My brother and I had many cats during our youth, and it all began with a charming couple named Muffin and Blackie. Muffin was grey, and Blackie was, well…black. They were given to us by a friend of Tim’s, who also happened to fill his pockets with Tim’s nifty kid-type stuff every time he was at our house.

His mom would make him bring them back, and he’d always be quite puzzled as to how several swell rocks, plastic dinosaurs, army men, and electric scissors found their way into his backpack. It’s rather ironic that he was the one to give us the cats. Maybe we were unwittingly part of an underground cat smuggling ring.

At any rate, Muffin and Blackie started it all–an impressive geneology of cats that went on for probably twelve more years before the line died out or moved out due to divorce.

Fuzzy and Tuffy got a divorce when Fuzzy couldn’t break Tuff of his wandering ways.

Tuffy was a big, black, striped tom who would disappear for weeks at a time. Just about the time we’d say, “Well, ole Tuff’s been gone a long time. I guess he’s probably gone,” he’d show up on the window sill looking scruffy and thin. We’d fatten him up, and he”d be off again.

Fuzzy didn’t appreciate this disruption of the family unit, and with every excursion, she got more and more distant from Tuff until the mere sight of him could evoke such a scream that you’d never believe could come out of a cat’s mouth unless you had seen and heard it for yourself.

One hot, summer evening, we were in the house watching TV. The doors and windows were closed because the air-conditioner was running. All of a sudden, we heard someone scream like they were being murdered on our front porch. We ran outside, following the banshee-like sounds, and found Fuzzy up a tree a good hundred yards from the house, giving poor  Tuffy what for.

Of course there really was a day when ole Tuff never came home. Maybe the coyotes got him, or he just died of old age. Or maybe he settled down with a quiet, little pussy cat on a farm down the road.