Copyright 1997 
By Del Freeman

	The Pumpmeister

	Pumpkin is become my honey-man of a cat. I'm sure the aristocratic Bobber of a cat would have cut a fine swathe with his Friskie-white-fluffy-tv-commercial look, but he never had an opportunity to investigate. He is both clawless and clueless, and has become David's greatest admirer. David seems to be his soul-mate. I am a greater fan of Babykidl, the tailless cat whose grandfather came to us from the woods, who is fleet of foot and keen of mind and understands the weather forecaster. For all I know, she may BE the weather forecaster. If she's in much past dinnertime, either it's going to rain or be cold. She is right more often than the guy on tv who can't get it right with both hands and a map.

	But it's Pumpkin who's the honey-boy. He's a long-haired domestic, completely black. He's a lion of a cat with only a slightly-bent tail or he might have been show quality. He knows he's star material. He's been in more barroom brawls over poontang than any cat in the neighborhood and this is no wuss area. Pumpkin's got big ones and he's got that easy-going nature of complacency so long as his shoes aren't too tight. Pumpkin comes into the house and looks around for food. Finding none, he says, "S'okay, I'll just get me some more lovin' while I wait," and back out he goes. Pumpkin is true male, through and through. Bobber and Babykidl will stand around and whine and demand. He'll just go chase some more tail. I like his style.

	I could confine Pumpkin or subject him to the knife, but I don't think he'd still be Pumpkin and because he is, I may get  a tomato surprise ending. I expect one any day, because something in my soul says no one can live this joyously and in so carefree a fashion at length, that he will be gone. When he goes, he will still be Pumpkin because I believe he has a right to choose his path. But each time I see him, I give him the best scraps and scratch him extra for the road, just in case.

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