You've heard the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue," I rather imagine. Well, this is a tale about "A Cat Named Lucy." The bottom line is, I'm a big old mean cat.
I got adopted as a tiny gray kitten by an about-to-be, middle-aged couple whose children were all but grown. I guess they wanted to make sure they didn't wind up with an empty nest in a couple of years so they took me home with them.
The first thing the woman did was squeal, "Isn't she cute. I think I'll name her Lucy." Oh no, I thought. So I smacked her with a paw, but she didn't take the hint.
As I developed into a half-grown cat, the man said to the woman, "Uh, I think we made a mistake with the name." Then it was off to the veterinarian in a failed effort to make me a less adventurous cat.
Things clearly turned for the worse, especially when they kept calling me Lucy. Like any self-respecting tomcat I started acting out my frustration with aggression.
After a fine day of lying on the car roof in the shade, I would go inside and terrorize the man's cow dog and the woman's two silly female pussies that hid every time they heard the door open. They put up with me because I would purr so convincingly when they petted me, and I slept with them at night on the bed.
In my opinion things went swimmingly well for several years, but then one day I overheard the man and woman announce we were moving from the Cedar Creek Lake area to Dallas. The man got a promotion that landed him in the executive offices, and he was all like, "I can't spend hours on the road everyday to go to and from work."
We landed in Winnetka Heights in Dallas' Oak Cliff neighborhood. I must admit it was a fine jump up in the world, and it certainly gave me more opportunities to roam in a beautiful area covered by trees. I discovered a woman living nearby with two cats whom I thoroughly enjoyed scaring.
I would sit by her door waiting for it to open. When she stuck her head out the door and looked around, I would hide behind a bush and jump out snarling when she tip-toed into the yard. It was great fun watching the woman and her two silly wussy cats run back inside shrieking.
Eventually, I would wander home to eat and sleep inside overnight, but mostly I liked to roam the neighborhood. It was a fine arrangement as far as I was concerned, but one day the phone rang.
A neighborhood man called for the scared woman to complain about me. My keepers shook their heads in wonder about someone not knowing how to scare a cat away, but they decided that at the age of 10 I had to relocate. As a city cat, I was a failure in their minds. The woman cried.
The next thing I knew I was in the truck with the man headed back for Cedar Creek Lake to the ranch where the parents lived in the big house and the uncle lived in the smaller house. For days I heard all of this noise about "How did we wind up with a cat" and "We don't like cats" from the people in the big house.
At first the parents, who are really old and fussy, refused to let me stay inside the house. The uncle (who is quite youthful and good looking) said I could go live at his house, but frankly he and that silly white Schnoodle he calls "Queenie" just get on my feline nerves.
Actually, it didn't take all that long for me to get things under control at the big house. Now, they've forgotten about not liking cats and dote on me. I hang out on the car roof in the garage during the day. Occasionally, I'll chase a bird or squirrel out of the yard. I sleep inside at night, and I have a secret hiding place no one can find. It's fun to listen to the old man look for me. He's determined to figure out where I hide, but he doesn't realize I have more than one spot. The old woman pets me, and she wants to know where I am when she doesn't see me.
Things are just fine, and the best part is that they've renamed me "Tom," I'm probably part bobcat considering how big and strong I am, according to the old man. But the real truth is that I'm just a big old mean cat who loves to be petted.