Saturday, August 15, 2009


The Prodigal Son
(By Special Guest Writer Peter Bourdelle)
We woke up this morning with no sign of Gris-Gris. After we canvassed a few blocks around, Sandy saw she had leave to milk the goats. I then composed a "Lost Cat" poster, and our inkjet printer ran out of ink, mid print. Gris looked orange.
Before heading out to buy a fresh ink cartridge, I went again to shout his name again from backdoor & front. Wait! Out front? Did I really hear a timid squeak? Not by the garbage cans, but again a squeak, by the front steps: Behind the topiary evergeen? Just past that, under dad's wooden bowl planter peeked those lovely yellow eyes, framed in Gris-Gris fur. "Come on, Boy, you had us worried! Come on in now". As I headed back to our front door, he vacated his lair, and skulked up the steps, hugging low to the ground. I opened the door and he lit for the kitchen, as I called Sandy with the good news. Behaving very subdued, GrisGris ate a bit of the canned food then water.
Satisfied our prodigal cat had come back unscathed I left the boys to enjoy breakfast together while I unwound. A few moments later, a yowl emitted from the breakfast club, and I turned back to find them posturing and yowling for a real-live-Catfight! Gris Gris' night out on the town had him transmogrified into an alien, and Hobie-cat was on full siren-howl, hissing, out-for-blood posturing. 1st foray of heat-seeking missle fusillades flared up the stairs to our bedroom, where fully-clawed mortal combat ensued, with me in hot, screaming pursuit. "Cut that out, you jerks; ENOUGH!"
Now, as self-appointed UN Ambassador, I've established 'Detente' by sitting 4th step from the top, where I can look through bannisters to see Gris Gris รก la Sphinx, guarding his masters bedroom entryway, while from the 1st floor guard-post, Hobie keeps trying to storm my Gaza,with fully dilated-pupils and bristling fur on his backbone.
At last Sandy's back, to lecture them both while I take a bio-break. Sandy's got "Mr. G" purring on our bed again, but the tail flicks still spell trouble. Her lecture to Hobie includes "did you hold the door open for him, hoping he'll never return?" rings true for the moment. Now freshly showered, Sandy encourages the former comrades to regain a little trust. Sandy detangles her wet hair, we exchange that look of "d'you believe these cats?" when from under the bed, Gris Gris emits a vocal warning "nnnNNEeeeeewwwhh" again. One more altercation in the kitchen, and I sequester Hobart to a safe-house, as Sandy tosses Gris Gris in the litter-box to add a more familiar stink to his fur.
Hours later they're posturing & following each other from a safe distance, still mewing if too close for comfort, but no mayhem. I'm secure enough to nap now.
So bizzare, that just one night out could estrange them so. Let's all be more vigilant with our furry bruddahs in our comings & goings here at the Allentown cathouse.
Thanks. Pete Bourdelle

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