The Cat's Tale Affair

Guess I wasn't too surprised when he stopped just inside the entrance to my alley that chilly evening and stared. When you're a cat, and a good-looking one at that, you have to expect some adoration. I mean its not unusual for a human to stop by to say "pretty kitty, kitty" in that odd, high pitched voice people get when they bend down, then scratch you behind your ears before smacking you on the head a few times and leave you feeling, if not comforted, at least a bit dizzy.

But he didn't do any of that. He just stared.

Now, I'll admit I wasn't looking my best because hardly five minutes had passed since I'd fended off two intruders, going after the grub I'd laid claimed to. My tail was looking a bit ragged from the battle. The stratagem I'd hastily chosen had the appearance of an all out retreat but in truth was a cunning maneuver to gain the high ground on top of some old lettuce crates.

I quickly routed the thieves; I can be a fearsome fighter. They left slowly, carefully holding their tales high to signal they didn't want to tangle with me anymore. I allowed them their dignified retreat while keeping an experienced eye on them from my safe and lofty position.

In addition to this recent scuffle, my warrior form was a bit sleeker than usual since the owners of the garbage can where I usually dine had turned vegetarian and the pickings lately have, quite frankly, not been what they used to be.

It is unfortunate that the man and I got off to a less than smooth start. See, as he walked past my alley, I was stealthily emerging from my temporary command post among the almost empty wooden boxes and it fell, knocking over a half dozen of the crates and a metal rack of empty beer bottles. Being sharp-eyed and one to notice this sort of thing, I could tell at once that he was the skittish type because at this minor bit of activity he quickly spun around and crouched, placing his right hand up under his jacket near his heart. He can move fast, I'll give him that, but he needs to learn not to jump at every little sound. He managed not to keel over from heart failure and stood up, scowling.

I immediately made to assure him that he was in no danger from me. I blush to say that the velvety smooth purr I reserved for such tense moments came out more of a strangled yowl due to a celery string hastily swallowed whole when my repast was so rudely interrupted. Once rid of the string and a hair ball that had been rather irksome for the last day or so, I stepped around it and edged a bit closer to get a better look at the man.

Nothing special about him really, but let that be a warning: the most dangerous of humans are the least impressive looking ones. He wasn't huge and sweaty like the ones who came for the garbage cans every few days- he was actually smaller than most. His hair (somewhat like my own yellow fur when it is clean) was a bit longer than the other men who also wore suits and passed my alley everyday without a glance in my direction.

He seemed to be having a hard time deciding what to do because he took one step toward me, more of a stomp actually due to his limp, and spoke, then thought some more. He was either a bit drunk or foreign to our language because his exclamation of surprise and wonder, 'it's a cat!' came out as 'scat!'.

Being basically of a peaceful nature, I didn't want him getting the idea I meant harm so I slowly lay down and rolled over at his feet as not to startle him again. Despite my prone position, he was intimidated by the air of danger about my steely body and turned to flee.

You might not think it but we tough street fighters have a soft spot down deep inside and this guy really nabbed my sympathy. He looked tired, like maybe he'd just been through a struggle of his own. Shoulders slumped, he hadn't come close to smiling the whole time. I've done my fair share of social work letting humans in pitiful shape find the will to live again by pampering me for a few days and I felt sorry for the guy. So, I went after him, rubbing my lean flanks against his legs while doing a little fancy weaving maneuver between them as he walked…it gets them every time. Overcome by my show of sympathy and understanding he sighed in relief and picked me up then tucked me more or less securely under his arm and took me to his home.

Big mistake on my part. Big mistake.

As you know we cats, being so important in the Grand Scheme Of Things, are blessed with more than one life, about nine or so, to be exact, and I'd used up quite a few trying not to inflict too much damage on trespassers over the years. I was down to precious few and this turned out to be a test of my stubbornness and determination to hang on to them..

The first few minutes did not give me reason to be concerned, though. His place, in an older walk-up not very far from my own abode, was, well, not plush by any stretch of the imagination, but it beat the oil pan I usually slept under and was a few degrees warmer. There was a brown sofa that looked soft enough and the usual table and chairs. A smaller table was in front of the couch, covered with books. Lots of books. In fact, there were books and thick magazines everywhere. After locking the door behind us, he dropped me and wandered off down the hall.

Now, I wasn't going to complain about how the man smelled, but I must admit I was glad to hear water running in the bath. Good, honest, earthy smells, like those in my home alley, are perfume for the snout, but he had a peculiar odor about him…sort of a smoky smell. He needed a good scrubbing.

I decided to take a look around while he put the wire brush to good use, maybe see if there was a few fish heads scattered about his little place. Imagine my surprise to when I suddenly found myself dangling by the nape of my neck over the tub, then plunged into the foul stuff and swished from one end to the other!

But not for long. Hospitality is one thing…torture is another. I protested mightily and drew on my experience in close combat to fight my way out of his grasp and make good use of the toilet and shower curtain to affect my escape. Sanctuary was just down the hall under a pile of clothes in his closet. They smelled no better than he did.

He immediately realized what he'd done and his self-loathing was great.

"Why? You old, stupid Tom" he lamented, Tom being his name apparently, then begged for my return"Cat, come back here"

Yes, a harsh thing to call one's self but it showed the depth of his remorse and I felt a flicker of pity for him. His caustic words of regret continued for a few minutes until drowned out by the sound of running water in the shower. I licked myself dry and snuggled down deeper. This was a valuable, but painful, lesson for Tom to remember: one does not bathe one's guest but only bathes one's self.

Now, what happened when he came in from the shower was peculiar. I saw Tom, naked but for a towel around his waist, and he had marks over his arms from our brief struggle. I know they were from my claws because they were red. I raised my head and when the underwear, whose fly I'd been peering through, fell to the side, I could see more clearly and I frankly gaped.

Get this- he had marks all over- old marks, on his arms, and on his chest. There were many on his back and a few on his legs. Some marks were long and wide, not thin little lines like mine, and a few were round puckers as if a huge tooth had sunk into his shoulder or arm.

Don't you think he would have learned from experience? I mean, either this guy loves tangling with wet cats (big ones at that) or he just doesn't take a hint to leave them alone.

This started me thinking, as he dressed. Maybe he fancied himself to be a sort of a cat social worker. Misguided, certainly, about the bathing part, but nevertheless a kind human who is just trying to help out my brothers and much larger cousins. The bath was a social blunder, I allowed, and nothing more. I decided to let this affront pass and went to seek the tenderhearted fellow out. I was hungry.

But food was not next on this would be cat-savior's agenda. I know Tom was trying to make up for the unfortunate misunderstanding about the bath by bandaging my tail, and I don't want to appear ungrateful, but winding the full twelve-yard roll of gauze around it was a bit much. I mean, the bleeding had just about stopped and there were only a few inches of raw skin showing among the remaining fur. Besides, the mess started coming undone as soon as I jumped down off his kitchen table and stalked away to perch on the back of the couch.

Well, I'm thanking my lucky stars we're four stories up and no one can see the bandage trailing behind me like a white flag of surrender, when I glance out the window and discover I'm being laughed at. Across the way sits a Persian. I hate Persians. They think they're something special with their blue eyes and fancy collars and canned food.

I laid my ears back and flicked my tail (and attached dressing) menacingly. This maneuver usually renders my opponents weak from fear. The milksop across the way was no better than the others. He shuddered in terror before yawning to signal his submission. House cats are such cowards.

The guy, who has blue eyes of his own, meanwhile, is trying to catch the streamer from my tail and is calling himself an "ignorant creature" in self-recrimination. It was a terrible job of patching up my tail, I must say, but not worthy of the dozen or so curses (all in different languages) Tom heaped upon himself. He had, after all, a bandage of his own around his left hand and from the way he grimaced every now and then, and it must have pained him. I know what it's like to operate at less than optimum, so flushed with victory over the miserable Persian I decided to forgive Tom.

Finally, he snagged the gauze and looped it around, somehow tying it securely … in a huge bow. Me, a mighty warrior with such a thing on my tail! I unforgave him. I glanced around and saw that the Persian was still there, staring at me with a smirk on it's homely face, and thought it best to slink quietly away from the window- I didn't want to cause the pathetic creature any more anguish.

Tom limped into the kitchen and my tail-cum-flagpole twitched when he came to stop at the refrigerator. My heart softened. Food, finally! Now this is the good part where the human lovingly opens a can of fragrant tuna or salmon and pours a bowl of warm milk for me to wash it all down with. It ends with a soft pat on the noggin as I lick my whiskers clean and curl up for a long nap.

Tom stuck his head into the refrigerator and pulled out a paper box. I'm betting he's not a vegetarian since he's wearing a gun so figure it's going to be the two of us carnivores chowing down on something that didn't run fast enough. Wrong.

He sniffed, then plopped the box on the floor in front of me. "Here, eat if you want."

I sniffed. I didn't want. But, one still has to be polite so I settled back on my haunches to wait for the next course.

"What, you don't like stir fry"

I stared pointedly- he wasn't eating it either. In fact, he wasn't eating anything from his refrigerator, just half a glass of clear liquid from the freezer. He shrugged and left with glass in hand.

After waiting patiently in the dark kitchen for two hours, no more food seemed to be forthcoming, so I decided to hunt for Tom. I found my host, of all things, asleep in bed. It was just 3a.m. and there he was, sprawled there on his back, still in his clothes. He must have accidentally fallen asleep and I knew he would appreciate the opportunity to make things right. Surely, he didn't mean to give me only limp vegetables to eat!

I meowed a few times from my position in the doorway carefully adjusting the tone, intensity and length each time, but he didn't show any signs of rousing, so I moved closer, jumping up onto his chest. That got him awake! Why, I didn't even have a chance to retract my claws before he had his gun against my nose.

A gun to my nose!

That did it. No more understanding and forgiveness from me! His self-disgust was great by the sound of the shouted curses that followed me down the hall, along with his shoe and a clock, but it was too late- I have my pride.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. I found a snug spot behind the desk, between two stacks of books and under an empty carton of ammo that gave me a good view of any activity that might take place on the lower 2 inches of the living room floor, and sat watch.

Tom didn't wake until well after sunrise and a visitor arrived soon thereafter. It was a female human and she was apparently concerned about Tom's hand. He wasn't too pleased about taking off the bandage and letting her see it. One thing I've noticed about the females is that they end up getting their way. I admire that.

She went into the kitchen to make coffee and seeing the meal I'd declined on the floor asked Tom about it, only she didn't call him Tom. He muttered something about having a cat in the apartment and she, of course, was delighted but cautious. Perhaps she knew of his bad habit of washing cats.

"Illya, what on earth are you doing with a cat"

"…pathetic…damned, ungrateful…" and so on, he lamented but his curses of self-castigation fell on deaf ears as far as I was concerned.

"Oh, it can't be all that bad" she laughed. He must have never put a gun to her nose, is all I can say. She asked where I was, most likely in hopes of foiling yet another unwise cat ablution, and Tom, or Illya, as she called him, was too embarrassed to even speak to me so had to resort to shoving the broom under the desk to get my attention. I decided to go see what he wanted.

"What have you done to the poor thing" she asked when I emerged. I flicked my tail, which had picked up quite a load of dust and small dead bugs from under the desk, as I sauntered past him straight to the nice lady who had bent down. Predictably, her voice rose. "Sweet little kitty. Why don't you come home with April who'll take care of you, not like silly Illya."

I couldn't hear all of Tom's reply since I was quickly lifted and pressed to the softest, sweetest smelling bosom I've ever encountered. There was more talk between them, snatches of which I caught here and there about an explosion and interrogation and a meeting with 'the old man'. Upon announcing that she wanted to take me home, Tom was devastated.

"Don't! Come back" was his pitiful plea, before returning to his self-destructive taunts with a heartfelt"You worthless, filthy beast"

"Illya" The angel cradling me admonished, then, while scratching me tenderly under my chin, tried to explain to me Tom's misery. "He can't help it."

I was unswayed. When she left, I went with her and she's never regretted it since.

As for Tom, he's come by our place a few times on the pretense of visiting April. But, I know it's me he longs for because he watches my every movement out of the corner of his eye.