My First Love: Napoleon

I was in fifth grade. The neighbor’s cat had kittens, black and white half-Siamese kittens. I begged my dad for one. Our elderly cat had cancer and lived at our veterinarian’s (a family friend) in order to receive medications to live his last days in the least amount of pain. Our vet was also performing some trials for cancer treatments for cats to give our separation from Muffy some purpose.

Meanwhile, there were these kittens who needed homes. I wore my dad down and eventually brought Napoleon home. His mother crossed the street for months and attempted to drag Nappy back to the “nest.” It was funny to see Cookie (Nappy was bigger than his mom at six months) trying to haul her adult son by the scruff of the neck across the yard.

I loved this cat.  He slept with his head next to mine on my pillow. He had a bunch of tricks I taught him. One was the guarding technique Egyptians taught cats. Cats strolling above humans on walls or tree limbs would watch for thieves bending over to crawl through an opening and then would drop down onto the back of the surprised intruder and attack. So, I taught Napoleon to drop onto my back from his perch up in the tree in our front yard.

He didn’t attack me, because I stayed stooped over until he jumped to the ground. His other victims would get a sample of his claws as he leapt away when they jolted in surprise. He rode in the basket on my bicycle. He climbed ladders up onto our roof, and back down. He helped me and my brother dig a snow cave one year when we had a four-foot drift in front of our house.

I taught him to play tag, which turned into attacking. I’d run, he’d chase me. I’d snag him out of the air mid-leap when he tried to “tag” me and fling him in the opposite direction as I took off full speed, with Nappy hot on my heels. I didn’t always get away unscathed. My forearms were covered in scratches all the way through middle school. He ruled from his post on our front stoop with an iron paw, running off any two-legged or four-legged beasts who dared enter his domain.

We had two nearly identically marked black and white cats. Nappy was short-haired, Desi was long-haired. Desi was very placid and docile. While it wasn’t easy to distinguish between them visually, the neighborhood was aware of Nappy and Desi’s difference in demeanor.  

When one of our cats was on the front stoop, before entering our yard, a neighbor would ask if it was the nice cat or the mean one. If it was Nappy, they’d cross the street and walk on that sidewalk rather than risk Nappy’s ire. Even the mailman refused to deliver mail in our mailbox if Nappy was on the front steps.

I once saw an English Sheepdog trotting along the sidewalk a couple houses away, headed towards us. Nappy watched him from the corner of the house, fur raising along his back, haunches gathering, ears pinning down. That dog put one paw over our lot line and —WHAM! Nappy launched. That dog’s eyes popped open just like in the cartoons, and he spun around and took off with Nappy in swatting pursuit for two lot lengths before Nappy peeled off and came back home. Never saw that dog again.

My dad was never too thrilled with cats being indoor pets. I was in high school when Dad bought a brand new color TV, a Magnavox in a gleaming walnut wood cabinet.  He was so proud of that purchase. Nappy loved its warm wood surface. Soon, a few scratches marred the top where Nappy had slid when leaping to his new favorite perch. Dad was not happy.

The family was all watching TV (Laugh-In) one evening when Nappy leapt to the top of the TV and stretched out to sleep, his tail draping over the edge and swishing slowly in front of the screen. “Get that cat off the TV!” my dad snarled. Nappy lifted his head, looked at Dad, got up, jumped down, walked around the coffee table to where Dad was sitting on the couch, looped his paws around Dad’s ankle dangling from where his leg crossed over his knee, opened his mouth and sank his teeth into Dad’s leg. It wasn’t really hard, but Nappy made his point.  Dad yelped in surprise.

Nappy released Dad’s leg, walked back around the coffee table to the TV, leapt back to the top, laid down, stretched out on the warm wood and let his tail drape over the edge, swishing back and forth in front of the screen. Mom and I held in our delighted guffaws. Dad laughed nervously, sort of under his breath. But he never again challenged Nappy’s reign over the TV.

Nappy also terrorized my sister whose boyfriend made no secret of his despise for my cat. Nappy would lay in wait on a dining room chair in the morning for Karen to pass by from the bathroom to the kitchen. Lightening fast, he’d swipe a paw through the dowels that formed the back of the chair and snag her panty hose. I’d hear her scream from my bedroom in the basement. He never broke the skin, just grazed her leg enough to destroy her expensive hosiery. She only wore a specific brand that cost the moon. Several screams’ worth met their demise until she learned to give berth to Nappy’s claws.

My girlfriend once asked me if I’d take a million dollars for Nappy. No way! My response was instant. She explained I’d be able to live off the interest for the rest of my life (at that time a million was probably equivalent to a billion in today’s dollars). Nope. Nappy was integral to my life, like an arm or a leg or eyesight. You don’t sell off piecemeal what makes your life worthwhile, no matter the amount. Ever.

My second love? Chocolate. Like that’s a surprise.