A Cat Called Eggs

I first caught sight of Eggs, The Ginger Terror, as he flew out of my peripheral vision, an orange streak of light in hot pursuit of an enormous black cat that I had nicknamed ‘The Panther.’ The Panther had earned his moniker by merit of his largeness and his predilection for pouncing on field mice from the limbs of an old, twisted apple tree that stood in a vacant lot across the street. The tree now provided sanctuary as he shot up its trunk to a top limb. Fast on his heels, Eggs stopped only at its base, satisfied at having treed his quarry. He stood firm for a moment, staring up at The Panther, his tail held straight and high, like a puffy orange battle flag. Then he turned and trotted purposefully back towards our building. “Wow.” I said out loud, to no one. “That cat is a badass.” Mr. Beans whined from behind the screen door. He had been watching the chase scene with intense enthusiasm, as chasing things is his primary interest in life.

In that moment, I had no idea that Eggs was pure Orange Evil. Nor could I have known how a creature so small and fluffy would come to torment my daily existence as a terrifying adversary who lurked behind every blind corner. As implausible as it sounds, this pint-sized guerilla would soon become an unrelenting, imminent threat to my peace and well-being.

The following day I met my new neighbors and learned that Eggs had arrived with them, along with their other cat, ‘Spam,’ a friendly, leg-circling, tortoise-shell female. I laughed when they told me their names and said, “That’s hilarious! My dog is called ‘Beans.’ We have a full meal between us!”

“You mean that giant pit bull?” asked the woman, her penciled-in eyebrows raised and mouth agape in undisguised shock.

“Yes.” I stopped laughing because she hadn’t started. “I didn’t give him that name. He’s a rescue.”

“Wow. Aren’t you brave? I would be terrified to take in a big dog like that!” The cartoon eyebrows knitted in incredulous disapproval, as if such a thing were neither believable nor tasteful. The tense smile I had been forcing fell away from my face. I could tell we were going to get along like a house on fire.

“He’s a good boy,” I said. “Just a big goofball, really.” She didn’t look convinced. In fact, her face spoke a clear disapproval of all things big and goofy. “He drools a lot, but he’s very sweet, and he loves everyone he meets.”

I did not mention how he loves cats, or dearly wished for a chance to love a cat. With his teeth. After a good chase. Beans is, in truth, a very gentle and amiable dog, unless you are a small creature that will potentially run from him. His evolutionary brain is hard-wired for that particular and exquisite delight. He lives for the hunt, even dreams of speeding after small, squeaky critters and finally catching them in his subconscious doggie paradise.

Feeling the awkward chasm of antipathy growing between myself and my new neighbor, I changed the subject. I told her how I had watched Eggs run The Panther up a tree. “It was pretty impressive,” I said. “That cat is twice his size.” Now she smiled with obvious pride and large white teeth. She told me how another nearby resident had already complained to her about him.

“He asked me to please keep the ginger cat indoors.” She laughed. “His won’t go out in the yard anymore because she’s afraid of Eggs.” She looked at her husband, who laughed then too, but nervously, as a stress response. I didn’t see the funny part of that story. Envisioning Eggs stalking the other cats like a neighborhood terrorist in their own yards just for fun provided a first foreboding glimpse of his true fiendish nature. I told them it had been lovely to meet them and made a polite excuse that I needed to get back to my work inside.

My next encounter with Eggs set the stage for his insidious strategy of conquest through fear and surprise. A few nights later, as I headed to bed, Mr. Beans whined plaintively and scratched the door to tell me he needed to take a last walk. Cold winter rain splattered the kitchen window. “Seriously, Beans?” I looked down at his wrinkled, pleading brow, and he wagged his tail. He meant it. Sleepy and eager to get it done and into my warm bed, I suited up for the weather and let him lead me across the street toward the vacant lot. As we passed the end of a giant hedgerow that separates the property, an orange blur shot out from behind it, crossing our path. In the same instant, Beans charged after it, snatching my arm, and I met the ground, face-down, with a resounding smack. Shocked by the sharp rudeness of my impact with the pavement, I held on to the leash with the super-human strength that only adrenaline can provide. He dragged me a couple of feet before I managed to stop him with my dead weight and sheer determination to not let go.

By the time I had regained my senses and assessed the damage, Beans was licking my face, tail wagging, pleased with the happy surprise of finding me on the ground with him. He figured this must be some exceptionally fun new game we were playing. I couldn’t be angry with him for reacting to an instantaneous and irresistible impulse from his hindbrain. It had all happened in a flash. But if I could just get my hands on that cat! I knew for certain that he had premeditated the attack. He’d seen us coming and hidden behind the shrubbery to lie in ambush, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I couldn’t fathom why he would want to harm me, but I resolved to be on guard in the future.

As the days passed, it became evident that Eggs wasn’t after me, but instead had a particular and overt interest in Mr. Beans. Every time he saw us out for a walk, he made a beeline for the dog. As if magnetized, he would leave off whatever act of terror he was committing to trot assertively toward us, tail straight up. The phenomenon puzzled me and suggested for the first time that Eggs may be more than just a cat. It began to occur to me that he embodied all the imperious swagger and tendency toward violent subjugation that might befit the familiar of Mars, the god of war.

This novel behavior perplexed Beans as well, but it did not curb his desire to engage with the fuzzy little demon, under any circumstance. Based on all his previous feline experience, Eggs should be running the other direction; however, he was keen for any new and exciting plans the cat might have in mind. He kept a tense, quivering focus on Eggs’ every move that engendered a growing anxiety inside of me, and my dread intensified with each new encounter. I began to take evasive measures, exiting the rear of our apartment building, taking different routes on our daily walks, and avoiding the spots that Eggs frequented in the neighborhood. This became increasingly difficult as he seemed to magically appear, like a wicked leprechaun, everywhere we went. But I had the most angst when I couldn’t see him. I could still feel the bruises sustained in the recent ambush attack from behind the shrubbery. When would it happen again? And from what new place of concealment would he explode, like a terrible burst of orange light? I began to imagine him lurking around every blind corner. My charming little neighborhood had become a frightening and dangerous place.

The next assault, however, would target Mr. Beans alone. To my regret, I left my best friend vulnerable in the back of my car, with the windows cracked open slightly, while I went back inside to quickly retrieve a forgotten manilla envelope that I wanted to mail. I couldn’t find it immediately, and several minutes passed before I reemerged from the apartment. When I did, I found my parked car rocking violently from the force of Mr. Beans ramming his giant head repeatedly against the glass of the rear window, determined to smash through it and reach Eggs. The tyrannical tabby crouched above him on top of the car and swatted a paw at the narrow gap of the partially open window. He watched intently as the helpless victim smashed his own face into the glass over and over again. It reminded me of a cat stalking a captive goldfish, only with the poor fish hurling himself suicidally into the side of the bowl. I yelled at Eggs to get off and ran towards the car, hoping my aggressive forward energy would drive him away. Instead, he lowered his body, hunkered down and hissed at me, as if he intended to stand his ground, just on principle. Fortunately, I held in my hand the large and heavy manilla envelope. I used it now as a weapon, waving it towards him and then smacking it down on the roof of the car, right next to him. The sound and proximity of the blow sent him off and running, much to my relief. As we watched him disappear around the corner of the apartment building, I turned to Mr. Beans and said, “This is war.”

My whole body trembled as adrenaline pumped through my veins to the frenzied rhythm of my racing heart. I realized that I had developed a true and primal fear of this cat. What would I have done if I hadn’t had the envelope? Even worse, I knew that he would not take this routing lightly, and that he would soon return to seek vengeance.

The following sunny afternoon, Mr. Beans and I were returning from a lovely walk made especially pleasant by the failure of Eggs to appear anywhere. His absence should have raised suspicion and put me on high alert. Instead, I had relaxed into enjoying the novelty of a terror-free stroll through the neighborhood. I should not have let down my guard. On return to my apartment, we found Eggs lounging idly like a Roman Emperor on the doorstep, with only the tip of his tail twitching back and forth. He stared at me in unyielding defiance, inviting me to the challenge. The clever little imp knew full well that I couldn’t approach him with ninety-five pounds of eager pit bull on the end of a leash. Stunned by this maneuver, I found myself at a momentary loss for how to counter it, or even what to do next. I had been outmatched and outwitted by this bold and brilliant piece of strategy. He had staged a one-cat coup on my very doorstep, while simultaneously blocking my passage to sanctuary and safety. Any reader will agree, at this point, that I am not crazy, and that in Eggs I had found something other than a mere cat. I had instead discovered a more frightening and capable adversary than I had ever before encountered.

I could see no choice but to retreat, and quickly. I sensed an urgent need to divert Mr. Beans’ attention in the opposite direction. I wanted to stay upright this time. Also, I had no idea what might happen if I lost my grip on the leash, but I knew for sure it wouldn’t be good for Mr. Beans. We walked down through the carport and around the back of the building, hoping for the off chance that he would be gone when we returned from the opposite direction. But he remained, twitching his tail and watching us carefully. I took Beans back to the car and got inside. This provided a temporary bunker, a safe place for me to figure out my next move. Beans whined.

“This is ridiculous!” I said to him. “He’s just a stupid cat! I’m bigger than him and have thumbs and a huge cerebral cortex! There is no way he can keep me out of my own home. I can’t allow that, Mr. Beans. It’s a matter of pride for my species.” He whined again and thumped his tail, his brow creased with worry.

There had to be a way to remove Eggs from my doorstep. I thought about the cats I used to live with and how they defiantly perched on counters and tables, until I hit on the brilliant idea of beaming them with a water pistol. It had been a game-changer. Excited by this simple yet shrewd solution, I cranked the car and headed out to get a gun.

When I returned, Caligula the Cat still lay on my doorstep. His despotic posture clearly stated that he intended to loiter there all day, or forever, if the mood should strike him. As I approached, I leveled the pistol at him with clear intent and said, “This is the only warning you’re gonna get, Buddy. Scram or I’ll soak ya!” Then I hissed fiercely and stomped towards him. He didn’t move but just kept staring at me and flicking his tail. When I reached point blank range, I stopped and took aim. Then I opened fire.

It took three full squirts, all direct hits, to get him unstuck. I kept squirting. When he got up to run, I ran after him, continuing my watery barrage. He shot off down the street, and I stopped, breathless from the intense encounter. I had won the day! I congratulated myself for this stroke of genius. A victory for thumbs and big brains everywhere. Power to the People!

More importantly, I had won the neighborhood back for myself and Mr. Beans. We could now walk confidently wherever we wished, as long as I had my trusty side piece with me. After a few more engagements with my liquid leveler, all I had to do was just point it at him, and he would run. It seemed that my evil ginger nemesis had finally been defeated and the streets of Alphabet Town were safe again. Several uneventful weeks passed, and the whole nightmare had begun to fade into an unhappy memory. But then Eggs changed the game on me entirely.

One cold night, Mr. Beans and I lay under the warm comforter listening to another winter storm pelt the windows with icy rain. As we both drifted off into a cozy dreamland, a bloodcurdling howl from outside started us both awake. Beans trampled my belly painfully as he jumped up and ran to the window. “Oof!” I grunted. “I hate that rotten cat!” I knew it was Eggs again. He’d done the same thing the night before. I’d found him standing at the neighbor’s front door yowling loud and long, an unholy sound that hurt my ears and made my hair stand on end. I had repelled him then with the pistol, but it had taken several shots to convince him, which concerned me. I hoped my gun wasn’t losing its mojo. I flew out of bed and hastily donned my fuzzy pink housecoat, stomping mad at being woken again. He’d probably timed this infernal serenade perfectly to inflict the most annoyance on me. I charged out the door with my gun already poised to fire like a TV cop, but the pitiful scene I found stopped me in my tracks.

There stood Eggs, soaked with rain, yowling his little heart out. His voice cracked and weak, he was giving it everything he had. When he saw me, he turned his pleading in my direction. He began to approach, and I raised the pistol at him, although I had no fear of this wretched creature. A soaking wet cat is a miserable sight. The sound of his woeful lament reminded me of a random fact I’d read somewhere: Adult cats don’t vocalize to other cats or animals, only to people. It’s their way of communicating with the big, weird monkeys that feed them. I thought back and couldn’t remember ever hearing Eggs make a sound other than a hiss before the previous night.

I noticed then the neighbor’s doorstep had been cleared of plants and cleaned, and the Welcome mat was gone. I hadn’t seen the eyebrow lady or her submissive husband for days. A wave of cold, ugly understanding washed over me.

“You poor little beast,” I said to him. I went back inside, put Mr. Beans in his crate, and grabbed a towel from the cabinet on my way back out. All my recent pride for my species completely drained away, I wrapped the wailing Eggs up and brought him inside the apartment. “Tomorrow we’ll find you a new home. A good one with nicer monkeys who won’t abandon you. Just far away from here, okay?” I looked down at the pitiful little wet gremlin that I held swaddled in my arms like the baby Jesus. He’d gone quiet and very still, and I knew a truce had been called between us.