Being Invisible

We have a cat named Bubba; no, she doesn’t have funny looking teeth and eat Moon Pies. My wife would call her Baby Kitty when she was just a kitten; that, along with a Texan accent turned into Bubba Kitty and then just Bubba.

Bubba has an inherent dislike for our two dogs, Puppy and Roxie. Puppy’s classification on the pedigree chart is somewhere between Border Collie and “rug with four legs” while Roxie has a hint of American Boxer, Pit Bull and Retriever. Bubba dislikes Puppy and enjoys giving her grief at the drop of a hat while her dislike for Roxie is even worse, Bubba having attempted to contact Dial M for Murder on more than one occasion.

Bubba has found a small cave in the entry way, actually it’s a small space under the piano bench where she feels a moderate measure of safety. The other day Bubba was quietly enjoying the solitude of her cave when Roxie walked by, oblivious to Bubba’s close proximity. It was too late as Bubba let go with a formidable guttural indictment of Roxie’s dubious ancestral records along with several swipes with claws extended.

Roxie’s legs turned to jelly in her attempt to escape. What a scene; a twelve pound ball of fluffed fur hissing, spitting and successfully bullying a sixty five pound dog. While explaining this to my oldest daughter, just home from being away on business for the past several weeks, I was reminded of a similar situation from my youth.

My family was attending a live performance of Mark Twain Tonight with Hal Holbrook at a local high school. During the intermission my brother and I were chasing each other through the empty halls, eventually finding the stairs that led to the darkened corridors of the second floor.

I had a good head start on my older brother as I hid in a very small space that I was able to squeeze into where a set of wall lockers was interrupted by a support column. I watched as my brother ran past looking for me and held my breath. He must have supposed that I’d gone a different way as he came walking back, having gone the length of the dark hall that led to a dead end.

I waited until he was directly in front of my position before leaping from the shadows and screaming out in wild excitement, my arms high above my head for effect. I had only a minimal chance of survival for having scared the living daylights out of him, the advantage would be mine for only a moment while he gasped for air. I ran back to the safety of my parents and the conclusion of Mark Twain Tonight. Interestingly, one of the stories told ended with the actor talking about the fellow who’d lost his golden arm and was forever looking among the living hoping to find the thief.

“Who stole my golden arm?”, the old man in the white summer suit pointed around the dark hall, “Who stole my golden arm?”, his wavering quiet voice inquired of those in attendance. “Who stole my golden arm”, and then unexpectedly he found someone at the edge of their seat, “You Did!” That was almost fifty years ago and I remember it as if it were yesterday.