My Farewell Plan

As I get older, I’m trying my best to live my life in a way that “feral” gets used in my obituary.

Now, I don’t mean feral like biting folks or rooting through trash cans—though I admit there was a stretch in my twenties that could have gone either way. What I mean is the kind of feral that makes people at my funeral raise their eyebrows and nod slowly, like, “Yeah, that tracks.”

There’s something beautiful about that word. It says, “He didn’t go quietly.”

It hints at barefoot mornings, shirtless yardwork, and the kind of man who might’ve hollered at the moon once or twice to see if it hollered back. A man who didn’t shave for church, not out of rebellion, but because he forgot there was church.

Now, I wake up and do whatever I want, so long as it doesn’t require a password or pants with a button. There’s a freedom in that.

Dogs understand. My Buddy—half German Shorthair, half question mark—knows exactly what I mean. He doesn’t wear pants or obey instructions unless treats are involved, and no one’s ever called him anything but a good boy.

I like to think I’ve earned the right to be a little unpredictable. After all, I paid my taxes, raised a son, loved one woman consistently, and never backed into another vehicle—on purpose.

Surely the Good Lord grants some leeway to those of us who survived dial-up internet and rotary phones. I have no interest in growing old gracefully. I want to slide into my golden years sideways, coffee in one hand, whiskey in the other, covered in dog hair and slightly sunburnt.

The trouble is, feral folks don’t leave behind neat filing cabinets or organized garages. No, we leave behind mystery keys and unlabeled cords that look important but aren’t.

We have spice racks filled with expired potions and canned goods so old they remember Y2K. My son will one day sort through my belongings and say, “Why did Dad have a drawer full of single screws and one roller skate?”

Because, son. That’s the kind of man I was.

I once tried to explain this to a young friend who asked what my “retirement goals” were. I told him I was working on my obituary.

That, and I hoped it would contain at least one tale of mild trespassing, a feral chicken, and something about a hot tub not belonging to me. The kid blinked at me, then blinked again.

Look, not everyone’s cut out for the straight-and-narrow. Some of us wander a bit.

Not lost—just on a different trail. Mine has fewer road signs and more squirrel crossings, but it gets me where I need to go, eventually.

Besides, the detours always have better stories.

When the time comes, I don’t want folks to say, “He was a good man.”

That’s fine, sure. But I’d prefer, “He was a handful.”

I want someone to shake their head at my photo and mutter, “That rascal.”

I want there to be laughter through the tears and maybe a small fire in the backyard for old times’ sake.

And when they get to the part about who I was, I hope some brave soul leans into the mic, clears their throat, and says, “Tom Darby didn’t pass away. He just wandered off. Feral to the end.”