Let us go then, you and I…
It is often asked of me where the hell I got a name like Prufrock for my cat. Around ten years or so ago, I would have been surprised that people didn’t get the reference, but I’ve gotten used to the fact that it is a bit obscure. It’s from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” the poem by T.S. Eliot.

I was in college when I discovered that not everyone has as groovy a teacher as Mr. Huckaby in their past; he taught Humanities at Canyon High School, and he’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. The syllabus for the class included the Oedipus Cycle by Sophocles (For those Theatre geeks out there — yes, he showed us “Gospel at Colonus”); The Illiad and The Odyssey; the play “A Doll’s House;” and a host of other material that was more challenging than that given by most other English teachers. Among all of this, we studied “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” Having studied it in High School fer chrissakes, I figured it was the kind of thing everyone studied… Like The Grapes of Wrath, or Catcher in the Rye (Or A Separate Peace, which I still hate to this day). So it was a shock to me to go out in the world and not have everyone be familiar with it.

It is — you may have guessed by now — my favorite poem. It’s one of my favorite pieces of literature, actually. The study of it wasn’t that much of a treat; other people in the class didn’t like it much, actually — well, didn’t like Prufrock himself that much — whereas I (obviously) identified with him… In an unhealthy, teenage-angst sorta way, I suppose. I still have the paper I wrote on it (all the way back in 1988), and his note on the front (above the grade: “Content — A, Construction — A” I might add) says, among other things: “I even sense a little compassion for Prufrock, which is very precocious.” I recall thinking the last word was “Precious…” It’s only through the years that I’ve realized that the former is what he meant.

Anyway, before I go into it at all, I’m gonna just give you a link to the poem in it’s entirety for your reading pleasure. One note though: there is a passage in Italian which begins the poem, the footnote for which I will give here, so we can just get on with it then:

Epigraph: These lines are taken from Dante’s “Inferno”, and are spoken by the character of Count Guido da Montefelltro. Dante meets the punished Guido in the Eighth chasm of Hell. Guido explains that he is speaking freely to Dante only because he believes Dante is one of the dead who could never return to earth to report what he says. Translated from the original Italian, the lines are as follows: “If I thought that my reply would be to someone who would ever return to earth, this flame would remain without further movement; but as no one has ever returned alive from this gulf, if what I hear is true, I can answer you with no fear of infamy.”

So… yeah. Those of you who have met my dear cat (or have heard tell of him) know that the irony is quite amusing. Indecisive he is, like every cat he is constantly in search of the perfect place to nap… But timid? That he is not. Prufrock approaches everything he hasn’t seen before in the same way: he walks up to it; sorta sniffs at it from a distance; holds up one very large (7-clawed) paw; and very precisely and carefully… Hits it really, really hard. When it doesn’t hit him back, he hits it a couple more times to be certain that he’s proven it means him no harm. It’s a quality about him that I really admire; beating the shit out of anything that confuses or frightens him. He’s a brute.

Those of you aware that T.S. Eliot also wrote a collection of poems entitled “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats” (which was set to music my Andrew Lloyd Webber and made into the musical with the far more recognizable name of “Cats”) will be sorta amused by that connection. But the Eliot cat-credentials are a part of this poem too, as you’ll recall in the passage about the fog… I love the imagery. I love cats — as Eliot himself did.

I love the Modern period as a whole, really — the men and women bruised and battered by World War I, facing a world where the Classics just no longer apply… I love that he references them throughout his work (As did James Joyce) as though trying to fit their poetry into the life of Modern Man. I do also, of course, identify with Prufrock. Who hasn’t felt — at some point in their lives — that they were essentially seeing the the world pass by, while watching it all through a window?

Now that I think of it though, that’s a pretty good description of my Prufrock’s day; watching the traffic of Florida St. from above. Maybe it’s an appropriate name after all.