“I always feel a little better when I look at my cats.”
For a tough guy, Bukowski was a bit of a softy.
His cats ended up paying him back for his kindness.
In his later years Bukowski got deathly sick. He went to all these expensive Beverly Hills doctors. But they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him.
So after a solid year of feeling like dogshit on the verge of death, one day Bukowski was taking one of his cats to the vet. The vet had his office in the seedy part of town. As soon as he saw Bukowski the vet said: “You’re obviously suffering from tuberculosis.”
Which turned out to be the exact correct diagnosis. The doc prescribed some meds for TB. And Bukowski immediately recovered.
TB is a “poor man’s disease.” Which is why none of the expensive Beverly Hills doctors were familiar with it.
But the point is: If Bukowski hadn’t been caring for his cats he probably would have died. The cats saved his ass.