My name is Big Cat; that’s what the landlord calls me. He also calls me a squatter, even though he’s the one who placed the folded canvas painting tarp in a tool shed for me to sleep on.
I am not his cat. When the woman next door calls, I know it’s chow time. She usually feeds five or six other felines; I suppose some live there. We pretty much get along, though when a newbie comes and challenges one of us, we have to keep our honor. You know what I mean.
For some reason, visitors disappear for a day and come back with a clipped ear and stitches around their privates. Then they don’t feel like fighting.
Is it worth it? Who’s to say? But that isn’t the worst of it. My home is in the backyard of the landlord, and grub is served in the backyard next door. I used to saunter across my backyard to the neighbor’s yard without a care. Then one day, making the journey, two monstrous dogs came rushing out the backdoor, barking, salivating, attacking with murderous intent. They would have torn me to pieces playing tug-tug before devouring me. Luckily, one of the dogs was old, and the other fat.
I sprinted across the yard and hopped onto the cedar fence, feeling hot breath and spittle on my tail during my life-saving leap. It took me a few seconds to regain my feline composure. The other cats spouted no criticism. One confided a rumor that most cats who hazarded the “dog yard” never returned.
Now I take the long way around using the front yards. I know those gruesome monsters watch from the door or hide camouflaged in the backyard daily, deviously waiting for a second chance to have Yours Truly for lunch. Better to be safe than sorry.
Copyright 2022 by Richard Lane Church. All rights reserved.