Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Translated from Romanian (originally posted in January, 2011),
in the memory of our beloved Bill, who crossed the rainbow bridge on October 22, 2024

One day, in the chilly Arizona morning air (a surprisingly cold 48F), while I was about to take the poor sick Lucy, our dog, out for her business, the door burst open and our nimble cat, like a bullet, shot out from between my legs.

Now normally, our cat isn’t allowed to roam outside unless he’s on a leash because of those pesky vultures, coyotes, owls, and all sorts of furry or feathery predators. The typical life expectancy for cats around here is just four years, but ours had already outlived that by three, so the neighbors were actually laying bets on how much longer he was going to last. But that’s a whole other story!

Anyway, the cat escaped, screaming “Freedom!!” at the top of his lungs, and hightailed it out of there as fast as his little legs could carry him. His fat dad (that’s me) was dumbfounded. I managed to tell my wife the cat had taken flight and, looking absolutely pathetic and ridiculous with my 265 pounds, set off in my pajamas and one slipper to retrieve the fleeing feline. The little guy suddenly stopped right up in a tree, hesitated for a moment, then jumped off abruptly and ran to the next one, apparently hoping that it wouldn’t be quite as prickly (the first had actually been a cactus and, well, cacti do what cacti do, they prick).

All the while, in my calmest voice, like some kind of Cat Whisperer, I was explaining to him how much better off he’d be at home, how he shouldn’t jump the fence because his big daddy would find him (or not), and other sweet nothings to keep him from getting spooked and vanishing for good.

Meanwhile, having none of it, the cat wasn’t just idling about. Being as clever as he is, the little guy realized that the ground was a bit soggy (it had rained for nine hours straight, and everything was a big puddle) and it was terribly uncomfortable on his paws. So, the little rascal stopped in front of another tree (this time a real one) and, with a typical cat-like contemplative pose and expression, paused to wait for me, being very careful not to get his bottom wet.

And there I was, wobbling around in my pajamas and one slipper, rolling and tumbling, trying to approach the cat from behind, as we learned in the Brave Romanian Army during corn harvest. Now, you know that cats are very proud animals who never admit to their mistakes, so my cat would not have gratefully jumped into my arms for all the treats in Arizona, but he kind of pretended to trip and let me catch him. What joy! He purred so much, I even stepped into a deeper puddle out of sheer happiness.

With all the dignity I could muster, my trophy in my arms and a soaked pajama bottom around my legs, I went back inside where my lady wife was in a panic so complete that she had even terminated her hours-long daily conversation with her mother.

She scooped up the kitty, gave him a kiss, petted him, dried him off, and proclaimed, “Stefan, drop a few pounds! Can’t you tell the cat’s just making fun of you?” Welcome to my world.