The Cat Again

Some months back, I wrote about one of the most memorable characters it’s ever been my pleasure to know.  You may remember him—the Cat, my friend who lurches through life’s legion of lessons, forever landing on his feet.

At least, that’s how he sees things.

He’s been the Cat since well before we retired, and almost no one calls him by his real name—if they even remember it.  The reasons for the nickname are long-forgotten, although he claims to remember.

“It’s because I move with the power and grace of the big cats,” he says earnestly, blissfully ignoring the fact that he often trips over a crack in the sidewalk, or bumps into lampposts.

I’ve previously recounted a few of his outrageous escapades, but there are dozens more—all true, as sure as I’m standing here.  For example, a gang of us were gathered one summer day at a friend’s pool for a swim, a few drinks, and a cook-out.  The Cat was thirsty when he arrived, but didn’t stay that way for long.  By the time we got around to eating, he had definitely been over-served.

Sitting fully erect on an aluminum lawn chair, the fold-up kind, he accepted the plateful of food his long-suffering wife placed in his hands.  With glazed eyes and a fixed smile, he stared straight ahead, lips moving wordlessly.  Then, ever so slowly, he toppled sideways, out of his overturning chair, and on to the grass.  Incredibly, he never tipped his plate!  Didn’t spill a morsel!

“I wish I’d been there to see that,” the Cat said later.  “I bet I handled it gracefully, just like a cat!”

Later that same day, against our better judgement, we watched him when he went for a swim in the pool, something else he doesn’t really remember.  He was walking from one side to the other across the shallow end, bent over with his face in the water, wearing a face-mask and snorkel.  The Cat likes to take great risks like that.

Inevitably, he stepped into the area where the pool-floor slopes down to the deep end.  He sank like a stone.  When he bobbed back to the surface, still face down, he drew a huge, shuddering breath through the snorkel tube.

That marked the onset of a stupendous thrashing and splashing, punctuated by whooping and coughing, and wild flapping of arms.  The tube, of course, had filled up with water.

It took six of us to get the Cat out of the pool, still clutching the mask and snorkel when we deposited him on the grass.  Although we love the man, no one was keen to commence mouth-to-mouth.  Fortunately, after a few moments of laboured breathing, he grinned up at the crowd staring down at him.

“Notice how I managed to grab the snorkel before it sank?” he sputtered.  “Just like a big cat-fish!”

Water seems to hold a dangerous attraction for the Cat.  A few years ago, he went river-rafting with his adult son and a few other lunatics.  Apparently, one of their favourite activities as they went careening through the white-water rapids, was to fill the bailing-buckets and toss water at each other.

As it was told to me later, the Cat forgot to hold on to the bucket on one toss, and it hit another rafter squarely on the shoulder, toppling him out of the raft.  The Cat did try to help, though.  With something less than blinding speed, he lunged for his unfortunate victim, missed by the slimmest of margins, and followed him over the side, into the cauldron.

After a great deal of frantic floundering and flailing, punctuated by surges of pure panic, the other rafters managed to pluck the two of them from the river.  Once safely back aboard the raft, the Cat was jubilant.

“Notice how fast I went in after him?” he crowed.  “There was no time to lose!  Poor guy coulda drowned!  Instant reaction, no hesitation!  Just like a cat!”

One of my favourite episodes occurred one winter day when four of us were heading back to our cars after lunch together.  We were walking two abreast, the Cat in front beside me.  As usual, he was rambling on about something he thought we’d be mightily interested in—which, to be fair, we usually let on we were.

As we approached a pathway branching off from the sidewalk—only partially-cleared of snow, a shortcut to the parking lot—one of the men behind tapped me on the shoulder, beckoning me on to the path.  The Cat, unaware that his three companions were now walking diagonally away from him, kept going straight, hands gesturing, head bobbing up and down as he went on with his story.  With his toque pulled down snugly over his ears, walking hunched-over into the blowing snow, he resembled nothing so much as a poor, unfortunate, friendless man, talking randomly to himself.

When he finally threw a glance to where he thought I still was, he realized he was alone.  Stopping dead in his tracks, he looked around for a moment before spotting us across the open space between the sidewalk and path.  We were doubled-over by then, but the Cat never hesitated.  Breaking into a shambling run, he headed for the cars, determined to get there before we could.

And he made it, barely.  When we arrived, he was leaning against the car, arms folded, chuckling good-naturedly.  “Very funny, guys, very funny!  But I’m not gonna repeat what I was saying.  You’re just gonna have to live without it.  The big cats never roar twice!” 

Before we could respond to that, his heels suddenly shot out from under him on the snowy pavement, and he slid slowly down the side of the car to the ground, cleaning a large swath of dried road-salt from the passenger door with the back of his overcoat.

We lost it again, of course.

“Hey, even big cats gotta sit down now and then,” he said, grudgingly accepting our help as he struggled to his feet.  “Snow leopards do it all the time!”

We’ve long since stopped believing this particular leopard will ever change his spots, but we’ve come to cherish every moment we have with him.  Ninety-nine lives is not nearly enough!

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2021}