It is the heart-warming story of love, hope and redemption. It is the heart-wrenching story of jealousy, betrayal, and the inevitability of fate. It is the amazingly true story of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles, the neighborhood cat next door.
Chapter 1. Mama Myrtle, Local Cat Lady.
As the faithful and astute followers of this local news site are well aware, Myrtle is the sweet old lady across the street who, in the blossoming flower of her youth, once won the junior beauty contest at the 1929 Tennessee Valley Fair. It has been said that her beauty was unrivaled by any other in Rocky Top, and maybe even all Appalachia itself. But, the inexorable effects of time and age have caused those once long golden strands of hair to become all but gray and white; it has caused that once firm and fair skin to become all but wrinkled and shriveled, like a dried prune; and, it caused that voice, once so vibrant and youthful, to become all but shrill and unsteady.
In her twilight years, Myrtle had charitably turned her home into a veritable feline refuge, even purposely avoiding matrimony in the interests of the local stray cat community. To this community, her home had become a brilliant shining light, the fabled land of milk and honey, and a resplendent beacon radiating its rays of hope throughout the barren wasteland that is northeastern Knoxville. Some may call it an unhealthy interest, but whatever the case may be, she considers her cats as her own biological sons and daughters. This is just a rumor, but she is said to have taken out a moderately sizable life insurance policy for each of her kittens, and to her favorites - like Sir Snuffle-Muffins, Brother Freckles, Mr. Whiskers, Monsieur Mittens, Horatio, Professor Snugglepuss, Albert Feline-stein, Mr. Socks, and Captain Cuddle-Wuddles - to these, she had even included in her will and last testament. But, this is just the gossip around town.
Chapter 2. Special Delivery From Heaven?
December 25th, 2008. Christmas Day. It is a date that Myrtle claims to be indelibly seared into her memory. The story, as she tells it, may seem somewhat incredulous to some, but she insists upon its veracity, and is even willing to stand before a jury. She had just finished feeding her beloved flock of cats their morning meal of bacon and eggs, and was just about to clean the litter box when she suddenly heard a faint rapping upon her back door. At first, she ignored it. Must be the wind, she thought. She finished tidying up the litter box and yelled at Monsieur Mittens for leaving a such a stinky mess despite her repeated warnings. And, just when she was about to begin doling out the kittens' Christmas presents, she heard the same faint tapping again. Opening the door on its creaking hinges, she looked down in disbelief:
A wild raccoon holding a little bundle of joy? She rubbed her eyes and adjusted her spectacles, she said, but there it stood, looking up at her. Perhaps, this is a gift from heaven itself, perhaps to recompense her good virtue to the stray cat community? Speechless, she took it from the critter's arms and cradled it into her bosom, overjoyed with the miraculous new addition to the family. And, with the exception of that incredibly durable Tupperware set she received in the Christmas of 1972, it was the best Christmas present she could ever ask for. The bond was immediate. She took one look at the heaven-sent ball of fur, saw how cute and cuddly he was, and promptly named him "Captain Cuddle-Wuddles".
Over the next year, she reserved for Captain Cuddle-Wuddles the finest of 2% homogenized organic milk, warmed to slightly above room temperature, and fed with a bottle. As soon as he was old enough, she said, she was able to hand-feed him the finest of imported seafood- tunas, crab meat, bluefins, flatfish, eel, cod, salmon, etc. And, as if this wasn't enough, she even custom knitted an array of holiday sweaters for him; some for Christmas, some for Easter and Halloween. Others for the less popular holidays - President's Day, Vernal Equinox Day, History of the Buzzard Day, a full 28-day wardrobe for Black History Month, Cinco de Mayo, and even Mardi Gras, which was accessorized with actual beads that Myrtle had won during her more decadent years.
It was clear to me, as well as to most of the members of the stray cat community, that Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was the new favorite. And, if it wasn't obvious before, then it certainly became so this past Christmas when Myrtle handcrafted the finest sweater I had ever laid eyes upon. She dubbed it the "Technicolor Dream Sweater". It was multicolored and covered in flashy sequins and silver bells, and was highly coveted and gossiped about among nearly everybody in Rocky Top - not just the stray cat community.
"It just... looked dazzling." said Myrtle, tearfully reminiscing about the quality of the sweater, and how well it matched his natural fur patterns. "Spectacular."
Chapter 3. "Oh Captain, My Captain"
No more than 10 days has transpired after the unveiling of this so called "Technicolor Dream Sweater" that the beloved Captain Cuddles seemed to vanish into thin air. Where to? No one knew exactly. There was conjecture. There was speculation. But, all remained a great mystery.
It was the fateful evening of January 11th, if I recall - the same day I returned from a clandestine operation known as Operation Tango, a precarious mission in Salt Lake City investigating the migratory patterns of skunks. As soon as I stepped over the threshold of my front door, exhausted and oblivious to the whole situation, the phone rang. It was Myrtle.
I contemplated for a moment whether or not I should answer the phone. After all, it was Tuesday, and she was probably calling to invite me to play Speed Bingo at the local church again. I struggle with telling people "no" sometimes, so I find it easier just to say nothing at all, hoping not to incriminate myself or step on anybody's toes. Admittedly, it's probably not the best way of dealing with people. My intuition told my to answer, so I did.
"Hello? Ms. Myrtle?" I said, as politely as I could.
"Mr. Johnson?", replied a familiar, but quivering, voice.
If she's not calling to ask me to join her for some Speed Bingo, or to ask me to run down to Ralph's to replenish her supply of RC Cola and Moonpies, then it's usually to ask me to borrow a can of bumblebee tuna for her cats. The latter was the most probable.
"Are you running low on your monthly supply of bumblebee tuna again, Ms. Myrtle?" I said, half jokingly.
"No. No. I..." she stammered, without even feigning a chuckle, "I have enough to last until March. Maybe April. It's.. it's Captain Cuddle-Wuddles. I'm worried sick about him." I could tell by her vocal intonation that, whatever the problem was, it was grave. She went on to explain the whole situation.
Oftentimes people just need someone else to listen to them, without interruption or judgment. I was hoping this would be the case with Myrtle. I could simply express my heartfelt pity for the dumb cat, offer a few words of solace, and carry on with my grand plans of taking a nice long relaxing steam shower followed by one of those naps that are unrestrained by the bounds of time. Any hopes of doing so, however, would be dashed upon the rocks by her next six words.
"Can... you help me... find him?"
Well, what could I say? The responsibility and duty to care for the elderly and infirm falls on the young and the strong, does it not?
"Sure thing, Ms. Myrtle. I have a knack for gumshoe work. Let me see what I can do." was my reply, which wasn't entirely true. Gumshoe work requires one to effectively employ a high degree of deductive and inductive reasoning skills, as well as mental "horsepower". My reasoning skills seem to be on the same level as that of a sea cucumber. Or, maybe a goldfish, at best. As if this didn't already bode poorly enough for Ms. Myrtle, my degree of mental "horsepower" makes some people think I should shift careers from speech-language pathology to something more suitable, like maybe a parking lot attendant.
Scarcely was I aware that the next two months of my life would be centered around one mission, and one mission only, all the while, trying to balance the demands of being a college student by day, and a moonshiner by night. That mission? Not to rest until that dumb cat was safely nestled away in Myrtle's lap, dressed in a ridiculous sweater with bells and sequins, and being hand-fed better meals than I am privileged to eat on a daily basis.
But, here I am. On the case...
(to be continued...)
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