Reno Khomeini Fellini
When I settled in to my first girlfriend’s flat in Chicago we went out and bought a cat. I resisted that idea a bit. The concept was a little alien to me. I grew up on the farm. Buy a pet? I thought they just showed up.
Some friend of a friend had a litter to dispose of. We came over and this one gray ball of fluff marched right toward us, looked up and in its own way said, “They’ll do.” $15 later he was ours. Marla was an artsy-fartsy type who had a name already picked out for him. Fellini. After one day I announced , “that cat is no Fellini.” I called him Reno. There had been a modestly talented point guard on the Illinois basketball team named Reno Gray and I knew my friends would instantly get the name. Marla and I fought about this. A lot. I tried to reason that it was her idea to get the cat, she picked out the cat, I should have some leeway on the name.
We were at a holiday party in a hotel apartment near Lincoln Park. I’d seen these types of apartments in movies and on TV, but had never actually been in one. Anyway, the host came up with a compromise solution. Reno Khomeini Fellini. This way we each got the name we wanted and the Khomeini part fit the cat’s terrorist nature. For Reno Khomeini Fellini was one mean cat.
Reno could somehow perch itself atop the bathroom door. As we’d come in or go out, it would bat us on top of the head. It was aiming for our eyes but couldn’t quite reach that far. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Marla was reading the Sunday Tribune one morning when the cat raced across the bed, slashing Marla’s left eyelid.
Fry’s boots were a popular brand in the early 80’s. We each went for the pricier pair, the ones with the steel toes. They protected us from the snow and more importantly, Reno, who could and would attack from behind as we’d pass by him, gripping the ankles with his powerful razor-equipped paws and sink his fangs into our heel. It feels like I’m describing some predatory dinosaur and not some house cat, but it was true. We got the boots and he’d be even more daring. He’d hold on so that we couldn’t get it off. I freely admit there were times I punched it in the face. He’d shake, clear his head and give me this, “Is that the best you've got?” look.
Reno got sick and we took him into the vet. The vet, thinking we’d be upset by Reno’s Exorcist display, showed us great sympathy and asked if we’d like to leave the room. “I can see that this could be a traumatizing experience for you.” We looked at him and said, “Doc, you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”
Reno backed himself into a corner and was ready for any and all comers. The vet aimed his syringe to shoot a knockout drug into the cat’s hissing mouth. Coming back for it the next day and it was like the scene in “Ghostbusters” where all these spirits and negative energy are swirling around the building, expecting a bolt of lightning to strike out of a clear blue sky. Such a sense of unease as I entered the kennel area. Large signs that read: “DANGER” and “BITES” with arrows beneath pointing to one kennel where the groans of hell were sounding. Reno’s. Its feces mashed and matted into its long gray hair. I wondered just how was I going to get this cat home and not get hurt. I had worn some welder’s mitts, but one of the workers said, “Those gloves aren’t going to help you. That cat’s crazy.” And walked out.
Getting Reno to spring at me would be easy. Catching him in the pet carrier would be intense. A miss could be terrifying. But I caught it. Somehow. The entire building heaved a sigh of relief. At home, I set the pet carrier in the bathtub, let the water in up to its chin and left him there, concluding that to be the only safe way to get him clean. He got even. Reno would curl himself around the back base of the toilet, and dare anyone to use it. I wasn’t about to risk squatting with my back to him and turn myself into his prey. And I didn’t wear my boots to the toilet. This standoff could last a long time. There was a bowling alley around the corner. I’d go there when I had to. Sometimes I had to.
We tried to be affectionate. We really did. We’d pick it up to pet it but discovered by the time we could count to three, Reno’d put the chomp on our wrist or hand or arm. We warned out catsitter about this very thing. She didn’t believe us, thinking we were unfit owners. Well, she found out the hard way.
Marla had taken off to discover her roots one summer in Italy. Not only was I left with Reno but she had taken on another cat, Houdini, so named because it was a magician in finding tiny places in which to disappear. Houdini was younger and much faster than Reno and he’d stand right in front of him and taunt him. I’d warn the agile newcomer that he was asking for it. He got it, too. One night when I came home from work, Houdini was nowhere to be found. I’d left a window open on my third-floor flat. Reno must have cornered Houdini on the short catwalk beneath the window. Houdini had to jump or face a sure thrashing. Sure enough, I found Houdini in the courtyard, three stories below, safe and sound and with just a bit more respect for his adversary.
Five years went by before Reno finally was put down. Marla and I threw a party. Our guests all believed it was a celebration of life. We let them think that. We knew different.
