Many things I remember from Cleo's and my own past life. You see, Cleo was my first cat, many years before Velvet, indeed, she was a gleam in her mom and dad's eyes. (In Tippy and Velvet's case, grandparent's eyes.) When I had a house in 1995, Cleo was the cat of the street; no one dared meddled with her. Small as she might have been.

This was not all her bravado; she had a hunting partner, "Misha" a year old black and white like her, who lived across the street. Cleo would leave in the morning when I went to work no matter what season, to go across our cul de sac, to call on Misha, and go on "the rounds". Those two then went off, raising hell.

No one on the street meddled with her (or Misha, for they were a team). I doted on this, until one quiet Summer night, Cleo was caught on her own. No one (even human) meddled with Cleo on the street, but, from out of her territory to the south once came a one-eyed Siamese girl.

I was sitting on the back porch one evening, when a loud infant babies cry came from the adjacent yard to the west, over the fence.

"Yeeeowww! oowwww!"

"Hmm, somebody's sick kid?" I said to my girlfriend.

"That's an angry cat, stupid!" she said.

Cleo, between my legs, was off like a shot to investigate. She knew what I did not quite catch. The sound of a VERY angry Siamese.

The one-eyed Siamese was on Cleo's fence, cloaked by many trees, I could not get a visual fix on it. Cleo sure as hell did.

Right up, and on to the fence she headed, fur bristling, fangs bared.

Without Misha, she was on her own. A demented chocolate-point Siamese, at least twice her weight. I finally glimpsed it through the trees; it was a big one-eyed monster.

Being a "Cat person" by then, I got up and called across the road for Misha, I got no answer, she must have been inside; my girlfriend thought I was nuts.

"What are you doing? GET Cleo!"

I said "Well, I think she needs Misha".

She said "You idiot! GET Cleo, that cat will rip her limb from limb!, it might have rabies!".

Too late. Cleo didn't threaten; Cleo never threatens, she jumped right in.

The Spruce trees they were both behind shuddered and shook, and the battle to the death took place. High pitched screams, seeming not to be feline in nature emitted, then a crash as they both fell backward off the fence.

Silence.

I ran to the fence; Cleo hopped over with twigs stuck all over her, and bright blood on the white fur of her right front leg. I went to pick her up, comfort her, and she ran a wide path around me, and headed straight inside the screen door, down to the basement, her safe place when wounded.

After coaxing her out, we found out the blood on her leg was not hers. We left her alone; there was only a small rip on her back, not enough to go to the Vet (on whom with we were already on a first-name basis). I'm sure there were numerous fang punctures we could not see. Nothing to do but wait for them to abscess or not. We had been through this before.

By eight in the evening, Misha was meowing at our front door. Cleo came up, and whizzed past me, out with Misha. The two headed across the road with a Leopard-like lope, off to check the territory.

I waited up until she scratched at the front door screen at eleven PM. She came in without a glance, and settled at the foot of my bed before I could even get in.

I said "Cleo, you are something else!"

From eyes like slits, purring, she seemed to say "I know."

We never did see the "one-eyed Jack" again.

Copyright © Bill Mason
July 30, 2003