Ollie talks to me every day. I don't always understand him. But I always listen.
Ollie is one of my closest friends. He's a cat — but he's more than a cat. He's a personality. He tells me something every day. He talks to me. I don't always understand the words, but I always understand the meaning.
He was gone for six and a half years. We thought we'd never see him again. Then someone scanned his chip. Catherine got the call. And he came home.
Now he's the elder. The one who came back.
This house has a culture. We have animals — cats, a dog — and they don't always love each other 100 percent. But they sniff. They look. They know. They accept. And acceptance is expected.
Stella sleeps in the office. Ollie sleeps at the end of Catherine's feet. Kitty is sleeping with my brother Kevin. Wally the dog sleeps with all of the blankets. And I love my family.
Kevin holds the house. He keeps the culture alive while we're gone.
And then there's Kevin. Kevin is always at home when Catherine and I go away — trying to make our lives better, trying to get me out there again, trying to fix the things that have been manipulated in my life, changed my life, made me not the person I could have been. Kevin holds the house. He keeps the culture alive while we're gone.
Animals have been the only release — the ones who don't talk back.
When you've really been on your own for a very long time, you understand. Animals have been the only release — the ones who don't talk back.
They lick. They look at you. They play with you. The only thing they need is to be fed, played with, and to have a home.
They've allowed me to release without judgment. That's the most healing thing I've ever known.
And that, more than any trophy, is what I carry outside with me when the round is over.