The Tale of El Guapo

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Part 9

El Guapo Out Waits the Cat

I’m still waiting for that cowardly orange cat to abandon his perch, and face his impending demise here on the ground. I wish I could tell the little girl’s mother to forget about getting anything out of the freezer for supper because tonight we dine on fresh meat.

That cat is so tenacious though. He has no concern whatsoever for his predicament. He’s trapped on top of the fencepost; jaws of certain death are waiting impatiently below; and yet he won’t stop grooming himself. I suppose even a cat wants to look his best for his own funeral.

“Come down, Cat, come down,” I call to him. “El Guapo wants to have you for supper.”

He responds by peering down upon me through one vacant eye, while he persists in meticulously grooming his chest.

It’s not even noon, but it seems like I’ve been waiting here all day. El Guapo is so bored! I wish Maggy were here: she’d know how to talk that dreadful cat down.

Maggy’s a skilled talker. She enjoys it. She prefers doing all the talking anytime we’re together; and that’s okay. Nothing I have to say is all that important anyway.

She enjoys rehearsing every little detail of every little thing that’s happened since she saw me last; and that’s okay too. Maggy has a beautiful voice. I could listen to her all day...as long as she doesn’t ask any questions. It’s embarrassing when I haven’t the faintest notion of what she’s been going on about.

It’s so easy to just close my eyes and dream of her; she’s my best friend in the whole world. It seems she just gets prettier every day—I can’t wait for tomorrow. Oh-ho! I’ll have to be sure to tell her that when I see her. Little things like that seem to please her so. I have no idea why. It’s like she becomes my best friend all over again, though.

I’ll also try to tell her about that big ugly mess of a dog I saw on TV last night. A detailed description of that shag-nasty cur ought to leave her laughing. That should make her happy because she likes to laugh.

I enjoy seeing her happy. I really hate to see her sad. There are three rowdy dogs called Chopper, Spike and Percy; these guys are always making trouble. Maggy despises these “insolent louts,” and she isn’t afraid to express her contempt to their faces. I’m sure this doesn’t set too well with them because they’re always ready to throw some foul, crude comment at Maggy.

A while back, Maggy and I were in the big city behind one of her favorite restaurants; she’s familiar with all the best places to eat. We were just finishing a fragmented meal of hamburgers, fries and assorted edibles, when Chopper, Spike and Percy appeared.

“Hey, Maggy! Are you supposed to be a dog, or a pineapple with legs?” they catcalled.

They shamelessly disparaged her because her thick, matted fur is riddled with stickers, twigs, sand burrs, cuckle burrs, goat-heads, and every grappling weed-seed common to West Texas.

It’s true that you can’t brush against Maggy without feeling the sharp end of a sticker, but that doesn’t give anyone license to deliberately hurt her feelings—not in front of me.

“Do you freely insult her so in my presence?” I snarl at them. “El Guapo intends to maim you! Prepare to be dismembered!”

Unleashing my fury, I expose my razor teeth and charge them. At least that was my intention. I churned my feet furiously, but I may as well have been standing still. Maggy’s jaws were firmly locked onto my collar, almost lifting me off the ground, and I wasn’t going anywhere. She’s quite strong for a girl.

“Let go of El Guapo! Let go of El Guapo!” I cried to her, but she only held tighter.

“Idit—yull-gonna-gt-kuld,” was all she could mumble with her mouth full of collar. Then she quite handily dragged me away in spite of my determined efforts to reach the three brutish dogs.

I watched helplessly as the three of them rolled on the ground, laughing and hooting at us, finally losing site of them as Maggy dragged me around the front corner of the restaurant. I had some choice words ready for them, but Maggy’s firm grip on my collar cut off any caustic retorts—and my air.

We were half-way down the street before she finally released me and let me breath again. When I complained about being prevented from soundly thrashing the threesome, she insisted that they were too many and too big for me to handle.

Too big for El Guapo! They are hardly any bigger than Maggy, that silly girl. The next time I encounter them, they will not be so lucky.

However, Maggy is not here today. There is only El Guapo and one stupid tabby cat, and it is past time for the stupid cat to receive his thrashing.

“Come down, Cat, come down,” I call out as I turn my eyes to the top of the fencepost. “What...!” is all I can utter in my complete astonishment.

There is no cat atop the fencepost. I turn a full circle, my eyes searching in disbelief, but there is no sign of the cat anywhere. He has escaped me.

Now I’m really depressed. Is it any wonder that I hate cats?

—El Guapo (rabid by choice)
(via ghost writer)

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