Cat Encounters of the Close Kind

Over the years, I’ve written several stories about the cats who shared my life.  Lest you wince, I assure you my cat stories are neither sentimental nor sappy.  While I like cats, I’ve looked deeply into their eyes.  They all flash with a mischievous tinge of diabolical.

The first such story focused on my cat, Slingshot.  In case you don’t remember, Slingshot was the cat who I buried after her tragic encounter with a 1966 GTO.  Sadly, there wasn’t much left, but I buried her remains during a somber backyard ceremony.

Five days later, Slingshot showed up at my front door, hungry, but no worse for the wear.

“What?  You buried the wrong cat?” Lisa, my girlfriend at the time, marveled over the phone.  

I heard the incredulity, nay, the humor, in Lisa’s voice. 

“I’m going to start calling you Quincy.”

For those of you too tender in years to remember, Quincy was a TV Medical Examiner who solved crimes using forensic evidence—yes, Quincy was the forerunner of Jethro Leroy Gibbs and the myriad CSI/NCIS spinoffs and knockoffs.  So, you see, Lisa, the love of my life—for about ten minutes—was giving me the old Bronx raspberry.

Turned out Slingshot stayed in my life longer than Lisa, but, eventually, they both disappeared.  Having learned my lesson, I didn’t bury either of them by proxy.

Later in my journey, while I cared for my ailing mother, and my social life laid flatter than the road pizza I had mistaken for Slingshot’s corpse, I became caretaker for a band of feral cats who lived in the scrub woods adjacent to my backyard.  Hey, I was taking care of my Mom, so why not a tribe of feral cats, too?  Such are the thoughts of a man cut off from normal social interactions.

Anyway, Yellow Man was the top cat.  One look and you knew he was a tough hombre.  He had scars on top of scars and a voice that sounded like gravel sliding down a drainpipe.

Every morning, Yellow Man would sit on my front stoop and rasp out his demand for tribute.  Being starved for social interaction, I complied—in the form of Meow Mix.

Soon, Yellow Man started bringing other strays around.  My stoop became a Golden Corral for a dozen scraggly, scrawny felines with wary eyes and deplorable table manners.

If you’re at all familiar with my work during the twenty-teens, you may remember names like Sweat Socks, Halloween, Dumb Ass, and Hizzoner.  They entertained me, I wrote about them, and I treated them with the cordiality of mooching friends.  

As you might expect, the life of a full-time caregiver is not glamorous, nor mentally challenging.  One must use whatever inspiration comes his way.

Now, here it is 2025 and I have another cat story to tell. The protagonists are a black and white male who thinks he’s the second-coming of Enrico Caruso, and a big ol’ female with honey-eyes and a tail that resembles a whip-lash Q-Tip.

I’ve been house/cat-sitting in Huntington Beach, CA for about three weeks.  How this Connecticut boy came to be cat-sitting in California is a mystery even to me.  Sometimes circumstances call the shots and all one can do is close one’s eyes and slide down the greased pole.  Let’s go with that.

The cats’ names are Julius and Miniver.  I’m not fond of those names, so I call him The Boy, and her, I call Maneuver.  If you ever slept in the same bed with her, you’d understand my rationale.  Have you ever tried to toss and turn with a thirty-pound beanbag sprawled across your groin?  It requires some very specialized maneuvering.  Especially when her Q-Tip tail keeps slapping you in the face like a furry metronome.  Her name is Miniver, but don’t let that fool you.

Julius is something of a dichotomy.  He purrs, he makes bread, then he bites the hand that pets him.  Not hard, but tiny teeth still make a lasting impression.  His favorite trick is to affectionately bump noses—all I can say is don’t fall for it.

But Julius is remarkable in a different way.  To say Julius is ‘vocal’ is to say Jabba The Hut is a tad overweight.  This cat sings arias—in Italian.

Okay, I don’t speak Italian, so I can’t vouch that this grammar and enunciation are impeccable, but I can’t vouch for Caruso either.  All I know is The Boy ain’t singing in English.  But he isn’t just howling, either.  This cat is articulating.  No fooling.  He’s expressing—even rhyming.  And, he’s got the lungs of a swimmer!  When The Boy is performing, he fills the opera house.

Did I mention The Boy sings mostly at night?  Mostly all night?  Hence my tossing and turning difficulties with Maneuver.

Sleep deprived as I am, I find myself entertaining implausible thoughts.  What if The Boy is an alien from outer space and his ‘singing’ translates to ‘Take me to your leader?’  What’s my duty?  Should I point him toward Donald Trump?  Does Donald Trump like cats or opera?  Has Donald Trump ever heard of opera?  Will he consider The Boy an existential threat to democracy like disagreeable judges?  Will DOGE slash Meow Mix allocations? 

Oh, I need some sleep.  Things will be clearer in the morning. 

No, they won’t.  The Boy will probably perform selected excepts from Il Pagliacci in some indecipherable language. Maneuver will lie heavily on my groin, and Donald Trump will save the world with some alchemist concoction of tax cuts and tariffs . . . and a third term.  Yippee.

Sorry, I’m becoming delirious.  A third term.  Ha!  Such nonsense.  Do Americans want a king?  When will Baron be named Crowned Prince?  Who will reveal the orange man behind the curtain?    

I’m flying back to Connecticut tomorrow.  I’ll miss the cats almost as much as I miss my sleep.  But I can’t help thinking I’m leaving an important opportunity behind.  Maybe I should keep listening to The Boy.  Maybe his message is for me.  Or maybe it’s for you.  In any case, please, listen.  And watch for signs.