Fog

Not like Oso's Fast, Unlikely Friend at Laurasmagicday:

...a fat gray cat. I don't like using the word fat to describe her because she had a the kind of self-confident personality and depth of character that makes her so much more than her physical attributes.

I had a fat gray cat as a kid. His name was Fog and he was anything but confident. Fat and slow aptly describe him. Slow of speed and character.

He was the son of Mrs. Setzler-Angel, a cat my parents allowed me to name (a permission which they may have immediately regretted). When Mrs. Setzler had kittens we gave them all away, but one. A gray one who was slower than the rest and no one wanted.

Fog, named for his color, grew (and grew) into his name by also being dense. Round, he was, but as devoted as a cat can get, too lazy to be aloof. He would take a nap on one love seat only to wake, stretch, walk as far as the next love seat, and take another nap.

When out patrolling the neighborhood, Mrs. Setzler had to defend Fog from birds, rabbits, and small woodland creatures, Cowardly Lion that he was. But when Fog was inside he could watch the birds who came to eat from the bird feeder hanging just outside the living room window, immune from their taunts.

There was a radiator inside, just underneath said window which made Fog eye level to the birds feeding outside. With the window open in the Chicago summertime, he could hear them and smell them only inches away. These birds didn't scare him like other outside birds. Being in the domain of the household gave him access to a secret reserve of power, like a Super Hero dressed in tights and cape. I remember him as he once took a swipe at the birds with ultimate confidence until it was too late and his claws were neatly stuck in the screen that separated him from his intended prey.

Fog was embarrassed but I don't think he was worried about what the birds were thinking. He was worried about what the humans might be thinking if he was seen. This, I could tell as he looked over both shoulders back into the living room to see if there were any witnesses, a lovable look of humility across his gray face.

When he saw that I was there, he was humiliated not only by the failed attack, an heroic feat that could have supplied him with the only prize he'd ever possessed, a present which he could bestow, but by the fact that I would now have to rescue him from the screen, his claws trapping his paw in a permanent high-five.

I tried not to laugh as I extracted his claws from the screen that had fooled him, seduced him into a false, predatory confidence. I loved him for the hero he aspired to be.

Fog has long since shuffled off this mortal coil but before he went he signed his portrait. A closeup photo of his face, his green eyes peering into, exploring, a camera lens. Signed with his paw print on the back. It was a going-away present from my dad when I went to college.

School was only about 150 miles away but he wanted me to have something that reminded me of home.

Still have it. Still does. Always will.

(Thanks, Dad.)