Boris the Filthasaurus*

I accidentally have a cat named Boris.

Boris lives on our doorstep because he's been abandoned by two consecutive owners and has nowhere else to go. He sits all day, decrepit, beside our door in the cat bed that Amber was nice enough to buy for him.

The bed is filthy. Boris is filthy. He has one eye missing and cat fur dreadlocks. Where there's not a clump of knotted, dry hair, there's a bald spot. I think his rear, passenger-side leg broke in 1972. When he sloooooowly gets up from his bed, he leaves a black dirt stain. He is old; he is mangy and he is sad.

The neighbors take turns leaving food out for him, which is so great. The tuna fish and milk broil all day in the sun just outside my door. Nothing says "Welcome" like a curdled cheese milk and tuna jerky offering. You can see the stench wavering above the bowls. I often consider the market potential of bottling the aroma and selling it at a counter at Nordstrom. It would take about 27 squirts to replicate the density, so I would have to package it in big bottles. Millions, people, write it down.

When I walk from the door to my car each morning, the routine is as follows. I gather my computer bag, gym bag, lunch bag, purse and keys onto my shoulders and into my hands and negotiate my way to the threshold. Turning to be sure the door is locked, I teeter so I don't trip over Boris, who is strategically positioned exactly where my foot would land if I took a step, and who refuses to move a muscle to get out of the way even though he's looking at me square in the face, knowing full-well that I could pile-drive my Nine West heel directly into his bulls-eye bald spot. It's a standoff. I almost think he wants me to put him out of his misery. And I consider it every morning.

Losing, I tote my belongings carefully over Pigpen, take two steps and meet up with my entourage of flies who jump off the cat food at my approach and are nice enough to accompany me to -- and sometimes a few blocks down the road inside of -- my car.

Boris is the cat that comes back from the dead in the terrifying Steven King novel, Pet Cemetary. He is the reincarnation of a big-time sinner in a previous life. "Oh, he just wants some love," my saintly roommate always says. She goes out there and pets him and says nice things to him. I do not. He adores her. I look at him and he looks at me and we are in mutual disgust. We envision each other's demise. What did I do in my previous life to deserve the misfortune of having Boris's flea-riddled ass waiting for fame or death on my doorstep?

I dread the day he dies. He is reliable -- a part of my routine. I can expect to shudder at him at least twice per day. But I do feel sorry for him. Sometimes when he isn't in his bed or lounging, comatose, directly in my path, I wonder what secret other family he is off tending to. Does he have other cat friends? A pussy posse? A girlfriend, perhaps? Is he the dejected guy who can't get the hot feline on 89th? Is it because she cannot see his winning personality hiding beneath the onion-like layers of grime and bugs? Is that why he's grumpy -- because we don't groom him so he can go satisfy his yearning for some action? Are we "cock-blockers"? What jerks!

Why does he choose to come back to my doorstep over so many others? I won't break. He's insane. He needs a new plan; it can't go on like this.



*I dedicate this blog entry to my friend, Danielle, who loves cats.