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May 12, 2004
THE FAMOUS CAT STORY
A funny story out of England this week: it seems a vicious little cat is terrorizing British postal delivery workers.
TERRIFIED postmen are refusing to deliver mail to a house — because they are scared of a dangerous CAT. They say their hands are being ripped to shreds by ginger tom Bat as they shove post through the cat flap.
You laugh, but I've seen the power of cats to disrupt. Even been the victim of it. Why, that reminds me of a story...
At this point, I have to let you in on a little secret. Four years ago, I was not the towering giant of a corporate speechwriter you see before you today. Long before I became the example of what an executive communications person in a huge corporation is supposed to be like... I was merely a media relations specialist -- a PR flack. I wasn't horrible at it, but I sure wasn't among the best. I appeared headed for an undistinguished career as a little-accomplished and even lesser-noticed media flack, a paragon of mediocrity in a sea of gray flannel suits.
But I harbored a secret -- and bore a public shame. My secret was that I could write a little better than some of the media folks who were leaving me behind. My shame was the hideous 1987 RX7 I drove right out of grad school. It broke down usually at least once a month, sometimes more. And each time something went wrong, I dealt with my frustration by writing the story down in an e-mail to my bosses, explaining why I would be late to work again.
The stories (more than one, since the damn car broke down so often) took on a life of their own. They got forwarded around to others, and soon I had people asking me to cc them on the next note. Some people even seemed to be hoping that my car would break down again, just so I would write another note. Each time I did, more people ended up seeing it. Eventually, the light bulb seemed to go on over someone's heads. Someone decided I could write pretty well, and perhaps might be better suited to exec comms than media. And this person, with the full blessing of his superiors and based solely on these notes I used to send about my car, gave me the chance to write a couple of speeches for an executive. That was three years ago, and the rest is history... my career absolutely blew up and took off, and I've never looked back. (By the way... now you know how the SpinDoc and I got so close - that manager who took the chance on me just happened to be our very own short, bald SpinDoc.)
What the hell does this have to do with cats? Well, my last car story involved my then-new car, and my then-new cat. I've been told many times by many people that it was this story that represented the big break in my career (all from just screwing around)... and that I have to post it again someday on this site. And the Cat That Terrifies British Postmen has given me my chance. Without further ado, here it is: most of the Great Cat Story of 2000.
As the story opens, Christopher has just adopted a cat... a cat found literally in the gutter in New Jersey, weak and starving, laying in the rain and waiting to die. Christopher takes pity on the cat and, after a vet helps nurse him back out of imminent danger, gives the poor little guy a home.
Meanwhile, in a galaxy far, far away, Christopher's parents choose the holiday weekend to move into their newly purchased home on the Delaware shore. Christopher must travel south in his brand new car (less than a week old) to help haul furniture for the holiday... but the parents own two dogs, so Christopher can't bring the cat. He drops the cat off with [his then-girlfriend] in New Jersey, and survives the weekend.
On the way home (in the new Camry, which still even has the new car smell), Christopher picks up the cat, and puts him in the little travel cage he has purchased. But halfway home, just over the New Jersey-New York border, the little cat begins mewling and crying as if in terror at being caged up and in a moving car. After a few minutes of this, Christopher feels sorry for the cat, and lets him out of the cage. The cat immediately runs to the back seat.
At this stage in the story, the Forces of Evil possess the cat's body. What projects from the cat at this point can only be described as Exorcist-ian in proportion. The cat wanted out of the cage merely to avoid soiling his own nest... a stream of foul, vile, not-at-all-looking-like-pea-soup, SLUDGE begins to exit the cat with a force that redefines the concept of "projectile movements." Apparently the cat's digestive system didn't take too well to travel. Christopher is immediately thankful that there are no crucifixes in the car.
Having just passed the last rest stop for the remainder of the trip, Christopher is now forced to drive for 40 miles with the results of the cat's possession splattered all over the back seat and the rear window. Needless to say, the car no longer had that "new car" smell. Meanwhile, the cat -- exhausted from delivering waste at speeds that make Randy Johnson's fastball seem glacial -- tries to crawl back to the comfort of the cage in the front seat... thus smearing even more material all over the car. Looking at the cat, Christopher swears he sees the words "Help Me" etching themselves out in welts on the cat's stomach.
Upon returning home, Christopher is up until 1:45 on Sunday night/Monday morning, scrubbing the sh** out of the car -- literally. After two days, a half dozen sponges, a bottle and a half of Wool-lite Pet Cleaner, more air fresheners and sanitizers than a hospital uses in a year, and 4,529 curses and swear words at the cat, the car appears to return to "normal"... though with the Forces of Evil around, you can never be sure.
EDITOR'S NOTE: As anyone who's been to my apartment knows... I kept the cat. We're buddies now.
