Flash was an 11 year old Ruddy Abyssinian cat. In his youth he ardently clawed apart and attempted to eat an arm attached to a family friend. (Perhaps musk perfume spoke to him of esculence, or threat.) She went to the emergency room; he went to the vet. Along with deleting his goodies, his mistress went for the combo deal. Goodbye front claws. This precipitous change of venue plus the proximate loss of three fangs and other teeth to gum disease plus being locked in the house alone while she was at work made for one very dysfunctional pussy cat. Then, I came on the scene.
I am a cat person, delighting in carnivorous thoughts intimately intertwined within their every waking moment. I like they way they slink about and stalk. I know how to read the set of their tails and ears, and the meaning of suddenly dilated eyes. When I first met Flash some five years ago he introduced himself by rubbing back and forth across my legs. As I bent down to let him sniff my fingers, he yowled and attacked.
And so did I. One very surprised cat found himself dangling from my fist by the scruff of his neck. He yowled and purred, torn between bloody mayhem and being carried about by his momma. I looked deeply into the black pools of his now round pupils and yowled right back, high-pitched and warbling. He said "Mrphf," went slack, and I released him. Nobody had ever before read Flash the riot act. He retreated to consider the encounter, soon to mature into a paradigm shift.
I entered into domestic tranquility with his mistress shortly afterward, husbanding eldritch powers of influence for my future mother-in-law. Call it a push. Flash and I enjoyed week one hissing and spitting face to face. He made do with natural resources. I accessed glasses of water. He was sore amazed by my expectorative proficiencies. There came an evening when I awakened to find a purring fur ball nestled between my legs as I slept. Flash had decided to make the best of a good situation.
The neighbors goggled as I walked him on leash. Anything which passes a cat's head will admit the rest of his body, so we had a leather feline B&D harness (with chromed studs - pride of ownership) to securely fasten him to tether. Some weeks later Flash roamed the lawns and yards in harness only, with friend. Then he patrolled his territory only with accompaniment. The big day arrived. We opened the door and out he strode, tail high! Would he return?
Does his food dish overflow with stinky food?
Flash was quite the proper pussy cat. I combed him twice a day as he purred and drooled. Warm, soft emotional glide thrums warmth into my fingers. Ears', eyes' affectionate preen plumbs eden, and so lingers. A truly happy cat is elevated into an ethereal realm of ATTACK! Eyes dilate and that last remaining fang is brought to bear, always short of drawing blood. To know Flash is to love him, and to keep a pair of leather gardening gloves hard by. He won't abide cheating, and feigns sudden disinterest.
During our walks I was impressed by how this elderly, disarmed feline could snatch locusts from the air with a five foot jump. He loved playing with then, batting them back and forth between his front paws while advancing upon his rear ones like a demonic soccer player. He carried them about in his mouth, knowing he had done something for which the universe was created, but never making the prey-food connection. The intrepid hunter came upon a nestling bird fallen from its nest. The bird was the smarter of the two. He played dead until Flash lost interest and departed, puzzled. It was warm, it smelled right, why didn't it move?
Then, some time later, Flash wandered in from the great outdoors at about 1630 hours, and made a unique sound. I rushed over to see if he had been partially dismembered by a new tom. (The regulars cede him his territory. He may be disarmed, but he is utterly psychotic, and who would get close enough to discern the former from the latter? )
I was shocked speechless as he dropped a battered and comatose mouse at my feet, sat back on his haunches and - I swear to it - put on a big grin. What a cat! My baby is a mouser!
Flash spent the remainder of his days as fearless king of the local hill. He got in dogs' faces, strutted his stuff, and enjoyed a triumphant morning knocking the crap out of a pocket gopher. He died at age 13 of thoracic cancer.