The Curious Case of Captain Cuddle-Wuddles (Volume 3)

(...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 6. The Fall of the House of Myrtle.

In her pantry, beside the broom and canned squash,
to the right of the canisters of Metamucil and boxes of moonpies,
solemnly hangs a neon green leash, embroidered with the initials, C.C.W.

Peer into the kitchen! Among the dozen milk bowls, one is empty.
Homogenized milk once joyfully filled its brim, 'twas lapped up with gay abandon!
But, lo! The lonesome milk bowl now waits. Dry. Discarded. Forsaken.

Descend to the basement, and observe the abandoned litter box!
Yay, that which once waited, ready to sterilize all with its powerful deodorizing agents,
now longeth for a paw to rake its soiled contents once more.

In the laundry room, lay an assortment of hand-knit sweaters,
neatly folded, gaily accessorized with brilliant sequins and merry bells.
It now layeth silently atop the clothes rack, with none to adorn.

Come to the living room! Harken your ears, you sluggard!
The grandfather clock marks time in tandem with the rocking chair
as it sways to and fro, squeaking on its rusty hinges.

Momma Myrtle! Once so merry, once so cheerful!
She rocks slow, listless, and without expression.
Sullen is she, gazing quietly at a photograph in hand.
A photograph of an old companion.

'Twas a companion who would, at the slightest beckon, joyfully leap upon her lap,
and take great pleasure at nibbling the processed poultry product from her very fingers.
'Twas a companion who would, at the slightest beckon, joyfully leap into her bosom,
and take great pleasure at lapping up the leftover milk from her cereal bowl.

Oh, good Myrtle! Where now is thy companion?
Wherefore is light given unto her in misery,
and life unto the bitter soul, which longs for her furry friend?
Wherefore, good Myrtle, hath woeful tidings befallen your home?

Chapter 7. Rendezvous at the Riverside.

February 20th, 2011. 6:00 am. The much anticipated day had finally arrived. Bleary eyed and discombobulated, an involuntary yawn escaped as I rolled from under the warmth and comfort of my blanket. Navigating through the darkness, I staggered into the lavatory where I would go through the standard routine - cleanse the body in the shower, brush the fangs, and nick the chin multiple times shaving, applying small tatters of toilet paper to assist the blood clotting process. The next step in the routine is usually to stumble over to the mountain of clothes strewn about on the floor and selecting an attire that no sensible man would probably ever wear - sweatpants, moccasins, and coonskin cap. And, of course, the final step before darting out the door is usually to address the cries coming forth from the carnivorous abyss that is my stomach. This particular morning, these cries were silenced with a banana, which was systematically peeled and devoured whole. With face now checkered with white tatters of toilet paper, hunger pangs momentarily staved off, and dressed like one who has utter disregard for modern fashion, I was finally ready to greet the brave new world. My destination? Henley Street Bridge @ 7 am.

6:50 am. My arrival at the bridge was uncharacteristically early, so I took a little stroll on the riverside. A few eager rays of the morning sun visibly broke over the mountainous horizon. The sky itself seemed to be set ablaze; painted with fiery reds, pinks, and oranges.


How remarkable is it, I thought, that during a sunrise or sunset, even a dull and drab concrete edifice, such as the Henley Street Bridge, can be transformed into a most picturesque and sublime scene?


Or, how remarkable is it, I thought, that the same dull and drab bridge during the heat of day, can suddenly be transformed into a most romantic display at twilight, as it was during the holidays?


Below on the dock, in the early morning, were two Canadian geese waddling along, wing-in-wing, quacking quietly amongst themselves in low muffled tones.

I had always heard that Canadian geese are monogamous and mate for life. And, I had always wondered what their courting and mate selection process was like within modern goose culture? I imagine that all the young female geese blush when the young strapping goose who leads the "V" formation waddles by. And, what about their marital relationship? Once the "goose in shining armor" appears, once he woos (or is wooed by) his lover, and once the honeymoon stage is over and the chief aim in life shifts from mate selection to rearing the next generation of goslings, does the fiery passion of love subside? Do they have the occasional argument? Surely, they do. After the heated words have been shared and the feathers have been ruffled, I'm sure they're able to smooth things out, at least for the sake of the goslings. I wondered what these two on the dock below were discussing? Judging by their low muffled tones, it seemed to be a topic of great importance. Perhaps, they were planning on hatching another brood of goslings? Or, perhaps they were discussing their lifelong dream of early spring migration? Or, perhaps even a few simple words of gratitude, such as, "Thank you for catching that trout last night, sweetheart. And, the small insects. They were delicious."

7:00 am. The pair of geese flew away, probably because I looked suspicious. I sat down on a nearby bench at I glanced at my watch, which reported it was precisely 7 'o clock. Just after the second hand finished its revolution, my nostrils were suddenly overwhelmed by the sweetest of aromas. My olfactory senses, which are locally renowned for their keenness - so keen in fact, that I sometimes wonder if I should have pursued a career in a canine drug detection unit - my olfactory senses were in ecstasy as they scrambled to categorize the aroma. They concluded it was the scent of spring lilacs, and perhaps a hint of honeysuckles. And, sure enough, in my peripheral vision could be distinguished a tall slender figure ambling slowly in my direction.

And there she was...

Iris. Iris Peppercorn.

Chapter 8. The Rapturous Iris Peppercorn.

They say that punctuality is the politeness of kings, or in our case, the politeness of queens. She was as punctilious as she was meticulous. And, as her paces drew steadily nearer, the clicking of her sensibly low heels upon the concrete sidewalk grew steadily louder. My pulse rate hastened, for reasons I could not discern. Also indiscernible was what she was carrying in her arms. It seemed to be a medium sized suitcase, but then again, my peripheral vision isn't nearly as reliable as my olfactory senses are.

She walked at a leisurely pace, as if in slow motion. And as she did, a gentle leeward wind tossed her golden blond hair over her left shoulder, like mellow ocean waves being tossed ashore. Her black velvet dress seemed to undulate as she walked, in a way that would captivate a man's attention, and take his mind off of supply side economics.

We greeted one another and, after the usual civilities, she directed my attention to the suitcase, which, in fact, was not a suitcase at all - it was a small portable cat kennel. Had my attention not been so captivated, I certainly would have noticed the furry tail protruding from the ventilation holes. Or the razor sharp claws projecting outward from the caged front.

"Mr. Johnson, the case is closed. Say hello to Captain Cuddle-Wuddles." she said, with a cool impassivity, holding up the kennel in plain view.

A thousand questions raced through my mind. Where was he? Is it really him?

Well, that's only two questions, I know. But, it seemed like a lot more than that at the time.

"The Captain is safe and sound, Mr. Johnson." she said. "He was rescued by one of my finest agents. Allow me to explain."

Chapter 9. The Dramatic Rescue.

Iris proceeded to describe the events that had transpired over the last four weeks, how she had scoured the four corners of the internet in search of The Captain. With no luck from search engines, she resolved to conduct an old-fashioned investigation at the scene of the disappearance - Myrtle's home. After a thorough search of the residence, the case was looking more and more bleak, until a most peculiar piece of evidence was discovered partially concealed under The Captain's litter box. It was the following advertisement:


The "Happy Cat Cafe"? Written in a foreign tongue, presumably Korean? Initially, she placed little meaning on the advertisement, but, over the next few days, a gnawing suspicion began to plague her. Understand, dear reader, that a good private eye has a strong sense of intuition, and it is sometimes upon this intuition which he or she must rely heavily. It was a long shot, but she contacted her "sources" in South Korea, and forwarded the big case to him. Nothing was expected to come of it, but a mere week later, a shocking report was delivered to her office.

According to said report, her "source", a field agent codenamed Reuben Haggar, had cleverly disguised himself as an unassuming area garbageman, as seen here, practicing and perfecting his rummaging techniques:

Under this guise, he located the "Happy Cat Cafe" based on the address in the advertisement. He entered as inconspicuously as possible and captured undercover photographic documentation of the joint, which he describes as a "place where cats live in deplorable conditions operated under the deceptive pretext of a friendly coffee shop".

(Note: The following photographs may be slightly disturbing and may not be suitable for young viewers.)

According to the reports, the "Happy Cat Cafe" is not so happy after all. It is what the undercover agent described, in his own words, as "cat purgatory". Disturbingly enough, the cats allegedly...

...are subjected to indescribable suffering!


...languish away under miserable, squalid conditions!


... endure the weeping and gnashing of teeth!


...and endure the unfathomable humiliation of playing stupid games with the wretched humans!


...and fall prey to the perilous clutches of.... certain doom!


...are never allowed even a moment's rest under the watchful eye of the meddlesome customers!


... they run! they hide! in hopes of a nap! but all in vain!


...forced to wear hideous, and often unfashionable, sweaters! some of which display poorly English spelling/grammar! Oh, the humanity!


...forced to suffer loathsome, low-budget meals! and milk nearing its expiration date!


...and lead generally unhappy lives!


It was here, in the deceptively named "Happy Cat Cafe", whereby the long lost Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was fortuitously discovered by undercover agent Haggar. Bingo! He was found hunched over and cowering in the middle of the floor, making vegetative sounds, probably in fear of being forced to wear one of those hideous sweaters:


Initially, Captain Cuddle-Wuddles scorned and ignored the beckoning of Agent Haggar, escaping high into the rafters, beyond his reach.

But, Agent Haggar quickly garnered his affection, and ingratiated himself with some tuna-flavored snacks, just like the ones Myrtle hides on the top shelf of her pantry, right above the reserve case of RC Cola.


With a stomach full of yummy snacks, Agent Haggar lured The Captain into his bag, and made the dramatic escape:


And, just like that! Captain Cuddle-Wuddles was rescued from wretched confines of the "Happy Cat Cafe" - he was homeward bound.

Iris Peppercorn opened the kennel, coaxed out The Captain, and placed him in my arms. A tear welled up my eye at the sight of everyone's favorite neighborhood cat, partially from emotion but mostly from allegies. He was finally home. I held the furry creature in my bosom. He licked the remnants of banana from my fingers, and then proceeded to vomit on my shoulder, which I interpreted as a token of gratitude. He then began pawing at the white tatters of toilet paper on my face, which I had completely forgotten about in the hustle-and-bustle of the morning rush.

I wiped the vomit from my shoulder, peeled the remaining white tatters of toilet paper from my face, and thanked Ms. Peppercorn for her services.

"Don't thank me, kid. Thank Agent Haggar. He's the real hero in this case." she said.

We parted ways. Perhaps we would meet again, another day, another case. For now, there was only one place left to go - back to Momma Myrtle.

Chapter 10. The Glorious Reunion.

Harken your ears! Lift up your heads, Rocky Top!
To the sounds of celebration! To the sights of joyful dancing!
For the house of Myrtle celebrates the return of her prodigal kitten!

Prepare the fattened salmon! Prepare the fattened codfish!
Open the cans of tuna! Fill the milk bowls once again! To their brims!
Behold, the grand feast at the house of Myrtle!

Oh, Captain! My Captain!
Your fearful trip is done!
O, how you suffered the tragedy of wearing unfashionable sweaters;
let him now be adorned with the Amazing Technicolor Dream Sweater!
O, how you endured the bitter sorrow of low-budget meals and milk nearing expiration;
let him now be lavished with the finest of bumblebee tuna and the freshest of 2% milk!
Ready the neon green leash from the pantry!
Freshen up the litter box!
For the brave Captain, our brave Captain's fearful trip is done!