Pink
In July of 1995, Katy and I went camping up in Russian River. She loved a campground there called Casini Ranch. Whenever we could, we'd go on camping trips like that — to Russian River, Big Sur, and Shasta Lake. We'd camp when I had breaks from the studio and recording, and when she got a weekend off from work.
Being in my twenties, I didn't mind sleeping in a tent. It wasn't much of a pain in the ass back then, as I only had to get up to pee maybe once in the middle of the night. The fuss of getting up and unzipping the tent, and then re-entering, to sleep on a thin, plastic, uneven tent-floor with tree roots under my back wasn't so bad. It was fun cooking bass on the fire at night that we'd caught from the river, thinking Ah, how nice to be young, to be a working musician, to have gotten out of Ohio. What were the odds that a kid from Massillon, Ohio, would end up sleeping in a tent, not far from his home in San Francisco, with tour dates ahead of him, a few albums to his name, and another on the horizon; add to that a beautiful, sophisticated, and very artistic woman by his side.
On the first day of that five-day camping trip during the 4th of July, I walked over to the old restroom, made of 60% cinder block, 20% spider web, 5% sink, 5% shower, and 10% toilet. As I was crossing the dirt path, a small, black and white, cow-print cat followed along. She politely stopped at the entrance of the bathroom. I thought, My god, what a mindful little cat. When I exited the restroom, she sat there, looking at me with an expression that said, "Where are we going now?" She followed me back to our campsite, where I introduced Katy to my new companion. We fell in love with the cat; Katy quickly named her Pink, because of her cute little pink nose.
Pink was on the skinny side, and she'd eat anything we fed her. BBQ ribs, Cheetos, fish. Sometimes she'd walk down to the river to drink the water, disappearing for a few hours, which caused us anxiety. But she'd always return a few hours later, ready for bed. Pink slept in the tent with us all five nights. When I got up to pee, she'd exit the tent with me. When I went back into the tent, she'd follow along.
By the time we were ready to leave, we had a dilemma. We wanted to take Pink home, but we already had a cat in San Francisco, named Thumper, who was like Katy's child. Katy was so protective of Thumper, and worried that the two cats might not get along. After some thought, Katy told me that she was sorry, and that we just couldn't take Pink home. I said Ok. But when we got in the car to leave, Pink jumped into the back seat, and jumped from the seat to the rear deck and crouched herself into the back window. This wasn't about us adopting Pink. Pink was adopting us. I told Katy, "If this isn't meant to be, what is?" Katy got into the driver's seat, sitting there, with her hands in her face, confused. She'd fallen for Pink, but didn't want to disrupt Thumper's life.
Backstory on Thumper: Two years before that camping trip, I'd come home from Europe, knocked on Katy's door in our Nob Hill neighborhood, and to my surprise, there was an enormous black and white, long-haired cat who Katy had recently adopted, and named Thumper. Thumper was a majestic beast, and also very shy. She'd gotten Thumper from the SPCA while I was away. Katy loved Thumper so much that I was a little jealous. He stole my thunder! So much of her attention was now on Thumper, and within a few weeks, I felt the same way about him. What wasn't to love about him? He was so big, that when he'd walk down the hall, you could see his belly fat wobbling from side to side. She gave him that name, because his paws were so heavy, they'd literally go THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, as he chugged along from one area of the apartment to another. But mostly Thumper hid in various areas of her apartment. Inside of kitchen cupboards, in the bathtub, or under the bed. He was almost four years old when she adopted him, and who knows what his life was like before she rescued him.
Katy only lived a few blocks away from me when one day, she knocked on my door, cradling Thumper in her arms, and told me that she and her roommate had a falling out. She asked if she could move in for a month — that month turned into three years. The three of us became a family. Within a few months, Thumper started to come out of his shell, and was now jumping up onto the bed, blossoming into a social butterfly. I then went off to Europe to tour with Red House Painters, in the winter of 1993. While we were sound checking at Paradiso in Amsterdam, I received an urgent message, brought to me from an employee at a nearby hotel. I walked back to the hotel and called Katy, who was crying. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Thumper had an accident in the middle of the night. He jumped up on the nightstand, and he knocked that big mirror down. He jumped to the floor, and the mirror came down and sliced his paw off! I wrapped him in a towel, my sister took us to a 24 hour vet, and I had the choice of either amputating his leg for $800, or paying $2000 for them to try to re-attach his paw. I couldn't get ahold of you, I didn't know what to do, so I opted to have his leg amputated. I feel so bad. I'm a bad cat mom!" She was understandably distraught. I calmed her down, told her that it wasn't her fault, and that these things happen; that Thumper was alive, young, and that he would adapt and he'd learn to get along without his leg. When I got home from the tour, Thumper was back to his old ways, hiding under the bed. At that point, Katy became very protective of him, and didn't want to do anything that might cause him more stress.
Back to Russian River, 1995:
Katy said, "What if Pink belongs to someone? What if one of the residents owns Pink?" Katy was looking for any excuse she could find to not interfere with Thumper's comfort zone. With that, I got out of the passenger seat, took Pink into my arms, and walked about thirty yards to a resident trailer, owned by a guy who owned about thirty cats. "Is this your cat?" I asked him. "No," he said. "She hangs out over there at your campsite, and gazes at my cats, but she never comes over to play. Let me see her Belly?" I showed him her belly. The cat-expert looked her over and said, "This cat is about a year and a half old. I'd say she had kittens about six months ago. This cat doesn't belong to anyone around here. Looks like a match made in heaven!" I brought Pink back to Katy, and told her what he said.
She said, "OK, let's flip a coin. If it's heads, we take her home, if it's tails, we leave her here." We flipped the coin, and it landed on tails. I kept my word, walked over to where the tent was, and set Pink on the picnic bench. As we drove off, she looked at me with a sad expression that said, "What did I do wrong?"
We got back home to Thumper, and I didn't get a wink of sleep. I thought about Pink all night, and all of the food that we had fed her. I thought, "What if she's attacked by racoons or coyotes? What is she gets sick? What if she's hungry?"
Katy went to work the next day, and I called my friend Phil. "Hey, do you feel like taking a trip up to Russian River?"
"For what?" he asked.
"To get a cat."
"Sure," he said. "But I don't have a car." Then I called my friend Roger and asked him the same thing.
His response was wary. "Yeah?" he said, "Are you sure about this? You really think the cat will still be there?"
"I know that the cat will be there."
Roger and I picked up Phil, and off to Russian River we went, ready to rescue Pink from the wild.
When we got to Casini Ranch, we drove down the dirt road that led to the campsite where we stayed, and there was Pink — standing on the picnic table. I opened the passenger door, and Pink hurried over and jumped into my lap. On the way out, I asked the woman who worked at the Casini Ranch Market, "Does this cat belong to anyone?"
"Nope," she said. And with that, we got on the road to San Francisco, and I brought Pink up into my apartment.
I set Pink down in the hallway, and she began exploring the apartment. She paid no attention to Thumper, and Thumper looked at Pink, showing no interest at all, completely indifferent. So far, so good. When Katy got home, she looked at Pink, took a deep breath, and said "You didn't. You didn't." "I had to," I said. "My conscience wouldn't let me leave her out there."
Katy called two of her friends and asked them to come take a look at Pink, to see what they thought. We put a cat box with fresh litter in the living room, and the four of us gathered around, watching Pink, on the edge of our seats, hoping Pink would use the box. Twenty minutes later, Pink walked over to the box, sniffed it, walked inside of it, dragged her paws through the litter, and peed in the box. Katy was so happy that she cried. The rest of us were overjoyed by this new, lovely animal, who was now our new little companion. Pink, who would eat anything up there at Casini Ranch, suddenly became a domesticated, finicky eater. She ate dry food only — and only a certain brand. She never even looked at Thumper's wet food.
As Katy and I approached our 30th birthdays, we broke up, as couples sometimes do. We agreed that she'd take Thumper, and that I would take Pink.
From that point on, Pink and I lived together in that apartment, until the summer of 2010.
There wasn't a night that I slept in my bed when Pink didn't sleep beside me. She'd sleep next to me all night, and never get out of bed until I did. She was so smart that she'd know when I was leaving for tour. She'd see me packing a few guitars, folding clothes, packing a suitcase, and when I'd open the door to leave the apartment, she'd paw at my leg, asking me not to leave.
And there wasn't a time when I came home, when she didn't greet me at the door. One of my favorite Pink habits, was that every time I'd use the bathroom, she'd follow me in, jump up on the pedestal sink, and look up at me; that was the cue for me to turn on the faucet and let a small trickle flow, while Pink drank the fresh, cold water. Pink even lived with me in Marina del Rey all through 1999, while I worked on the Almost Famous set. She was an easy-going cat. Whenever the cast and crew had to leave Los Angeles to shoot scenes elsewhere, my local L.A. friends loved her so much that they would argue about who got to take care of her while I was gone.
Pink was also a great audience, and critic! When I rehearsed for my solo acoustic tours, she'd stop whatever she was doing, stretch, walk into the living room, cozy up on the rug and listen. If she walked off, that was my barometer for when my voice or guitar playing wasn't sounding right. During some home recording sessions, when engineers came by with recording gear, she'd keep us company by sleeping on top of a rack mount pre-amp, warmed up by the tubes.
One day in September 2009, she did her usual bathroom routine, but this time when Pink jumped up on the pedestal sink, she slipped and fell, went running, and hid under the sofa for a day or so, perhaps feeling embarrassed. That moment was the beginning of the end of Pink's life; she never tried to jump onto that sink again.
Months were passing, as Pink was becoming more lethargic. She'd sit on my sofa, with sad, watery eyes. Because she was still eating, drinking water, and using her cat box, I let some time pass without calling the vet.
But improvements weren't happening, so I eventually called a vet in early summer of 2010, who came by with his white clothes and a suitcase full of gadgets. He insisted she needed some blood work. Pink didn't like vets and never complied with the care they offered. So, with my help, he and I wrapped her in a towel so she couldn't claw at him, and placed her on the kitchen counter, where he distributed three shots in various areas, including her neck. I didn't like what I saw, but that's what he said needed to be done.
After he unwrapped her, she jumped off the kitchen counter, ran down my hall and into my walk-in closet, and didn't exit for a few days. When she came out, she had a large goiter on her neck. I told a friend about it, who did some research. She told me that cats, after fifteen years old, were susceptible to cancerous tumors if given shots. The vet didn't tell me that. It seems that when our pets are falling apart, we're stuck with ongoing dilemmas. Will the pet endure more stress from the vet visits than they need to be put through? Am I keeping my pet alive for my own selfish reasons? Is my pet long overdue to be put down?
I was leaving for a tour in July of 2010, and this time, Pink wasn't pawing at my leg at the door, asking me not to leave. She was sitting on my couch, with a large goiter on her neck, looking at me like she wanted to fall asleep forever.
Caroline looked after Pink while I was gone; she and I talked every night and she gave me updates on Pink.
I was in a hotel in London when the phone rang in the middle of the night. Caroline said, "Mark. Pink hasn't been walking. She's just lying here on a towel. She's not used the cat box in days." "Uggh," I said. "I've got to go play this last festival, in Giske, Norway. I was supposed to stay an extra four days, to record, but I'm going to cancel those days and fly right home. But I gotta play that festival. I just have to bump the flight to fly home the following day. I'll be on a flight the day after this next show in Norway. I'm sorry you have to deal with this. I'll be home as soon as I can!"
"OK," she said. "I hope you make it home in time to say goodbye to her."
I was so stressed out. I emailed the promoters who had their hands full with all kinds of concerns besides my dying cat. I felt like a crazy person, asking them to please bump my flight, and to cancel studio dates, due to my cat. Not everyone feels the same way about cats as us cat lovers do. The logistics were a costly, convoluted nightmare, but I arranged a flight out of Àlesund Norway for the day after the show.
When I got to the festival, one of the promoters put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Mark. I get it. I had a cat once. We were very tight."
"Thank you," I said. "I'm glad you understand. My cat is dying. This fucking sucks!"
On the very stressful and very long flight home, I wrote "Pink please don't die on me. Pink please don't die on me," over and over in my journal. I'd never been so anxious on a flight. When I walked in my door, Caroline was sitting next to Pink on the couch. Pink was lying there, lifeless, but still breathing. I kissed her so many times and told her how much I loved her, while I broke down, crying like a baby. She'd been my best friend for the last fifteen years.
Caroline rubbed my back and said, "She waited for you."
"Please call a vet," I said, "But not the guy who gave her the shots. Please call a different one. It's time."
A very nice man came over; we placed Pink on my bed. He waited while I stood beside her sobbing, telling her how much I loved her and kissing her goodbye.
He administered the shot, then he left, and drove Pink down to Colma, where she was cremated and put into beautiful, mahogany box, the best one Colma had to offer. I laid down on my couch and cried, while Caroline sat down with me, patiently. We sat silently for a while.
"Let's go get some Indian food," I said.
When we got home, I developed the worst ear infection I ever had in my life. The flights and the stress fucked with my immune system, and I had to take Z-pak, or some antibiotic or another, to get rid of it.
Years earlier, during Pink's life, Peter Svenson came over to my apartment late one December night, after a Cardigans show in San Francisco. He was playing and singing some of his original songs for me in my living room, while Pink sat and listened. It was probably 2 o'clock in the morning when my neighbor knocked on my door and told us to keep it down. "Damn," I thought. "Peter is playing softer than Christopher Cross, what's this guy's problem?"
Peter leaned the guitar against the sofa, while we watched Pink. She stood up and walked over to my Christmas tree, bedazzled by its lights.
As she sniffed the pine, Peter said, "Cats are the perfect animal."
"Yeah, they really are."
I've written countless songs about Pink, one of them being "Wop-A-Din-Din," from Red House Painters' Old Ramon. She also got a shout-out in Sun Kil Moon's "This Is My Dinner." The list goes on. Pink was a muse during her life and continues to be one after her passing.