Milo, Otis and my fragile masculinity

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Buster, in the background, overcome by Rocco, who will melt the heart of any man or beast.

graziano


For anyone who has ever read this column, the following statement will come as no surprise.

For anyone who doesn’t know me, let me say this as a means of introduction: I am not a manly man[1].

I am not particularly strong or tough or resolute. My beard fills in like a patchy lawn, and I am woefully inept with tools and home improvement projects. I know nothing about cars[2].

But, still, there were times when I wanted to muster some masculine pride, a modicum of machismo.

As I’ve aged and watched myself transform into a “tattered coat upon a stick[3],” there were, indeed, times when I’d stand in front of the bedroom mirror and try to summon some semblance of virility.

I wasn’t completely neutered. Until recently.

Enter Rocco, the kitten my son brought home from work[4]. Kittens, of course, are a far cry from a “man’s” best friend, and many males view those adorable balls of fur as somewhat effete.

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Rocco and Buster.

But Rocco alone did not possess the power to completely emasculate me, nor did owning a pug named Buster.

However, when Rocco and Buster became best friends under my roof and turned the house into a set from “The Adventures of Milo and Otis,” it was time to turn in my Man Card.

Now, as I stare down the barrel of 47 years old[5], as the kitten leaps onto the pug’s back and they both adorably wrestle, my Man Card has been officially revoked.

While I tried to maintain the last vestiges of my manhood, alas, I failed.

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It is useless to resist the cuteness.

First, I tried by retreating to my Man Cave with a twelve-pack of Bud Light and watching hours of straight sports—basketball and hockey, professional and college—placing careless bets through a bookie and cursing at top volume while punching pillows[6].

Then the kitten and the pug made their way downstairs and began adorably wrestling.

Fail.

Next I tried camping on the living room couch with a plate of extra-spicy Buffalo wings, more Bud Light and a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot, settling down to watch a Rambo-marathon and tying a red bandanna around my head.

Then the kitten and the pug jumped onto the couch and began adorably wrestling.

Another fail.

While I still refuse to use the baby-voice my wife uses, the one that raises an octave when speaking to the new best friends[7], I’ve succumbed to their cuteness, surrendered my Man Card and bid sayonara to brawn.

The truth is that I’m not a manly man, and what a relief.messages 0

___________________

[1] That might fall under the umbrella of “understatement.”

[2] Or any type of engine-powered machinery.

[3] That’s yet another Yeats quote in one of my columns; hence, another reason I fail meet the mark of “manly man”: I’m a poet and I read poetry.

[4] Where exactly he got said kitten is still befuddling us.

[5] My birthday is March 28. Presents and cards can be sent to me c/o Manchester Ink Link, 1087 Elm Street, #303, Manchester, NH 03104.

[6] I realize it would’ve been manlier to punch holes in the drywall, but I didn’t want to hurt my hand and my name isn’t Kyle.

[7] She also employs first-person plural pronouns to include the pug, the kitten and herself, along with consecutive rhetorical questions, i.e. “Why are we so sad? Is Nate being mean to us?”


 

About this Author

Nathan Graziano

Nathan Graziano lives in Manchester with his wife and kids. He's the author of nine collections of fiction and poetry. His most recent book, Born on Good Friday was published by Roadside Press in 2023. He's a high school teacher and freelance writer, and in his free time, he writes bios about himself in the third person. For more information, visit his website: http://www.nathangraziano.com