Mr. Whiskers Meets Jesus

When I was 20, I was married and living out on a logging job near Paynes Creek. One day, I had driven the 15 or so miles down a series of logging spurs to the store and post office. As I was loading up groceries into the back of my pick-up, a man came over and offered to help me load. I watched him as we hiked grocery sacks over the side of the truck bed, noticing that he was a rather scruffy sort, especially for someone so young. He couldn’t have been much older than I was then, and yet, he had this scruffy beard and long, thick, unruly hair. In my head, I called him Mr. Whiskers.

For the rest of that summer and fall, I’d see Mr. Whiskers nearly every time I drove through Paynes Creek, whether going to the store, or heading over to Redding. Sometimes, he was just loitering around the store, sometimes searching for treasures along the highway, sometimes walking his equally scruffy dog, Bandit.

That year, we moved from the job at Paynes Creek and spent time in Burney and Shingletown, before eventually pulling our trailer to Susanville so my husband could go to work for his uncle.

About four years after I’d met Mr. Whiskers, I encountered him again in Susanville, at the newly-minted Wal-Mart. By that time, I had a baby under each arm. Mr. Whiskers had lost his teeth. His hair was matted, his face marked with sores. He was succumbing to the effects of methamphetamine. He smiled at me, and touched Katie’s cheek as my eyes filled with tears. I was sad to see him in such a condition, and was at a loss as to what to do to help him, as he walked away. I called him Mr. Whiskers in my heart.

Off and on, I saw Mr. Whiskers from time to time over the years. It was a curious thing the way our paths would cross. About ten years ago, I ran into him in south Redding, on his way to an AA meeting. He was cleaned up, with short hair and nothing but a smile across his clean-shaven face. Though he was definitely healthier than I’d ever seen him look, there was something haunting about the look in his eyes. He shared with me, “a lot of bad living has come home to roost, I’m afraid.”

He had AIDS. Contracted as a consequence of years of IV drug use and sharing needles, Mr. Whiskers was living on borrowed time.

Over the past decade, Mr. Whiskers and I would see each other from time to time, share a cup of coffee, a few stolen moments in the market, or the occasional lunchtime visit. He responded well to drug therapy for several years. The past few years, he began to decline.

Over the weekend, Mr. Whiskers had been on my mind, and in my dreams, telling me that he was ready to go to Jesus. I called him on Monday, just to see how he was doing. His mother answered the phone and said he was weak, and not doing so well. She welcomed my offer to stop by the following day.

On my way home from Weaverville, I stopped in to see Mr. Whiskers. He looked thin, weak, and tired, but happy to see me. He gingerly sat up in his bed and visited with me for almost an hour and a half. At one point, he told me that he was ready to go ‘home to the Big Mac Daddy’. “I have peace about the timing,” he confided. Mr. Whiskers indicated that he’d said most all the good-byes he could stand, and that he was ready to go be in the heavens.

As I readied to leave, Mr. Whiskers put out his arms, and I embraced him, shocked by how small his frame had become, and awed by how tightly he clung to me. He told me that he couldn’t see the sense in saying good-bye to the likes of me, because he was certain that he’d be seeing me later, in a much better place.

Mr. Whiskers died this morning, in the arms of his devoted mother. She said that it was a peaceful passing. Now, I call him Mr. Whiskers in my spirit.