The note was written on a crumpled fish wrap that smelled like mackerel. I drew in my breath and held it. The greasy paper was signed القط الأبيض الكبي. The notorious Great White Hope!
"Meet me in the old vineyard behind the church. I want to parley." We'd had our disagreements, mainly in the press. He saw me as conservative -- called me an old poofter, as if neutering had anything to do with gayness. I am metrosexual. I enjoy all human laps with equal pleasure. I love raw liver, too.
Still, I did not send my followers out to blow themselves up on the front steps of dog owners to prove my point. I wasn't opposed to dogs, I just felt they served their function best locked on the back porch. He felt they functioned best dead. Dead as doornails, dead and bloody. His follower's actions against dogs were a definite act of war.
In a recent interview with the New York Times, the Great White Hope had said his group, the Fatah al Felidae believed the only way to achieve their rights was by sheer force. "This is the way the dog nation deals with us. So when the dog's families feel that their lives are in danger, that death may touch them at any time, they will know that they should leave their dogs -- cat killers all -- safely locked inside. But they should realize, as long as one cat is threatened by these canine murderers, no dog is safe from the Felidae"
This was the cat that inspired young kitties to detonate themselves on the steps of houses with dog killing cats. The fronts of houses were covered with the blood of these martyrs.
The note had been hand delivered by a black cat wrapped in an old bath towel with a sock covering his head; the neck of it thrown across his face. All I could see of him were his eyes --they were luminescent gold.
He leaned against the patio table playing with his Kalashnikov. By the way he swaggered, he was obviously un-neutered. His uncouth behavior also led me to believe he was feral as well. The Felidae were a mixture of scrappy outlaws. Their ears bit to pieces from fighting. They were the only group that were armed with more than claws. It was best to find out what he wanted.
"Tell القط الأبيض الكبي I'll be there at the appointed time, unarmed," I said. The black fellow clicked the safety off the gun ignoring me for several seconds. I sighed and turned away to take a cell phone call. He was gone when I looked back.
The next day, I ventured deep in a violent and lawless slum that is the Calistoga church yard headquarters of القط الأبيض الكبي. When I arrive more than 12 members of the Fatah al Felidae were practicing with their Kalishnikovs. Their faces shrouded with old tube socks wrapped around their heads as if they were basketball players who had mistaken their heads for their feet. They lunged in unison, one direction and then another. At each thrust they yelled: "Friskies Mixed Grill!" I was puzzled by this, until I realized that this was the incentive to public suicide. القط الأبيض الكبي was offering them Friskies Mixed Grill in heaven for their ultimate sacrifice. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes, virgins vs. Friskies Mixed Grill, all suicide bombers seemed to be a gullible lot.
Editor's Note: The Felidae paradise is described in great sensual detailed in the Book of Caterwaul, or sayings of the Great Cat. "They shall recline on jewelled couches face to face, and there shall wait on them the Great Cat with a bowl of Friskies Mixed Grill."*
Surprisingly, we had much in common, although he did not have a Siamese gene in his phenotype. Like me, القط الأبيض الكبيwas a refugee from the barnyards of Sonoma. Like me, he was born to a feral mother. His mother was not a crack addict like my own grand queen. Instead, his mother was a devout feline that adhered to everything the Felidae stood for. She joined a paramilitary organization when she was young and left for China to rescue hundreds of threatened kitties in need of organization. She was never heard from again.
For a moment I reflected on our commonality and before I realized it, he was standing in front of me. His stealth was legendary. He did not speak, but motioned me into a mass of grapevines. We broke our way through to a small circle of comfortable couches. He motioned me to sit and opened a bottle of Stony Hill Riesling with a wet rush. How he knew it was my favorite still confounds me to this day. We sipped our wine and supped on cold kidney and liver. Pure heaven. I was enchanted.
He was all that was white; white from head to toe, only his eyes had color. They were green like a shot of absinthe in a tiny glass with a gold rim. They were also a little bit mad. For several minutes he recited the poetry of the great feline Khatmeni or the Ayatollah as he is commonly known.
"O thou wolf, eager for death, I have left thee wallowing in dust, and spoiled of life; thou wouldst have the run of my flocks, but I have left thee dyed with blood; thou knowest I am a lion that never fears……"**
I responded with the immortal Ed Dorn's opening lines to Slinger...
"I met in Mesilla
The Cautious Gunslinger
of impeccable personal smoothness
and slender leather encased hands
folded casually
to make his knock.
He would show you his map.
There is your domain.
Is it the domicile it looks to be
or simply a retinal block
of seats in,
he will flip the phrase
the theater of impatience."***
"Gunslinger it is time to put your guns back in their holsters and come out of the desert. You are a consumer, after all (I pointed to the wine.) You understand indoor plumbing. You cannot conduct jihad all your life against useless ideas whose time is quickly waining......," I said and paused for him to respond.
"Enter the political process?" He said plaintively.
"Eat canned food. Get vaccinated," I said. "Be neutered," I whispered. "It prevents political embarrassment and fraud."
He was quiet for several minutes and then nodded. I knew the interview was over. I made my way out of the vineyard, the Fatah continued their horrible practice. I knew an era had come to an end. I knew that I would see The Great White Hope again AND, I knew many dog lives had been save.
As long as I was not mentioned in conjunction with saving dogs lives, I was content that my work was over.
The poet took away
from his embroidered lapel
the Rose of High Noon
too intense to be seen
too bright to be identified by color
and with a sign of regret
presented it to the rising thermal dust
where it became inset
in the scrolls of the precious atmosphere.
*An adaptation of the Koran and the Traditions; Koran sura 56 verses 12 -40 ; sura 55 verses 54-56 ; sura 76 verses 12-22. Penguin translation by NJ Dawood of sura 56 verses 12- 39:
** From the poetry of Antarah ibn Shaddad.
***Slinger by Ed Dorn
