Cat People and Pussies Galore

At one point in time, my idea of homework was suspending

chipped beef on a string from my bedroom ceiling in an effort to train
my cats to increase their vertical leaps. Starting off at about a foot
and a half as kittens, I had those “Sky-Cats” rippin' chipped-chop beef
off a string at three to four feet from the floor at six months old. That
was long time ago when I was 10-12 years old, but my love for cats
and ALL animals continued.

That big, chronological clock kept ticking and I suddenly found

myself “settled down” with one woman for good; the aforementioned
Nancy. One of the big reasons it was a no-brainer was our shared
values and interests, and one of our shared interests was the love of
cats. Nancy already had two when we moved in together and just
getting to know them (and they me) took me back to the old days with
my “Sky-Cats” tearin’ beef off strings.

Magnificent beasts, probably the most coordinated (pound for

pound) land mammal in history, these feline-fighter-jets are
peripatetic, frenetic bursts of electrified energy with seven times
better night vision than humans. With floating shoulders and a
solitary grace and style that's visually beguiling, cats of all sizes and
styles dance a dance that perhaps only athletes, poets and artists
can truly appreciate.

Years later, I wrote a brief letter to my "fake" (non-biological) son

(at that time in the Gulf of Iraq) who was in the "real" U.S. Navy about
a kitten his "real" Mom (and my “fake” wife as we weren’t legally
married) had purchased from the Humane Society. My letter says it
all about the singular style, grace and coordination of the great cats.

Jan. 4, 2006, Sunday

Subject: The Grey Ghost (our kitten) riding the hump of the
Wildebeest.

Patrick: First and foremost I trust, hope, pray and believe you're
safe and better than sound (no Navy pun intended). I've seen many
things during my career as a dilettante, overachiever, underachiever,
 dreamer, cynical realist, blowhard, orator, raconteur, smart-guy,
dumb-guy, idiot savant, savant and just plain idiot.

Tonight I witnessed an interlude of bestiality between your mother

and the Grey Ghost (Smoky) the likes of which made my ears ring
and my eyes widen with stunned disbelief and admiration. The
Ghost climbed your mother's shoulder and proceeded to festoon
himself around the back of her neck with a languid grace that belied
his (soon to be seen) intentions.

The poor Mumster hasn't seen her haircutting guy for ages and
as a result is rather "hirsute" (hairy) as they say. Kinda like those
Gieco Insurance cavemen.

Smoky, the Grey Ghost as a kitten. Imagine him riding atop

Nancy’s head of hair like a gray hood ornament on a golden helmet.
He was all ears. If he had ten or fifteen more IQ points, he could
talk… I mean really converse.

At your Mummy's cue of mewling and soothing noises, the Great

 Grey wrapped both his dusky paws around the Mumster's neck from
behind and began to ravage the back of her head like a leopard atop
a small, wounded gazelle.

The problem is, your Ma's hair is as thick as the frontal plate of a
Wildebeest and more impenetrable than the hide of a Black Rhino or
the coat of an American Bison in midwinter. The Kitty's young, yet
exceedingly sharp and mobile claws met this "mat-of-doom" like Evel
Knievel plowing into a bus at the end of an unsuccessful jump.

The sheer fear and incredulity that registered on Smoke's leonine

face was something to behold. Barely able to dent the helmet-like
shield of golden locks, poor Smoke leaped from his precarious perch
like Mo and Stan (our other cats) used to beeline for "The Pipe of All
Knowledge" (a neighbor's drainage pipe).

I once saw an apple fall from a tree and hit your Ma atop the
head only to bounce right back up into the tree and REATTACH
ITSELF BY STEM to the branch.

ABOVE Left: “Mumster’s Mop” in all its glory. One can just see the
Grey Ghost atop that mop riding those golden locks. Above Right:
Jack’s fake kids with his fake wife and real love in 1984, before he
became their fake husband/father. It wasn’t too long after that he
became a turtle without his shell, utterly exposed and vulnerable to
that merciless predator called love. Life was real then, at least for
them….

Not to be cruel or make fun of "The Mumster's Mop", but perhaps

the Navy or other sectors of the military would be interested in some
type of "renewable-regrowable" defense system. Not too unlike the
"Star Wars Defense System", "The Great Hairier Reef" could be the
answer to a myriad of questions Congress and many of us ask but
are too afraid to answer.

Enough of this diversion, I just espied Smoke sneaking out of the

bathroom with the magnifying make-up mirror slung across his back
and some mighty sturdy pruning shears clenched in his teeny teeth.

Can the Mumster cut the mustard; or will her hair get in the way
of "cat evolution" and the natural progression of shared animal-
human knowledge? It used to be "cut to the chase"...now in cat
parlance it's "cuts to the face!"

See you very soon but way too late for me,
Love, Fake Dad Supreme (FDS) John

P.S.: It’s only been a couple of months, but it seems like you've
been gone for years and I've been alive forever. All I can hope for is
that
some of Mumster's hair starts growing on my head so I can become
a "Ted Koppel Look-alike".

Our other cat's names were Morris and Stan, and both were
renowned about town. His name was Morris, but around the
neighborhood he was known as the "Beige Bullet". A heart the size
of Jupiter, a brain the size of my own (on a good day) and feet as
fleet as Mercury's; “The Beige Bullet" was a legend in his own time
and a hero in mine. Covering over 100 feet in under two seconds, I
once saw The Bullet run up a steep hill studded with rocks, ivy,
bushes and myrtle in beige blur. Paired with "Stan the Man", a hefty,
hedonistic orange tabby, they were counterparts to each other, truly
opposites without agendas - only love for the grass, flowers, trees
and human friends that surrounded them.

I remember the neighbor had an eight-inch drainage pipe that

stuck out from their backyard hillside. One of Mo's favorite
amusements was arching his back like a cartoon cat then exploding
in a frenzy of speed, racing across the lawn to end up inside the
drainage pipe. I dubbed this pipe the "Pipe of All Knowledge", and
repeatedly told Nancy that this was where Stan and Mo got all their
“wisdom”.

I recalled telling Nancy, “I think I'll be stickin' my head up that pipe

more than a few times this summer to get some smarts.” Never one
to miss an opening, Nancy observed aloud that prior to sticking my
head INTO the pipe, I would first have to pull it OUT OF somewhere
else. Well said.

ABOVE: The “Pipe of All Knowledge” during an early spring thaw,

March 2, 2007. You can’t really tell, but my head would fit perfectly
into that pipe. It doesn’t look very inviting or informative, but at this
juncture of my life, everything was a pipe dream. I’d constantly
opine, “I’ll tell you, those cats always look a lot smarter after visiting
the “P.O.A.K.”.

Undoubtedly among the saddest days of my and Nancy’s lives

occurred when Morris and Stannie died. Time finally caught up with
The Beige Bullet on December 17th, 2005. Nineteen years old and
beseiged by sporadic seizures (probably caused by a brain tumor)
and kidney cancer, we had to put him down at the vets. I last saw
MoMo in a vet assistant's arms, and as he was carried out of the
room and our lives.

I looked him in the eyes and said, "Keep runnin' Bullet, I'll catch
up with you soon enough."

Big Stannie made it until December 26th of 2006, when old age
reduced him to virtually nothing and he literally died in my arms at
6:30 in the morning. Stannie, who also was nineteen, had a great life
and a great final summer and fall, and enjoyed an incredibly mild
winter (till mid Jan.). I’ll will never forget a last, late summer evening
when Stannie, like a big Cheeto, laid curled up next to me on a rock
still warm from the sun, purring contentedly on a perfect evening, in
our perfect yard, in (at that moment) two perfect lives. Wherever they
are now, Morris is still his name, but around their new neighborhood
he's known as "The Beige Bullet" and Stannie is known, appropriately
and perfectly as Big Stannie.
Stan the Man at the height of his powers
 The Beige Bullet enjoying his last spring, 2006

Back to Reality; THE Super "Bowl"

Wayne French often found himself at the epicenter of these

ground breaking experiments and adventures that continue on until
this day. His innate lust for life and devil-may-care attitude, bolstered
by breathing gasoline fumes and suckin' on Bob Marley joints as big
as oxygen cylinders ( when he was younger) made the Frenchman a
natural born "volunteer".

Years later, driven by winter blues and boredom, he once again

was my target for torment and terror. When my best customer
mentioned his bowling league exploits and prowess and suggested
"we go bowling sometime," I took him up on it. Wayne worked for a
company whose products he and I jointly sold to my customers,
Steve and John, thus Wayne was naturally invited to this "Super
Bowl" as I dubbed it.
 The "Super Bowl" was scheduled more than a week away, so I
had plenty of time to think of ways to spice up the action at the alleys.
Like many of my brilliant ideas, this epiphany came out of nowhere
and had no rhyme or reason to it, other than tormenting Wayne for
some comic relief.

It was the day of the "Super Bowl" and my “fake wife” Nancy was
getting ready upstairs while I was REALLY getting ready downstairs
with the Frenchman's "surprise pack". I had twenty or thirty baby
squid spread out on papers towels and was intently picking out "the
best ones" when Nancy walked into the kitchen and stopped dead in
her tracks.

"What are you doing?" she asked guardedly. "What are those?"

“That’s two questions already,” I said evenly. “You’ve got one

more and you’ve reached your limit.” Did you ever notice it’s a
woman’s thing with the questions? I’d had told sweet-lips the week
before she’d get three questions a day and that was it. Man I’m
good!

"They're baby squid and I'm pickin' out the ones with the best
tentacles," I replied. I continued to stuff the glass jar "surprise pack"
with what I called “select grade baby squid” as Nancy looked on in
disbelief.

"What ARE you doing?" she asked again (that’s three).

"Look, I know exactly what I'm doing; just don't you worry about
what I'm doing!" I snapped. Thinking back, that I said this in all
seriousness makes me wonder to this day if I wasn't just a little
“funny” in the head. Don't ask Nancy.

I screwed the lid onto the "surprise pack", gathered up the

rejected squid that didn't make the cut and put them into a freezer
bag.

"I don't mean to pry," said Nancy, "but what are you gonna do
with those?" That question put her over the limit, but when you’re in
love you don’t even count your heartbeats.

"Well, for starters, we're gonna’ make sure we get to the bowling
alley AFTER Wayne and Jaws, then were gonna’ decorate Wayne's
car with these extra, bagged squid."

My fake wife looked at me with real disgust and shot back, "I'M
not going to be 'decorating' ANYTHING with those things. What the
hell's wrong with you, how do you think of this stuff?"

How does one explain genius and divine inspiration to an

earthling bound by corporeal constraints? I stared at my beautiful
would-be compatriot with hooded eyes and said "Put the jar into your
purse, please." When she hesitated momentarily, I recalled what an
older guy advised me about a pivotal point in a relationship.

I’d told him I was trying to break up with a girlfriend and wasn’t
quite sure how to do it.

“You gotta’ make a clean break of it; period” he said.

“You mean just tell her it’s over?” I asked.

“No” moaned my pal, “I said make a clean break of it-her NECK

you idiot; a clean break of her neck! That always ends it.”

My Lord; I’ll say…

Once again I looked her in the eyes and gently suggested she
insert the “squid-pack” into her smashingly lovely, stinking (or soon to
be) purse.

My tone must have conveyed enough urgency to goad my lovely

into compliance as she readily yet gingerly took the glass tube of
tentacled terrors and jammed 'em into her purse.

We were off to the alleys!

Stuffing a couple of these babies into a bowling ball really gets things
going at the alleys! You should have seen Wayne pullin’ these slick
Willies out of those bowling ball holes…STEE-RIKE!!!

Arriving fashionably late, I grabbed my miniature "Sea World

Wonder Bag" and started festooning Wayne's car with strategically
placed cephalopods. Crammed behind the door handles, pinned
under the windshield wipers, stuffed gently into the crevices around
the side view mirrors, I turned Wayne's car into a rolling, aquatic
sideshow. No matter how we bowled, we were sure to end the day
on a high note. Life was good.

There are 70 million bowlers in America and I’m not one of them.

Neither was Nancy, the Frenchman, his girlfriend "Jaws" (so called
due to her excessive talking) or the customers we were
"entertaining". We all met at a bowling alley and there we were: Me
and Nancy, Wayne and "Jaws", and Steve and John with wives Janet
and Mary Grace. All of us rented shoes and used lane balls except
Steve, who was the "pro" of the group. Thinking back, I don't think
John and M.G. even bowled.

By the fourth frame of the second game I’d already revealed the
hidden agenda for my little tentacled friends to Steve and John. My
plans were received with, I thought, approval and great anticipation.
What's an afternoon of bowling with friends without some baby squid
thrown in? You gotta’ live a little, stop and smell the squid.

Despite the distraction of Jaw's incessant chatter, the Frenchman

was bowling the game of his, or possibly anyone's life. He'd made
nine strikes in row and had a perfect game going when he decided to
go to the men's room. Now was the time to strike, but I had to act
quickly as the men's room was directly behind our lanes.

"Nance, gimme’ the squid jar" I said. "Steve, bring the

Frenchman's ball over here."

"Is that really squid?" asked Jaws with awe.

I held one of my “Grade A-select" babies up for all to see and

noticed Steve's wife, Janet, swoon a bit as the eight-legged wonder
shimmered and danced in the alley lights.

Stuffing baby squid into the fingers and thumb holes of Wayne's
ball with deft determination, I then wiped it dry and handed it back to
Steve. I saw Wayne coming out of the men's room just as Steve
placed Wayne’s ball back onto the ball return area.

Blithely bouncing down the steps into the alley pits with the
exuberance of a standard poodle, "Mr. I-Gotta’-Perfect-Game-Going"
picked his ball up with two hands and gently rolled it into position for
digital insertion. All eyes were on the Frenchman and we were all
bustin' a gut trying not to laugh as our bodies shook with anticipatory
mirth.

His eyes focused on the ten-pin triangle sixty feet away, Wayne
snaked his fingers and thumb into the bowling ball's squid stuffed
holes.

"What's....? What the..?" A thinly veiled look of horror and

comprehension clouded his face as he began pullin' baby squid from
his ball with soft, popping noises. Whirling about and while looking
directly towards me, we all felt the heat from his accusatory stare.
 "Squid!" he screamed. "You filled my ball full of squid!" Indeed I
had.

He popped one unusually large specimen out of the thumb hole,

and with a hateful glance, violently threw it over the our heads in the
general direction of the men's room. We watched it cartwheel over
us in a graceful arc as we desperately tried to contain our laughter.

At that moment a young bowler of about six years old had the
misfortune to exit the men's room. As he innocently walked towards
his own lane, the squid flew through the air and smacked wetly into
the middle of his forehead like a giant, gray, eight-legged spitball.

Stunned with surprise, the lad took half a step backward as the
"flying squid" slid off his face and plopped onto the floor. Looking
down at something the group was sure he'd never seen before, the
kid let out an incredibly high pitched scream and took off like a rocket.

Personally, I thought the kid was lucky he'd visited the men's
room BEFORE getting "squid-hit", as there would have been plenty of
panty washing for his mommy that night.

"Wayne, you better go pick up your squid before the manager

comes down here and raises hell," I said. "I don't think you're
allowed to bring those things bowling," I deadpanned, "they wear too
many shoes."

Well, you can imagine what this did to "Mr. Perfect Game's"
concentration, let alone everyone else’s. After laboriously trying to
ream out the slime encrusted holes in his ball, the Frenchman gave
up and stuck it back on the rental rack for a less fortunate bowler to
glom
onto later. With the finger holes of that ball as slippery as liquid
Teflon, I could just hear the screams later that evening as the
runaway ball bounced about the alleys.

Finishing with three open frames and smelling a little fishy, the
Frenchman was a bit miffed but I assuaged him with three ice cold
ales and a hot pretzel, and all was forgiven. You have to keep
everything in perspective...this WAS "customer bowling", after all.

After hale and hearty hugs and farewells, we all left the bowling
alley in a fine "frame" of mind. A light rain had started and Nancy and
I watched Wayne and Jaws drive off into the dusk with tentacled
silhouettes waving their eight-legged goodbyes in the wind,
astounded neither of them had noticed their squid-rigged car. We
couldn't believe it.

Climbing into our vehicle, I put my cell phone on speaker and

quickly thumbed in Wayne's number.

"Hello," Wayne said.

"That was fun, huh?" I asked rhetorically. Nancy and I glanced

at each other, knowing the Frenchman had to have his wipers on and
had to have seen the six or seven squid beneath the wipers.

"Hey Wayne, did you notice anything funny when you and
Noreen got into the car? I asked.

"Not really, why?" he warily asked.

"Do you see anything in your side mirrors or maybe -" I never
finished.

"Squid!" he screamed. "There's squid everywhere, Jesus,

they're in my mirrors, and a bunch of em are floppin' around my
wipers," he moaned; “I can't take any more of these squid," he
lamented.

I guiltily hit the “end” button, laughing as hard as ever. Dinner

was going to taste especially good tonight. I’m thinkin' calamari for
an appetizer. Squid have three hearts but after that evening I’m
pretty sure they’d also stolen Wayne’s. Let’s make it four-of-a-kind
and raise the bet.