be the end of it. I was wrong. A week later, I received a follow-up email:
Dear Sir or Madam,
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1) A proof of valid license or
2) The compensation to our client is paid.
If you do not have a license, your decision not to settle this matter with appropriate payment will consequently lead to court action.
I reiterated that I had taken down the image immediately and that I did not profit from its use. I added that ironically, I’m actually half-German (on my mother’s side) hoping that might smooth things over. Given my law school training (from 45 years ago), I noted that unless they could show monetary and/or reputational damage from my use, they had no legal claim. I closed by suggesting that perhaps they should focus on bigger fish than a solitary humor writer halfway across the globe who had ZERO subscribers located in Germany.
For the past year, this firm has been a dog on a bone, relentlessly sending me email after email insisting that I either show proof of a valid license or pay them for the licensing rights. A few months ago, I received yet another friendly notification:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, we are not able to close a case without one of the following conditions being fulfilled:
1. Proof of a valid license.
2. The compensation to our client is paid.
Finally, I decided I’d had enough. So, this was my reply:
I did not realize you needed “proof of a valid license.” Here you go.
Hope that clears everything up. Thanks very much.
Sincerely,
View from the Bleachers
A week later, apparently not amused, they sent me the following update:
Thank you for your message. Unfortunately, since we have determined that you have made use of a copyright-protected image, we must ensure that you possess the necessary authorization to make use of the image.
If permission cannot be verified, we must request you settle the matter by paying compensation or obtaining a valid license from the photographer.
So, this was my reply:
I deeply apologize for not understanding that payment was due. My humblest apologies. In order to rectify this egregious oversight on my part, please find enclosed payment in full (see below) in the amount of one million dollars.
I trust you will conclude this is more than adequate compensation for the emotional pain and suffering I have put your client through over the past seven months. I hope this resolves this issue once and for all.
Sincerely, (etc. etc.)
It turns out, and this may surprise you, but my generous financial offer did not put the matter to rest. They sent me yet another terse letter insisting on prompt compensation in order to avoid “costly litigation” (their words).
So, this was my reply:
I’m a little strapped for funds at the moment. Therefore, to resolve this matter amicably, I am offering to ship your client my 10-year-old cat named Zippy (see photo).
Zippy is a very sweet kitty – so long as there are no other pets in the household. He routinely uses the litterbox except when he needs to go pee. He prefers his meat cooked medium rare. I estimate Zippy’s fair market value to be approximately $150,000.
I presume this will bring this matter to a close.
To my dismay, my latest offer did NOT bring this matter to a close. A week later they wrote back again demanding payment in full within 30 days or they would apply a “delinquency penalty.” (Oh, my!)
So, this was my reply:
Like I said in my previous emails, I continue to be a bit pressed for funds at the moment. Humor writing is not exactly the ticket to fame and fortune I was hoping it would be. But I really want to help out your client.
To make things right, I have just updated my will – at no small expense, I might add. I have named your client in my will, stating that when I die, they will inherit my house – unless they had something to do with my demise. Please see enclosed a photo of my house.
It has a lovely waterfront view of the Atlantic Ocean. Ideal for family reunions, corporate retreats, and Tupperware parties. I hope this now officially closes this matter once and for all.
So far, they have yet to accept any of my settlement offers. Frankly, I think I’ve demonstrated a willingness to look for a win-win solution. In one correspondence, I even offered to provide all their client’s employees with lifetime subscriptions to View from the Bleachers. According to my conservative math, a VFTB subscription has a fair market value of $7,500 (€6408.86 Euros). But even that incredible peace offering got crickets for a response.
I have to give them credit. They’ve not given up yet. Every couple of weeks they send me another slightly ominous threat letter. But I’m retired. I have the time. I can keep this up as long as they can.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If you want to look wafer-thin and svelte, with the sunken cheeks and flat stomach that aspiring young Hollywood starlets long for, then have I got a weight loss plan for you….
As an expert on most things, I find people are constantly approaching me asking all sorts of questions like, “Why is it that cats always land on their feet?” and “Which is better, cake or pie?” [Answer: Cake], and “Why are you following me?” (I get that last one all of the time.)
Another question people are always asking me is how they can lose weight. Constantly trying to slim down has become an American obsession. But I recently stumbled onto an amazing weight loss solution that sheds the weight not in weeks or months but HOURS! Incredibly, it doesn’t require rigorous exercise, draconian starvation diets, weight loss supplements, or even Ozempic. If you want to have the sunken cheeks of a Parisian runway model, just do what I did. Within days, people will be staring at you in envy, quietly wondering, “How did he lose all that weight?” and “Is he dead?”
My new weight loss plan worked with shocking results. Here’s the secret: My wife and I booked a 25-day vacation, starting with a week touring London on our own, then flying to Istanbul to join an organized tour of Turkey and Greece, including nine days of island hopping through several Greek Isles in the Aegean Sea. Fabulous, I know. We arrived in London, jet lagged, but otherwise fine. The following morning, we had a typical London breakfast of badly prepared eggs, bacon, and toast. But I decided to go one step further, by ordering a fresh fruit salad, which my wife opted to skip.
Fast forward four hours – cue food poisoning and the worst diarrhea of my life. Over the next three days, I must have lost every ounce of bodily fluid inside me that was not technically blood. Not to be too graphic, but let’s just say that my oral and posterior cavities competed aggressively in a race to empty all of my bodily fluids in a gushing exodus from my body.
To suggest that I was experiencing the human anatomy’s impersonation of Niagara Falls would be a ridiculous comparison. Because it was way worse than that. A more accurate description would be the eruption of Krakatoa (or for you millennials who’ve never heard of the historic Krakatoa eruption of August 26, 1883, feel free to substitute Mount St. Helens’ blast. And read up on your history, please!)
I could not leave my hotel room for days. I estimate I used approximately 18% of the city of London’s entire toilet paper inventory. I was so weak I fainted and collapsed on the floor attempting to reach the bathroom in the middle of the night, only to be awakened by my wife hysterically screaming, “Tim, you fell on the floor!!!” (True.)
Ah, the jaw-dropping sights of Istanbul, Turkey. The historic Hagia Sophia church / mosque, built in 532 AD, the world-famous Basilica Cistern, built during the 6th century by Byzantine Emperor Justinian I, and the chaotic traffic of riverboats along the stunning Bosporus Strait, were just a few of the many unbelievable sights… I missed out on seeing.
After three days of not being able to stand the sight of food, lest it trigger another case of projectile vomiting, I slowly regained my strength. By the time we flew to Istanbul to join our Turkey / Greek Isles tour group, I was feeling almost back to normal. But then on the very first day of our tour, as we walked among the ancient ramparts of Istanbul, it suddenly struck me again. DOWN GOES FRAZIER! DOWN GOES FRAZIER!I started feeling dizzy, nauseous, and in desperate need of finding a bathroom. Perhaps this is a good time to point out that in Istanbul, most of the public toilets are squat toilets. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, kids, seriously, you need to pay more attention in social studies class.
By 3pm on our very first day of the tour, I told our trip leader I’d need to skip the Welcome Dinner that evening. By 6pm, I was pretty sure I’d have to miss out on the Istanbul walking tour the following day. By 9pm, I was in the Emergency Room of a local hospital. Three hours later, having had my body pumped full of IV fluids, I was taxied back to our hotel. Six hours later, the following morning, after fainting en route to the bathroom for a second time in less than a week, Michele had to get a wheelchair to take me to the lobby and back to the ER.
On this second visit, doctors were now worried about the possibility of a stroke due to my severe dehydration and / or a risk of sepsis due to the aggressive intestinal infection that by now had spread to my bloodstream and my urine. Not good, I know.
Four hours later, after filling me with more IV fluids and antibiotics, they discharged me again. Ultimately, we had to bail on the rest of our bucket list tour and fly home, experiencing literally only five hours of what was supposed to be a 16-day tour. It turns out that In the space of less than a week, I had lost 11 pounds. If I had ever desired that “heroin chic” look of a 90’s fashion model, I totally nailed it.
On the bright side, I received an insane number of caring, concerned Facebook comments from close to 200 people, some of whom I had not seen nor heard from in years. Of course, there was no shortage of people trying to help me laugh at my situation, with actual comments like…
A selfie photo I took in the Istanbul Hospital’s ER while I waited to be treated. I have to say, my wife was a saint, making sure I received all the critical medical care I needed. I was very, very lucky she was there to advocate for me, because my brain was in a total fog (yes, even more than usual) for much of this.
“Hang in there, Tim. This too shall pass. ; ) “
“Sorry about being stuck in a Turkish Hospital. Look on the bright side, Tim. At least it wasn’t a Turkish prison.”
“Tim, I need to lose ten pounds in time for my wedding next month. Can you text me the fruit salad recipe that caused you to get sick?”
“Hey, buddy, if you don’t pull through, can I have your golf clubs?”
Things like that. What can I say, human suffering sometimes brings out the best in people.
I’m pleased to report that I am back at home and on the mend. I am regaining strength by the day. But please don’t tell my wife. I plan to use this recent health scare to get out of housework for at least the next six weeks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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[Editor’s Note: Sometimes Tim Jones comes up with rather hairbrained ideas for articles. This is one of those situations. Recently, Tim had a bizarre dream in which the naval commanders of the American fleet and the Japanese fleet in the Pacific Theater in World War 2 engaged in battle following the precise rules of the Milton Bradley children’s game Battleship. This article is the result. We are really starting to worry about him. – Staff of VFTB]
It was the Battle of Midway, in June 1942. The fate of the entire US Pacific Fleet hung in the balance. The American Naval Commander was a brilliant military strategist. But was he any match for his Japanese counterpart? What would happen next was naval gamesmanship at its most heroic.
EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! “BATTLESHIP!” – MIDWAY MADNESS UNFOLDS IN TURN-BASED NAVAL EXCHANGES
June 5, 1942 — Midway Atoll in the Pacific Theater
By Tim “A-7” Jones, Special Correspondent for The Daily Depth Charge
In what military historians are already calling “the most incredibly civilized naval conflict in human history,” Allied and Japanese forces squared off this week in the pivotal WW 2 Battle of Midway, but with a remarkable twist: both sides agreed in advance to adhere rigidly to the official rules of the board game Battleship.
Gone were traditional tactics like reconnaissance, surprise attacks, or – say – actually moving your ships to evade torpedo attacks. And sonar? Not in this battle. This warfare was going to be conducted strictly by the rules… of Battleship. Ten rounds of the game, to be precise, using an actual plastic fleet. Suddenly, the fate of the Pacific hung in the balance as admirals on both sides barked out coordinates in a dramatic, nail-biting, turn-by-turn slugfest.
The battle began precisely at 0900 hours with Admiral Chester Nimwitz of the U.S. Navy stepping up to the microphone and announcing: “B-4.”
Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamagotcha calmly checked his grid, then replied: “Miss.”
Tension thickened like Navy chowder. Then Yamagotcha countered at 0907 hours: “E-7.”
Nimwitz let out a dramatic pause before muttering: “Hit! You sank my Destroyer.”
A collective gasp rippled through the Allied fleet. Sailors wept openly, not for the fallen seamen, but because the patrol boat only took two hits, and now they were down one ship less than ten minutes in.
Nimwitz, rattled but determined, fired back: “C-8.”
Yamagotcha furrowed his brow. “Hit.”
Cheers erupted aboard the American aircraft carrier, U.S.S. Tailhook, but celebrations were muted as it was unclear what actually had been hit. Could be the battleship. Could be the submarine. Could be someone’s fishing dinghy mistakenly placed on the grid.
At the height of the intense naval campaign at Midway, the Japanese Admiral had to make a critical decision: A-7 or D-9. He chose D-9. It was a costly mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his otherwise brilliant career.
In an effort to prevent “unauthorized tactical improvisation,” the battle was overseen by Swiss naval officer, Rear Admiral Milton “Stratego” Bradley, whose sole job was to make sure no one tried any funny business like placing their warships diagonally or – God forbid – moving them from where they were originally positioned in the theater of engagement.
“I caught the Japanese trying to shift their destroyer one square to the left after it got hit,” Bradley explained to the embedded reporters. “I told him, ‘This isn’t Risk!! This is a gentleman’s war.’”
To his credit, Admiral Yamagotcha apologized and moved the plastic representation of his destroyer back into place.
With ships fixed in place and unable to detect anything beyond educated guesses, much of the ensuing battle resembled two blindfolded walruses throwing darts at a dartboard.
Allied sailors, desperate for any edge, began forming betting pools on the next coordinate. By Day 2, entire divisions were placing side bets on whether “J-10” would finally be a hit. Spoiler: it was a miss. Again.
Meanwhile, U.S. cryptographers broke into the Japanese coordinate strategy and discovered their next five moves were “F-3, G-3, H-3, I-3, J-3.” Nimwitz responded by placing all remaining yet-to-be-positioned US ships horizontally on Row 9 – a move first successfully employed years earlier by then nine-year-old Nathan Willaby of Racine, Wisconsin.
Yamagotcha, in response, placed all his ships vertically on Column A. It was widely acknowledged at this point that both sides were just hoping for the other side to get bored and go back to port.
Midway through Day 3, Nimwitz scored the biggest hit of the campaign: “A-5.”
Yamagotcha grimaced. “Hit.”
Nimwitz, sensing the US fleet had inflicted severe damage, felt emboldened and pounced. “A-6.”
“Hit.”
A murmur of confidence. “A-7.”
“Hit.”
Nimwitz barked, even louder this time: “A-8.”
“Hit.”
Then, summoning up the mantle of leadership once possessed by Admiral Lord Nelson when the British Royal Navy defeated the French and Spanish fleets at the historic 1805 Battle of Trafalgar, he slammed his fist on the table, almost knocking several of his own pieces off the board, and defiantly shouted to his men: “A-9.”
Yamagotcha sighed, straightened his uniform, and gloomily announced, “You sank my aircraft carrier.”
A rare photo of the winning American Admiral Nimwitz, upon receiving word the Japanese forces had surrendered. Everyone celebrated the glorious victory. More importantly, not a single American was lost at sea in the entire battle.
The outcome was now inevitable. Victory bells would soon ring. Sailors hoisted mugs of lukewarm Torpedo Juice. The band played a ragtime version of “Anchors Aweigh.” One enthusiastic private streaked across the carrier flight deck yelling, “A-9 Forever!”
By Day 5, both fleets had been badly depleted, but the American fleet emerged victorious. The final casualty count on the American side included three patrol boats, two destroyers, two battleships, two submarines, and 472 incorrectly guessed coordinates.
Rear Admiral Bradley summarized it best in his official post-battle debrief: “I have never seen a more orderly and shockingly bloodless victory in my entire military career. War may be hell – but this was more even more painful. It was like watching paint dry for five days. Never again. Never again.”
In related news, the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet has begun training recruits for the next campaign using Jenga and Hungry Hungry Hippos. The Axis powers have allegedly countered by mastering Chutes and Ladders: Blitzkrieg Edition. (Lord Licorice of Candy Land refused to participate in that it is strictly a peaceful adventure.)
[Tim Jones is a field reporter embedded in the 3rd Humor Division. His coordinates are classified, but sources say he’s been hanging out in the vicinity of C-5.]
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What would you do if your doctor told you that you had less than three years to live? Would you make any changes in your life?
The year was 2016. Scott Hamilton was only 55 years old, living in Boston, and working a full-time job as an IT project manager when he noticed something odd. On a camping trip, his right hand felt very cold, and he could not get a grip on the zipper of his tent.
Nine months later, he would learn that he was showing the first symptoms of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. ALS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. There is no known cure. Life expectancy is three to five years from diagnosis. In Scott’s remaining time, Scott’s world was going to get progressively smaller and his life increasingly difficult and painful.
Scott decided to take the reins on his life and live it as fully as he could in his time left. He retired, expanded his involvement as a volunteer for Big Brothers / Big Sisters, and began coaching men struggling with relationships or going through divorce. He began singing in a second local chorale. But most of all, he loved traveling and visiting with friends.
That’s how my path crossed Scott’s. My wife and I were on vacation in February 2017, enjoying a warm breeze on sunny Siesta Key beach near Sarasota, Florida. We had just sat down at a picnic table for lunch. Across from us was a man typing away on his laptop. I asked him what he was working on. Scott looked up and cheerfully said, “I am updating my journal about my travels.”
I told him I too was a writer, of sorts. We struck up a conversation that, to my surprise, would lead to a powerful, close, albeit sadly far too brief friendship. I learned that he had two grown children, David and Lauren, and a longtime partner named Rachel, who he loved deeply. I learned that he loved skiing, tennis, visiting national parks, and spending time with his large universe of friends scattered across the country.
Then Scott shared, in a very matter-of-fact manner, that he had been diagnosed with ALS nine months prior, and was given a life expectancy of three to five years, although he said he was still feeling, for the most part, quite well. He had no idea how much longer he had. He was just beginning to show signs of his physical decline. His right arm, right hand, and to a lesser extent, right leg were starting to lose muscle strength and beginning to atrophy. It was just a matter of time before he would lose all ability to move the right side of his body, before it progressed to his left side, and then ultimately move on to his vital organs.
ALS is a cruel disease. But as Scott talked about the daunting road ahead, there was not the slightest hint of self-pity, anger, or denial. Amazingly, he seemed to have accepted his fate. He decided he was going to do everything he could on his bucket list while he was still physically able to. He radiated a positivity that you rarely see in someone grappling with such grim prospects for the future.
Over the course of 45 minutes, I found myself bonding with this kind, transparent man, who refused to play the role of victim. He was going to use his time in the months ahead to mentor men and boys on how to lead lives of compassion, integrity, and authenticity. And he was going to see as much of the world as he could. I told Scott that if he ever found his way up to the Pacific Northwest, we would love to invite him to visit with us.
Six months later, Scott arrived at my doorstep. He had bought a van he’d outfitted for camping. Scott’s health was already showing signs of decline. But his spirit was relentlessly positive. I remember a long walk we took during his visit. My wife and I were deeply anxious about the mental wellness of one of our daughters, then twenty-two. Scott became completely focused on trying to help me find a way to connect with my daughter. It was like we’d been friends my entire life. His entire focus was on me and my worries, not at all about his own.
Between 2016 and 2018 Scott traveled the country visiting friends. He experienced the rare opportunity to travel with his choir to South Africa to perform. He skied for as long as his legs would carry him, wrapping his non-functioning right arm to his chest, and using a single pole. He went to places he’d never seen before and continued to meet new friends along the way.
Scott loved to play tennis, but being right-handed, by now, this was not an option because his right side had deteriorated badly since the time we’d met earlier that year. Even his left hand was starting to weaken. So, he somehow strapped the tennis racquet to his left arm, and we played a few games of tennis. He struggled mightily but never complained. When we were done, Scott calmly stated, “I think it’s time I said goodbye to tennis.”
We spoke by phone a few times after that, and the following summer (2018) Scott came to visit again. Being from Boston, Scott was a big baseball fan. We went to a Mariners game. In the year that had passed since our previous visit, Scott’s mobility had noticeably declined. His speech was slower and somewhat slurred. But his mind was as sharp as ever. Scott would talk about the things he had had to give up, but never complaining or attempting to burden the person he was talking with. It was all so matter of fact. I have never seen anyone model “acceptance” more stoically than Scott.
When Scott no longer had the balance to manage a two-wheeled bike, he began riding a recombinant three wheeler. But one day he simply shared, “I had my last ride on my tricycle. It’s too hard to get into anymore, so I will find it a new home.”
By mid-2019, Scott was no longer able to ski, ride a bike, or even drive. He became mostly confined to a wheelchair. With each new barrier to his mobility and quality of life, he confronted it gracefully, calmly, and with a quiet acceptance. When I would ask him how he was feeling, he would never shy away from discussing the struggles he was enduring. He was always transparent about his ordeal. But his focus was more about how grateful he was to have lived the life he had, and to have been surrounded by so many people that he loved and who loved him.
In his final months, Scott was no longer able to swallow solid food. His breathing became extremely labored, and it became hard to speak. He began receiving hospice care in his home. He used his final weeks to say his thank yous and goodbyes to his friends and family.
In November 2019, when Rachel wrote to me to share that Scott had passed peacefully in his sleep, I felt like I had lost a lifelong friend.
Scott was a man I deeply admired, for his courage, his grace, his kindness, and his desire to make a positive and lasting impact on the lives of the people he touched. I will forever be grateful for that chance encounter at a picnic table on Siesta Key and the introduction it gave me to one of the finest and most decent men I have ever known. A man who truly lived his life to the fullest.
[Postscript: A few weeks before Scott’s passing, a friend of his created this video of Scott and some of the places he traveled and people he visited while he still had his health. If you are curious, you can watch it here.]
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
