A Cat Tale

            Not long ago, Deemon O’Flaherty, the illustrious lawyer whose “life of crime” is the storied stuff of legend around here, allowed as how I should get a cat.

            “Don’t you think that would upset my ferocious dog, Woof Man,” I asked?

            “Pffffttt,” he sputtered, wasting at least a half ounce of lovely, approachable, heady-nosed Middleton Barry Crockett.  “Woof Man is a long-haired Chihuahua,” he spat, “What in all the tales of Erin does he have to say about it?!!  Is his little hair going to stand on end?”

            “You scoff,” I retorted, “but he is a dog of regal bearing, and considerable popularity, not to mention fearless, faithful, and of frugal upkeep!”

            “Sure, and a canine of significantly less flatulence than your own upstanding self, I’ve no doubt. But a cat…”  He wandered into his own thoughts for a brief pause.  It is a tactic he uses to advantage when addressing juries full of tough-on-crime stalwarts.  Presently, he looked directly at me.  “These days,” he expounded, “there are a lot of crazies making bombs.  Can your diminutive Doberman sniff out a bomb?”

            “What?!  That takes specialized training.  Anyway, what do I need with a bomb-sniffing Chihuahua?  Woof Man is just fine as he is.”

            “Well, you have to admit, it’s a useful talent, and you’re never going to be able to learn it yourself, are you now?”

            “What are you driving at?”

            “It happens, as a fine figment of fate, that one of my very own acquaintances from the world of legal ambiguity, possesses a cat for which he can no longer care due to a sentencing mishap.  This cat has been trained to sniff out explosives! “

            I studiously sipped my glass of amber iced tea to avoid exploding in laughter.  Only a man such as Deemon O’Flaherty would have noticed the curl of a grin that I forced out of my mouth at the rim of the glass.  And only he would have noticed the little sputter I concealed as I sipped.

            “So what does this cat do when it finds a bomb,” I asked?  “Does it wink its little eye and mutter arghh?  Does it nod its little grey head?”

            “Yellow,” he said.  “It’s a yellow tabby cat.”  His demeanor was serious, trying to overcome both our urges to burst out laughing.

            “And???”

            “It sticks its little tail out straight as an arrow, and scratches with its little back feet.” He quickly turned away and sipped his Middleton, then held the glass up to the light to study it.

            “All right, Deemon.  I’ll take the cat for you.  What’s its name?”

            “Griswold,” he answered turning back to me with a smile. “But it doesn’t matter, he won’t answer to it.  He’s in the car.  I’ll go get him.”

            I took the cat in my arms—he seemed friendly enough. “Griswold won’t do,” I said as he purred.  I’m changing his name to Cheddar Bake.  From now on, you are my bomb-sniffing cat, Cheddar Bake.”  O’Flaherty winced, but then smiled.  Then Cheddar Bake spotted Woof Man (who had been quietly eying him).  His tail shot out straight as an arrow as he turned in my arms.  He began pawing with his back legs and he let out a low growl.  I swear to God it sounded like he said “Arghh.”