Now, added to the meal was a peyote desert. We were all sitting around the fire, tripping out pretty good, feeling a little guilty about eating “Axil” the cat.

By the way - the cat’s name was Axil, as someone had claim to recognize. I don't know how, it was skinned. Possibly through simple subtraction, as Axil was missing from the group of cats that would show up for dinner every night. Some had felt guilty, some had felt that it was no different from eating a cow or a chicken.

The Buddhists view was simple enough. When it came time to excrete, just go into the vegetable garden or by a newly planted tree or plant, and excrete Axil’s remains back into the earth, thus fertilizing the earth and Axil may return as a tomato or something and life goes on. And so it was settled "Can we trip in peace now?"

On top of the highest point of the land, was a decrepid old cabin that was half there and half dismantled. In the middle of the half there and the half not, was an old beat up piano that I liked to go up and play. There was a great star drenched sky out.

I lit a candle and began to walk up many paths that would eventually lead to the piano shack. In those days I enjoyed nothing better than to trip out, lost in the woods in the middle of night. I can't remember why, it just seemed to be as good as it got. You're only young once, may as well live it up as you see fit.

Of course, nowadays, that would be among the last things I'd want to do. In fact I’m perfectly content just sitting in this cafe here in Paris, surrounded by civilized people, writing this story about the old days when madmen ate cats in the woods. The elegant couple at the next table here probably just ate frog legs for dinner.

Anyway, meanwhile back at the ranch: I'm walking up a path in the dark with candle in hand, spirit on high, when I hear a "Meeiyoww!" You know, the sound a cat makes. I figured I was definitely imagining things. "Meeyoww!" I heard it again. “Feline and peyote! Perhaps not a good combo.” Was this within me or without me?

A little furry creature appeared out of the bush. No phantoms, just a friendly little cat looking for a soul mate. So I put it on my shoulder and continued up the path to the piano on the hill.

I sat down on the rusty old barrel that was used as a piano bench, placed the candle on the piano, and the cat down next to me on the barrel, and began to play. A roof above my right hand and stars above my left. I'd play the old jalopy with half the keys missing, with the sound of music rolling down the hills in hopes to soothe the beast in the man and the man in the beast. Many of the folks there would express gratitude for my little midnite sessions. I guess it was like I'd lullaby the land to sleep. “This is the Sandman coming to you live from the top of Mount Wheelers.”

On this night I must have played for about an hour with the little cat sitting by me the whole time. Ridding of all paranoia about the last supper down there in the knoll, I got up from the old piano which had turned into some kind of peyote blitzed alter, picked up the candle, and the cat, and descended down the hillside, the cat jumping off my shoulder just around the spot that it appeared from, and there disappeared.

I stayed at Wheeler’s Ranch for a month or 2. I may have stayed longer, but the bulldozers were coming. I think it was shut down on a building code. The cabins were just kind of thrown together and weren't up to legal par, so we were forced to evacuate.

A few years ago I acquired an acoustic guitar that I connected with right off the bat. A perfect rare fit. It's a custom-made guitar. Recently, I noticed inside the guitar, just next to the maker’s name, it's written in small print, “Made in Sebastapol, CA.”

This is a very far out notion, but imagine the possibility that the lumber used to make the guitar, was from a tree fertilized by Axil’s remains.

"What would be the odds on that?"

SAL BERNARDI

Rue de la Roquette
Paris, France