...
I had a cat named Warren. I name all my cats after movie stars. I got him very shortly after I first met Dave. Dave and Ray had come to see a band at Rancho Nicasio the same night I did. I knew Ray from my ex-boyfriend, but that was the first time I met Dave. Dave and I ended up blathering our heads off together for the rest of the night, yelling over the band or going outside to smoke a doob. Crikey. Thirty-five years ago! Almost. I was shortly to turn twenty-six as I recall. Anyway, some days later Dave took me to Ray's place to get a kitten. Warren.
Some years later, when I was living with Warren and my Old English Sheepdog, Sophie, with Herman in Sacramento, we had a squirrel who would leap out of the tree in the back yard onto the fence, run like hell all the way down the fence line and drive Warren right 'round the bend with the desire to nail his ass. Warren was never fast enough. By the time he got up on the fence and up to speed, the squirrel was always off through the trees and to the other side of the neighborhood. This happened every day. Same story.
Until one day. On that gorgeous day Warren was already up on the fence, at the very end of it next to the gate, gazing out past the driveway to the street. The squirrel was not paying attention. He leapt out of the tree, as per every day routine, and shot down the fence line till he literally slammed right into the back of Warren... at which point they both jumped about two feet into the air in surprise. They gaped at each other for a beat, and very luckily for the squirrel he recovered himself first. Warren just sat there vexed for another couple beats, started then to run after, then abruptly stopped to resume his supreme perplexation. Then he jumped down and came in the cat door.
Sophie and I were rolling on the floor next to the kitchen window, laughing until it hurt.
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