ANOTHER CAT STORY FOR KIDS!

LT. WHISKERS AND THE BUMP ON THE HEAD

Lt. Whiskers is a chausie, a large cat with a short-haired, mouse-gray coat and long muscular legs (with strong hindquarters). He has a delightful brown patch on his chin. Which is why we named him Lt. Whiskers.

Lt. Whiskers was wonderful. He sat with us while we watched our shows, brought us gifts from the garden, and never caused a fuss. His biggest talent: he could make teepees out of matchsticks using his little paws. It would take him hours, and they would almost always collapse when he’d finish. But his perseverance was admirable.

We loved Lt. Whiskers, but as much as we loved Lt. Whiskers, we knew there was another family out there who loved Lt. Whiskers more.

See, Lt. Whiskers wasn’t really ours. One day he just showed up our doorstep, with a bump on his head. “Oh look at you,” I said, “Little putty tat hurt his whittle head!”

He just looked at me, lost, his eyes rolling up, as if to motion toward the lump on his head. He seemed to be saying, “Wook at my poor head. It hoots sooo bad!”

He shook his little head. It was clear from the bump, that he was suffering from amnesia.

Lt Whiskers lived with us for months. He was a constant joy! He would fetch our slippers. Lick our toes. Fashion gifts out of small bones and bird feathers.

WE LOVED LT. WHISKERS. HE LOVED US BACK.

But we knew at some point, we needed to return Lt. Whiskers to his real owner. This saddened us. (So much so, Scott moved into the other bedroom.)

We put up posters in supermarkets, pet shops and gyms. We went to the playgrounds. We scanned the lost and found columns in the paper. But all the while, we secretly hoped Lt. Whiskers would never be found.

In the summer, that hope was dashed. Scott saw a picture of Mary and Lawrence Kirby in the paper. They were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. On their lap – was a cat. With a little brown patch on his chin.

We told Lt. Whiskers the news.
“We love you very much, but it’s time to take you home, Lt. Whiskers.”

Lt. Whiskers knew. He nodded his fuzzy little head.

We found the address, and steered Scott’s Suzuki Samurai to a tiny house across town. We parked. Before we unbuckled our seat belts, Lt. Whiskers was already leaning out the window. We think he cracked a little smile.

I shouted, “Go Lt. Whiskers! Go home, my little Lt. Whiskers!”

Out Lt. Whiskers jumped, racing to the doorstep!

"Goodbye LT. Whiskers!"

Four days later we read about the fire. The authorities found the couple’s bodies. The blaze was started with matches in the basement.

It appeared that Lt. Whiskers had used us - to get to them. He never had amnesia. A postcard we received soon after, from Cancun, read, “thx fr the hlp. Lt.W.” It was a primitive, paw-like scrawl.

For months we had watched with glee as Lt. Whiskers practiced making those matchstick teepees. And now, like the Kirbys once did, we live in fear of Lt. Whiskers.

What could Lt. Whiskers be practicing now?

NEXT POST: PRIVATE PAWPAW AND THE THIRD NIPPLE