My wife and I have been hosting a big tiger stripe tabby on our property for about three years now. He showed up out of nowhere one cold rainy day at a neighbor’s house. Scavenging dog food was his game. He looked pretty rough. We named him Sidney.

The neighbor had called us with the news of his having shown up, figuring we would take him in. The neighbor was correct. But I sensed he wasn’t a normal cat when, at my first sight of him, he was panting like a dog and licking his balls. He made unusual noises all the way home. I mean really strange. We were a little scared—-so much so that we weren’t really too excited about opening the pet carrier door——and especially after hearing some of his low register baritone utterings, if you know what I mean. Some of those sounds must have come all the way from his butthole.

From day one he was——odd. His most obnoxious habit is to strut around the house like royalty, invading my space as though I’m not here and turning to put his butt right in my face——-and he does this on a regular schedule. If it’s 6:05 a.m., the butt is in my face. And those vacant stares. He must be thinking; “Hmmm. That old man smells funny and he’s a grump—but he has tuna, friskies and the gullibility gene. I’ll let him rub me tomorrow if I’m in the mood.”

I’m telling you it’s working for him! I’m pretty sure he would start munching on me if he thought I was dead. Just yesterday I was awakened by a thoughtful and thorough cat scan. Checkin for a pulse he was!

The snake episode was perhaps the most rattling (pardon the pun) experience. Going barefoot in the house is so freeing and relaxing—-that is unless your catdog delivers a very much alive, injured, bloody and angry, snake, just inside the back door. Sydney was nowhere to be seen. Delivery complete! Thank you Sydney!

Then there was the chilly foggy winter morning, barely light enough to see. There was movement. Lots of fur moving around down by the water. I stood in the back door and sipped coffee, studying the shore line. Soon I was able to make out Sydney and the other large furry object he appeared to be dragging toward my wrought iron fence. After a solid ten minutes of watching his relentless attempts to pull the the adolescent nutria he had assassinated through the bars of my fence I cautiously approached him and wrestled the dead nutria carcass from his claws.

What house cat do you know that kills nutria and vipers just for grins? .

Here’s hoping that our next cat, if I decide to re-cat after this hair raising experience, is a fraidy cat. Fraidy cats are what we’re accustomed to, what with gators and snakes and spiders as big as hoodoo bears. Sydney would be in the un-fraidy zone, somewhere in the “gator-snake, hoodoo bear, strike fear in the heart of man” category. Not fraidy of anything, except maybe missing his five o’clock tuna.

I ran into the Bossier City Chicken Whisperer at Sam’s Club yesterday. Turns out chickens have had a rough two years, considering their 99.9 % death rate. Very bleak for the cluckers. After a long discussion about exactly what information she was sharing with chickens I asked if she would be willing to attempt to whisper to Sydney. Turns out she had worked in the vet clinic where Sydney had been banned two years ago. Not only had her whispering failed but she had become “weary of seeing his anus up close.”

I’m up early this morning and headed out to walk. But first I MUST locate my Kevlar coveralls. There were noises earlier. Some of that baritone growling and, new this morning, barking sounds. If he attacks me it will be within the first one hundred yards of the walk. Wish me luck.