So there’s this guy. He will remain nameless…in order to protect and preserve his stupidity. And I will remain clueless…as to why he chose me as the supposed answer to his prayers late one afternoon last month. Perhaps it’s because I exude ignorance and vulnerability most of the time…eh, maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’m just so gosh darned kind and compassionate.

But I digress.

It’s not at all what you’re thinking, fools. The old coot didn’t hit on me. He simply became a pest. An irksome creature that I failed to see coming and whom I struggled to pry from my driveway once he arrived. Like those adorably sweet young things (read: hunky 20-somethingish boy toys) that show up on my doorstep in the thick of summer with their sweat soaked T-shirts clinging like crazy to every rippling muscle, feigning thirst and exhaustion and selling the most A-MAZING encyclopedia type crapola I positively will never need in this lifetime. But this was different. I wanted the man to leave. The boy toys could stay. Even though I would never, ever plunk down cold, hard cash for such tripe.

At any rate, the ridiculous event unfolded thusly….

The telephone rang and on the other end of the line was a man who sounded anxious and fretful. A man who appeared fraught with despair and angst. A man who was woefully desperate to unload a cat that he would later INSIST was mine.

“Hello?”

“Hello, yes I believe I have your cat. She’s been here at my house for days and days and simply won’t leave. Could I swing by—say in about 10 minutes—so you could take a look to be sure? Otherwise I’ll have to take her to the SPCA—tonight—because I just can’t have this cat here anymore. It’s got to go.”

“You say you have my cat? MY cat? How on earth did you come to the (grandly erroneous and completely irrational) conclusion that it’s my cat you have?” I queried, curious as to how this man’s brain even functioned well enough to pluck ear hairs. What’s more, how did he even know I owned a cat? Maybe I had a pet hamster. Or a goat or something. Not a cat.

“Well, your cat is black, right?” he quizzed.

“Right,” I answered, wondering how he knew that, too. I don’t know him from Adam. Or from Jack. Or even Jill. How could he know me!?

“And he has a touch of white on his chest and belly,” I added like a fool. All the while I spoke, I had the silly phone wedged under my chin and was running around the house like a madwoman lifting blankets and pillows, crawling around on all fours to peer beneath cabinets and couches, tearing apart the little cardboard nest my kids had made for him…frantically scanning the cluttered world in which I live for that fuzzy-headed nitwit of mine with chipmunk breath and a king-sized swagger. Had he even come home last night!? I hadn’t the foggiest. Of course, I felt horrible. Absolutely horrible, like a slipshod mother—not having one stinking clue where my whiskered and wayward son happened to be at the moment. Grok!

“Girls! Quick! Help me find Mr. Binks!” I shrieked, burying the receiver in an armpit and calling in the cavalry to help with the search and recovery effort.

“With white paws, too?” he asked. “This cat has white paws.”

“No. Binks’ paws are black. PLAIN BLACK. But he has a bit of white on his chest and belly. Just a bit. But mostly he’s BLACK,” I clarified. Again.

“Well she’s a black and white cat and she’s a reeeeeally nice kitty, but I can’t keep her—like I said. I have other cats you know. She’ll definitely have to go to the SPCA,” he emphatically repeated—as if his insistence and caked on slathering of guilt would suddenly make me realize, “Yes, come to think of it, my cat does have white paws! I don’t know what the hell I was thinking! I must have imagined that his paws contain not one speck of whiteness. Silly me.”

And so the debate continued over the black/white issue—ad nauseam, until I happened to think of another inconsistency in his story.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “My cat’s male. And neutered at that. You keep saying ‘she.’ Are you sure the cat you have is female? Because the one I have isn’t. He’s definitely a he. Not a she.”

“Well I can’t say for certain,” he said. “Maybe she’s a he. Anyway, some folks up the road told me you have a black cat that likes to roam around a lot and I’ll just bet this is your kitty. Yep. I’m sure of it,” he pressed.

Perhaps that strange little man thought that by saying it enough times and by closing his mind to the facts, he could actually WILL his cat into being mine—convincing not only himself in the process, but whoever happened to be on the receiving end of his spiel.

“Good grief!” I thought to myself. If only I could FIND the little shit. Then the ugliness would all go away and I wouldn’t have to deal with this delusional individual anymore or with his silly stray. I could show him Mr. Binks, inky black paws and all, and prove that HE DIDN’T HAVE MY BLOOMING CAT—I DID! Wishful thinking. Binks was nowhere to be found.

“We can’t find him, Mommy,” my incompetent progenies chimed in together. “Maybe that nice man really does have Mr. Binks.”

“No he doesn’t, you inane twerps,” I muttered through clenched teeth, again with the receiver jammed under an armpit. “He’s around here SOMEWHERE!” I insisted. “Keep looking! KEEP LOOOOOOKING!!”

“Well, Sir, I guess you could come by,” I offered (to placate the crowd, of course). “But just for a minute.” Since I can’t seem to locate my moronic ball of fluff at the moment! So he put Her Furriness in a cardboard box poked full of air holes and proceeded to shatter the world record for land speed—racing to my driveway in six minutes flat. Lovely. Just lovely. A delusional man who is also punctual.

Fortunately, my charges found our cat in the mean time—mercilessly torturing something mole-ish in the back yard. “Look, Mommy! Binksy’s playing with his food!” they reported with glee. I marched out the door, cleverly scooped up the unwilling participant in my arms and locked him in the basement—proof positive that the numbskull was, in fact, in my care. Now I could deal more effectively with Mister-I’ve-Got-Your-Cat—I-Know-I’ve-Got-Your-Cat! in the driveway.

After coming to an abrupt stop and an even more abrupt “hello,” the man leapt from his car and scurried around to the passenger side where the box lay in the back seat. “Here she is!” he announced, giddy with the prospect of unloading that which he longed to unload.

“Well, actually…my cat came home. While you were driving here. He’s in the cellar. Really, he is. I’m so sorry, but this is not my cat.” I took a peek anyway. Naturally, I tried being sensitive and to carefully explain what had happened without gloating or gushing over the glorious news that I (apparently) had been right. I. WAS. SO. RIGHT! Yes I was! Not surprisingly, the hapless cat in question looked almost nothing like Mr. Binks. It was enormous in comparison, much much older than our familiar fuzzy face and it had HUGE patches of white all over its body—more like a Holstein than anything. And it happened to be long-haired—a detail that never made it into our conversation, oddly enough. Go figure.

Anyway, the man and his cat finally went away, tails dragging and heads hung low. I felt completely awful. Honest, I did. Like a cold and callus snake—a reprehensible creature devoid of remorse or compassion. A shameless schmuck who failed to rise to the occasion and offer a helping hand. Like someone who under ordinary circumstances is virtually incapable of saying “no.”

But who managed this time.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel