Over the long Memorial Day weekend, I threw an awesome cookout. Any party that starts with beer and ends with scotch is a good party. There was booze, food, and the crowning finish: a cat on a rope.
Around six or seven in the evening, the next-door neighbors put a cat outside. It was the world’s fattest cat, and in hopes of fighting the inevitable descent into cat diabetes, they tied the cat to a stake in the front yard. Periodically, they’d move the stake to another place in the yard. It was the logical thing to do.
I’d never seen that cat before. It certainly wasn’t the cat that crashed my house a few days after we moved in. I was unpacking some boxes in the basement, when I felt something scurry past my leg. Thinking it was some kind of rodent, I shrieked and ran upstairs, only to find a large orange tabby cat reclining on my sofa. The cat had a collar, but no tags, so I just put it outside thinking it would go home. Instead it spent the next six hours meowing on my porch.
My brother-in-law suggested keeping the cat and naming it “Doogie Meowser.” Unfortunately, the cat left before I could get it to respond to its new name.
Still, if I ever got a cat, I’m totally taking my brother-in-law up on that Doogie Meowser suggestion. With a name like that, the cat would be OBLIGATED to become the world’s first and youngest cat doctor, and I’ll be able to retire early and mooch off my cat’s millions. That is, until the cat throws me in the old-folks home. But that won’t happen for years.