![]() ![]() Whether you’re an innie, outtie or in-between, here’s what it all means: When the bad cat bit my hand while simultaneously stabbing and nunchucking the rest of my family, I knew I should have been angry, but I couldn’t help it: I felt a little proud.This may sound strange but…have you ever wondered what your belly button says about you? Well, wonder no more. He was good at working them with one paw while thrusting the switchblade with the other. What with the way the bad cat struck them expertly against our ankles, to get the most pain. The first cuts of the switchblade weren’t too bad it was the nunchucks that really smarted. It was, I would like to think, a special moment, one I know I won’t long forget. I felt, in that moment, as fleeting as it was, that the cat understood something about me, about my lonely childhood, those long summer days playing umpteen bazillion games of hide and seek with Pumpkin, or persuading Pumpkin to watch cartoons with me on the family room sectional, or me reading all of my old Hardy Boys books to Pumpkin, who often needed me to point out the clues. A moment when the cat looked at me with genuine surprise and perhaps even more genuine disappointment, before everything else unfolded. There was a moment I would like to dwell upon here, if I might. When the cat nudged my hand with his nose ring, I opened my fingers to show him that there was nothing inside. The cat was smoking a tiny cigarette, which sent smoke into his crusted, bloodshot eyes. Up close, I could see that his fur wasn’t actually black and gray: the black was really a little leather jacket studded with rivets, from which something I would soon learn was a switchblade bulged. “He’s not a bad cat,” I said, as the cat approached. Do that with Pumpkin, and ten seconds later he’d be purring at your feet, only too glad to have you pet him with your not-actually-holding-food hand. I made the “psst-psst” sound even louder, and pretended to dip one hand into the other, then place something presumably yummy into my mouth. But, as the cat clicked closer-one of his rear legs tapered to a wooden peg that clicked atop the asphalt-I saw that his teeth were preternaturally large and that his left ear was held together by what seemed to be industrial staples and barbed wire.īut I wouldn’t let up. ![]() “Psst-psst! Here kitty!” But the moment I said it, I noticed the weeds and sticks and briars clinging to the cat’s underbelly. ![]() I crouched to the ground and made eye contact with the cat. This time of evening, the light was soft, perfect. The walk had been her idea: we’d take a nice selfie of us walking in the neighborhood and then post it when we got home. She’d been checking out her new iPhone for the past few minutes. “He’s not going to be happy,” my daughter said. “Dad,” my daughter said, “don’t trick him.” The cat blinked his eyes once more at me, and stood. “Psst-psst! Here kitty! Hungry for a little snack?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, and lowered my hand to the ground, as if I were cradling food, a trick from my childhood that had never failed to lure our cat, Pumpkin, out from beneath my bed. “Plus,” my son said, “I think there’s something wrong with that cat.” “ Dad ,” my daughter said, “don’t do that.” The cat blinked at us for a moment, curiously-pleasantly, I thought. When my family and I walked past, the cat yawned and stretched his tongue the way cats sometimes do. He had gray fur, slightly mottled with black, and white paws. He was lying on our neighbor’s driveway, sunning himself in the last of the day’s warmth. ![]()
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