Muswell, 2003-2019

As many of you know, my beloved cat Muswell had been ill with kidney disease for nearly a year, and sadly, he lost his battle on October 23. A memorial service was held on Thursday, November 28 at St. George's Chapel, St. James Cathedral, Toronto, and this is the eulogy I gave:

I'd like to start with a short poem by Christopher Smart that was sung by the Cathedral Choir on Trinity Sunday this year: "For I will consider my cat Jeoffry. For he is the servant of the living God, duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For he knows that God is his Saviour. For God has bless'd him in the variety of his movements. For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For I am possessed of a cat, surpassing in beauty, from whom I take occasion to bless Almighty God."

Welcome, and thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here for Muswell and me, and a special thanks to Rev. Andrew and everyone at the Cathedral for making this service happen. We are here to honour and celebrate the life of my beloved Muswell, an extraordinary cat and the best friend I've ever had.

In the winter of 2006, I adopted a cute little stray cat. Or more likely, he adopted me. Over the next 13 years, we grew closer through good times and bad, forming a bond that was deep, loving and profoundly healing for us both. He was my boy and I was his human. Muswell was like a dog in a cat's body. He'd follow me around everywhere. When I came home from work he'd greet me at the door, hop onto my desk and lick my face. At night, my furry friend would snuggle into bed with me. I only encountered the term "emotional support animal" recently, but Muswell fit that description perfectly. In short, he brought joy, warmth and comfort to my often challenging life.

As befits a companion like me, Muswell was a quirky boy. When I'd shower, he'd sit at the foot of the tub, meowing and scratching till I emerged safe and sound. Most cats hate getting wet, so I can only assume he wanted to spare his pop this dreadful fate. And when I'd towel off, he'd climb up beside me and stroke me with his paw—always on my left side, never my right. In Muswell's world, pop had a proper side and an improper side. Once he'd gotten situated on my proper side he'd groom himself, as if he were trying to show me the better way to cleanliness.

Muswell was a beautiful soul, inside and out. His orange coat was luxurious, and he had a little crown on his head and light orange stripes that cascaded down his back. The boy was skittish around anyone other than me, but the few lucky people who did interact with him all agree that he was gorgeous, gentle, affectionate and adorable.

It's been said that we grieve because we love, and it follows that the bigger the love, the bigger the grief. Muswell taught me so much about unconditional love, giving and receiving. I mourn so deeply because I've lost so much, because he selflessly gave so much. I used to joke with Muswell that I must be his pet human, because at times it was hard to tell who was taking care of whom.

In my grief, I remind myself that I'm experiencing a temporary separation from Muswell. I truly believe we will be reunited someday. So, where do pets go when they die? I'm no theologian, but what I'm about to present is one possibility that's been circulating since at least the 1980s. I can't tell you that I know this is real, but it sure sounds like the kind of place that a God of infinite love, mercy and compassion would create.

"Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigour; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing: they each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body quivers. Suddenly, he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, gone so long from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge, together."

Little buddy, you are forever loved and so profoundly missed. What a bright light you were. Your pop is blessed to have known you, and someday I'll see you at the Rainbow Bridge. Until then, eat, play and scamper, healthy and pain-free, and enjoy the company of your blessed animal friends. This is not goodbye, boy. This is till we meet again.

An audio recording of the full service is available on Muswell's page.

Sign in Stranger

Was shocked and shaken this morning to hear of the passing of Walter Becker, bassist/guitarist and co-founder of Steely Dan. Apparently he'd been ill for some time with an unspecified ailment. I didn't know that either, but that's not surprising; the man was an artist, not a celebrity.

If you came of age during the '70s, the Dan were the soundtrack to your wayward youth, literate misanthropes in soft-rock clothes whose obscurantist musings somehow crept into the Top 40. When some hipster tells me '70s music was dreck until The Ramones, Sex Pistols et. al. righted the ship, I point them toward Steely Dan. In the words of songstress Rickie Lee Jones, they're "the beginning of college rock."

As a kid, I bought the singles: "Do It Again," "Reelin' in the Years," "Rikki Don't Lose That Number." These slivers of wax sounded like nothing I'd ever heard, and listening to them now, they still do. Becker and collaborator Donald Fagen were originals. Jazz-rock was in vogue then, yet Steely Dan steered well clear of the pack, whether on the rock (Chicago, BS&T) or jazz side (Mahavishnu Orchestra, Weather Report). I can tell you what they weren't, but I'd need a musicology degree to tell you what they were. As I understand it their influences are mostly jazz greats like Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington and Charles Mingus, with dashes of R&B—yet without exception, their oeuvre consists of pop songs, albeit with a jazzy sophistication underpinning those great hooks.

I've long envied their songwriting, but their style is hard to emulate without serious chops and a knowledge of jazz harmony, both of which I lack. Why, for a few seconds today I entertained the thought of working up a Steely Dan song in tribute to Becker and quietly nixed the idea. In the past I've tried three or four of their "easier" numbers (the ones with fewer tricky jazz modulations), and they simply don't come off with one guy and an acoustic guitar, at least not this guy. The Steely Dan influence has, however, shown up once in my music—fittingly in an obscure way that only a pedant would appreciate. "After You," one of the songs on my forthcoming album, features a pedal steel part in the bridge—actually a sample that I plied, twisted and manipulated in a week-long bout of studio obsessiveness that would make Walter Becker proud—that I think gets the official Steely Dan Award for Best Use of Pedal Steel in a Non-Country Song. (Check out Jeff Baxter's gorgeous steel work on Can't Buy a Thrill or Countdown to Ecstasy, their first two albums, to hear what I mean.)

In any case, you will be missed, Mr. B. May the afterlife treat you well. Won't you sign in, stranger?

In Memoriam: Don Sklepowich

In the early '90s, Sour Landslide had the good fortune to work with Don on our first two proper recording projects. I'll always remember him as a sculptor of sound: passionate, gifted, kind, patient, and having a razor-sharp wit that kept us in stitches during those late-night studio marathons. Don, may the great gig in the sky be as good to you as you were to us. God Bless.

Don's obituary and guest book can be found here.

Dear Lou

Tonight at church I lit a candle for you
Or I guess I should say I'd intended to
But most were taken, the rest extinguished
"Hey, everyone lit a candle for Lou"
I said with a smirk that I borrowed from you
Holding the flame till it almost burned through
Petitioning softly for mercy for you

Tonight at home I played "Coney Island Baby"
Your paean to the glory of love
"Sorry it took a while, thank you"
Not at all, my dear Lou
It is I who thank you
Friend, it took no time at all

For Lou Reed, 1942-2013.

For Roger Upon Ascension

As we stood at the cusp of youth's promise
you spoke to me in obscure clarity
Is it now up to me—not just me, but me
to separate vision from mythology?

While tethered in body the spirit can't flee
that peeling scotch-tape humanity
We eat, sleep, and ache, love, smile, and die
for ephemeral sips from the chalice

Roger, dear friend, you will not be alone
I will see to it that you're welcomed home

Love, Emily

Roger Keith "Syd" Barrett 1946-2006