I know what you’re thinking – this is just another episode of Tom & Jerry, or perhaps Sylvester and Tweety Bird, or maybe even Thundercats, but not so. The story I am about to reveal is mostly true, or at least partially based on something that may have happened once when someone I might possibly have known was pretty well tripped out while transiting that mystical river lined with tangerine trees beneath marmalade skies, and flowers that grow so incredibly high.
But I promise you, left hand on my keyboard and right hand covering my heart every word is true, at least in some context anyway. We will ignore for the moment, at least, that the left hand is barely functional and some otherwise inconsequential functions of the keyboard are inoperative thereby probably rendering the aforementioned swearing in to be invalid. But those are other tales for other days.
When I was in hospital recovering from my second stroke, my wife parked our car and while passing the door-less garage assigned to our apartment, she noticed an unfamiliar movement and took time to further investigate the mysteriously shadowy motion. She was rewarded for her endeavor by the appearance of a small calico kitten whom she, she being my wife, not the small calico kitten, proceeded to name Callie, for what should most surely be obvious reasons. Callie was followed in short notice by what we assume to be her all white sibling, whom she, my wife, not Callie, named Buster.
While Buster peered around the corner of a dilapidated mattress, Callie boldly marched forward and announced to my wife that she, Callie, not my wife, was pleased to make her, that is, my wife’s, acquaintance, and that she, Callie, not my wife, lived there, and that oh by the way, while the living spaces were certainly interesting enough as a kitten playground, the catering service left something to be desired. The mostly one sided conversation between my wife and the wee beastie continued until a larger, but morbidly malnourished calico appeared, uttered a few words of motherly feline scolding, and sent the children to their room, most likely without supper. My wife named the mother Twiggy because she, the cat, not my wife, made the once famous British model look absolutely obese by comparison.
Naturally, being the kind hearted woman she is, my wife, not the skinny cat, she, my wife, took pity on the poor homeless waifs and began to add food and water for them to our shopping list. While never quite becoming fully domesticated, this small village of garage squatters did come to recognize the sounds of my wife’s step, voice and even our car, made the connection that she was the source of the fresh food and water, and while not ever getting close enough to touch, would remain in her line of site when she brought them food and water and spoke tenderly to them.
After a while Twiggy disappeared. As did Callie, although she remained a rafter rat in the garage for some time, and eventually, even the pure white, golden eyed Buster, who could be found most evenings sitting in the garage entrance way where once a door had hung, waiting for the daily meals on wheels delivery, eventually disappeared.
Only to reappear along with the news that he was in fact not Buster, but Boadicea, Warrior Queen of the Britons, and she now had five little ones of her own for which to provide. Naturally, my adoring wife bestowed provisions for their care and nurturing until such a time as we journeyed south, not to Cornwell, as might be imagined from this tale, but rather to Florida, which is almost the same thing, in a strange and convoluted sort of way.
Here in Florida, we have two felines. One, a mature fully domesticated long haired Lady of the grandest sort, and the other a two year old reptilian length short hair who is undoubtedly a direct descendant of Macavity, the Mystery Cat and Mister Mistoffelees, with perhaps a drop or two of Cheshire and Houdini.
Now that that’s all cleared up and out of the way, I can proceed on to the true tale. Back in the frozen northlands of the rolling hills of Southwestern Pennsylvania, there lives a legend of a firearm toting, red-eyed, possibly demon possessed sharp-shooting feral feline who, according to the legend, dwells beneath porches with his/her (that part has never been determined) pistol, eye patch, wooden leg, and sawed off shotgun, which it, for lack of better understanding, uses to terrorize the local fully socialized polite society of content canine carnivores, who, by curious coincidence, have capitulated their capacity to constitute a counter insurgency against the legendary felonious feline, thereby engaging the armed resistance of a fully armed, and one presumes legged as well, camouflaged human mercenary to render assistance to the terrified masses of sniveling Peeks, Poodles, and Poms.
The great white hunter, a veritable Rambo garbed in mountain white camo, equipped with holstered Uzi, laser-scoped sniper rifle, and Russian modified AK-47 with built in grenade launcher, took position after careful infrared and motion detection recon and waited in anxious anticipation of the outcome of this modern day reenactment of the Gunfight at the OK Corral.
Mere moments after the bell on the nearby town square clock tower struck high noon, the standoff began.
At first there were attempts on the part of the mercenary to negotiate with the feral feline, even to the point of promising amnesty, Friskies, and a warm, if securely padded and locked cell. The wily feline would be neither bought off, flattered, nor bored into submission, and eventually the highly anticipated gunfight ensued. Hours they battled – heavily armed, nearly ninja like invisible camouflaged man against cagey beast. Brawn versus cunning. Tit for tat, shell for shell, the battle raged. Until the mighty hunter paused to reload, and was at once thunderstruck by the cacophonous roar of silence emanating from the evil tormentor’s hideout beneath the stairs.
When the smoke cleared, there was no trace of the diseased demon cat from Cleveland.
The mercenary, in his stunning white and gray fully accessorized camo and snow survival gear escaped the shoot-out unscathed, but it is not known whether the pistol packing pussy was pulverized by the preponderance of precision preternatural marksmanship, slipped silently away in the smoke, snow and confusion, or simply slipped through a quantum tear in the space-time continuum to another multiverse.
Only time will tell. But for now, the Mighty Myth of the Machine gun Managing, Mouse Munching Mountain Menace of Mellow Manor remains meticulously monitored in the mystical mansions of Mac Murray, P.A., where legends grow tall, and things go bump in the night.