A Closer Look: Fred the Cat

Jan 3, 2014   Stephen

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No one knew where he came from; no one knew where he was going. An enigma. Streetwise and cooler than a cucumber Frappuccino, he walked the night like he owned it and still had the receipt. They say the school of hard knocks knew he was in town and offered him a scholarship, but he'd already taken the courses online. Twin traffic lights lit yellow shone in the shadows, reflecting a lifetime of choices made and triggers pulled. Those eyes had seen it all, and what they hadn't seen they probably suspected on some existential level. Did these eyes belong to a soul with a name? Can't say for sure, but everyone in town called him Fred.

It wouldn't be right to call this street cat a stray-- his home was the night and his family suspense-- but every wandering soul needs a place to call his own someday, and Fred's time had come. Without a decent frankfurter stand in sight, food was slim, and so was he. The odd scraps from a covert stranger passing in the fog weren't cutting it. Christmas Eve was right around the corner, and the world had just about bit the dust from frostbite. But that's when he spotted a house crawling with canines and a good number of humans, too. That's when things changed for Fred the Cat.

He played it cool, waltzing up to the curious humans without batting an eye. Fred had a seventh sense for danger-- he mastered the sixth one years ago-- and they gave him no reason to scat. Musically he was a master of scat, mind you, but that's another story for another day. They had kind words to offer and smooth scratches behind the ears; a saucer of milk sweetened the deal, and cold hard kibble wasn't far behind. They even built him a little pad to rest his pads. Not a bad deal, slice it anyway you like. Sure, the milk made him throw up, but live and learn. Story of his life.

These days Fred lounges in the lap of luxury, and occasionally ordinary laps. Some might call him soft. Fluffy. Domesticated. He doesn't seem to mind. The hours crawl by under a roof as he listens to the rain tell its endless tale, freezing drops tapping against window panes but no longer working as a close acquaintance. More than a year has passed the world by since those wandering days, but Fred hasn't lost his cool, and nobody's willing to put down money that he ever will. A pile of dogs is a cushion to him; a clattering kitchen is the soundtrack to his life. He just watches through lidded eyes, the same yellow traffic lights that spent many a midnight hunting for another drawn breath, as if they know something no one else does. Fred just flicks his tail and watches. And purrs, he's way into that. Yeah, even in this crazy world that can't tell up from down, Fred the Cat turned out all right.

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