The Cat that Caused all the Commotion

I once came across a little black cat. Turns out he was the neighborhood cat. Being feral, he didn’t belong to anybody and although no tough guy, he sort of made that pretty clear right off the bat. Who knew what his name was? I called him Tom.

I started leaving food on the back stoop. But that only led to me soon having four cats hanging around out there. One of them I called Zsa Zsa. She always sauntered about. I never knew if her behind swished her tail or her tail swished her behind. But she was a Zsa Zsa all right.

Tom outlasted them all. He’d hole up in the attic of the house next door. I’d catch a glimpse of him coming down the rungs of a ladder that leaned permanently on this beam that made up part of an entry from the drive. One time he was climbing down as Doug, my 6-foot-4, 280-lb neighbor, was climbing up, neither aware of the other and startling the bejeepers out of each other.

A streetsmart cat, Tom lived a long time. He was beyond skittish and was hard to get close to. He could approach me but I couldn’t approach him. If I merely raised an eyebrow, he’d dash off.

In winter time, when the nights would get cold, Tom would come inside my little bungalow near downtown Phoenix, and would creep over to me as I lay on the couch. As time went on, he’d get the courage to lay in between my feet, then up to my crotch, and soon wherever he found the most warmth and comfort. He felt safe. I was content. But I had to lay absolutely still. And we’d fall asleep. That became our routine.

Needless to say I was single in those days.

I went on a vacation. When I got back there was a squad car at my house with all these neighbors and onlookers gathered around. Joe the mailman had called the police. He had seen that a front window was open a few inches and the screen had been ripped apart. Joe and I had become friends and he was concerned that maybe someone had broken into my house.

What came next was right out of one of those European comedies where the cop starts to look around and all the townsfolk are following him. He checks the window, then lets himself through the gate to the backyard and makes his way to house and enters through the unlocked back door. And all the others help themselves, too, finding the house in a state of disarray, surely making comments about this mess or that. The cop noted that the TVs were still there and the stereo setup. Nothing of any value seemed to be missing.

Nah, nothing happened here, the officer concluded. The guy’s just a slob.

Did I mention I was single? Anyway I got home just in time to hear him say that. The officer and I shooed away the busy bodies and chatted for an awkward minute.

Turns out it had been Tom all along. When I left, I didn’t know that Tom was inside. Tom had perched himself on the window rail, opened the window — it wasn’t hard even for a cat — and scratched away at the screen, tearing it enough to make his getaway.

Joe, delivering the mail that had been on hold while I was gone, noticed the torn screen and the open window and called the police.

So what did I do then? I cleaned the house, that’s what I did. Stupid cat.