text: Cigar, Carmichael? Like many baby boomers, my parents saw the new suburbs as utopia. The open spaces beckoned those suffering from the crush of the concrete jungle. What my parents apparently forgot was that just a few decades prior, cities provided safety from the wild things that roam open spaces like wolves and mountain lions. However, as a kid and dedicated viewer of Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, and Davey Crockett, I was acutely aware of the dangers. Hey, don’t laugh. Davey Crockett killed a bear when he was only three. They were out there and those wild things were the nocturnal visitors haunting my dreams. During construction of our future home, we often visited the blossoming neighborhood. At first it was a huge expanse of prairie grass. A clever play by the developer; there would be no expense for tree removal. Soon the landscape began to change. Popping up everywhere like spring flowers were new houses. As far as my eight-year-old eyes could see there were houses in various stages of construction but not a single flower, or tree, and to my great relief no wild things. That is until we moved in. *** Our car had not yet stopped when I spotted it. A wild thing on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s house, glowering at me with large yellow cat eyes. “A puma,” I thought because it was gray, not brown, and big, but not mountain lion size. Come on I’m not dense, I was eight and didn’t know that a puma is a mountain lion. Suddenly a knock on the car’s window startled the beejesus out of me. Okay, maybe not the beejesus, but it was close to requiring a change of pants. “Hi! I’m Linda McCall and this is my little sister Diane. Wanna play?” “Bingo,” I thought, “built-in playmates.” Cautiously I opened the door, wary of the puma pouncing. Seeing my hesitancy and following my gaze, Diane said, “That’s my Dad’s cat, Carmichael. It’s best to leave him alone. He can be mean.” “I knew it,” my brain screamed. “Crockett was right. There’s danger in these here hills.” As the weeks passed my neighbors and I became fast friends. Of course, I always steered a wide path around Carmichael. I had seen him in the moonlight, prowling the neighborhood, hunting the denizens of the dark. I heard his yowl in the wee hours announcing his reign of the neighborhood. One morning I found his prize from the night before meticulously displayed at our backdoor. I was certain it was a direct, and not so subtle, warning to me. His every move was that of a cold, calculated, serial killer. I was terrified but could not help admiring the regal way he moved and how downright beautiful and dangerous he was. One afternoon the girls and I burst into Mr. McCall’s study. Okay, it was the basement Mr. McCall turned into a library with a lounge chair, sofa, reading table and television. On the reading table was a polished wood box with a lock on it. A man cave before it’s time. Mr. McCall was quietly reading with Carmichael contentedly curled on his lap. “He’s growling. Is he going to bite you,” I asked. Glancing up from his book, Mr. McCall chuckled, “No, he won’t bite me. He’s purring and trying to trick me.” “It sure sounds like growling.” “You see this box,” Mr. McCall explained, “it’s full of cigars that I have had since before Linda was born. Where I’m from cigars are handed out by a new father if the baby is a boy. After Linda’s birth I came home to find Carmichael, then just a kitten, had opened the box and was munching away on my Cuban cigars. Well, I put a lock on the box and occasionally I’ll open it for a smoke. Carmichael waits for the box to open and then pounces to steal what he can. He knows by purring on my lap I get relaxed and may fall into his clever plan.” “I knew it,” I thought, “he’s a deranged wild thing that likes to chew tobacco probably because it tastes better than mice.” A few months later big news rolled through the neighborhood. No, the news wasn’t another tree was being planted, but rather the McCall’s were expecting a baby. The whole expecting thing, from beginning to end, was a mystery to me and none of the adults were inclined to give any details. However, I was pretty certain the stork had nothing to do with it. I watched in amazement, always keeping my distance from the king-of-beasts, as Ms. McCall transformed from a thin, fragile-looking, woman into a glowing, round, mom-to-be. As the weeks passed I also noticed the number and frequency of Carmichael’s nocturnal conquests left at the McCall door increased as did his interest in the forbidden box. *** One day the girls and I were outside playing jacks when the McCall car unexpectedly roared away. My mother, ever the calm and understated epitome of Southern properness and decorum, popped her head out our back door, “Y’all stay over heah. The girls’ parents are going to be away for a bit.” “Geez Mom, tell us something we don’t know,” I thought, but discretion overcame stupidity, “Ok, we will,” I replied. Diane, unaware of Southern protocol in never asking an adult a direct question, went straight for what we all wanted to know, “Is Mom having the baby,” she asked. Caught between the Southern maxims of elusiveness to children and telling the truth, my Mother skillfully navigated the middle ground, “I’m not sure, we’ll see.” Finally, after what seemed like days but was really just hours, the McCall vehicle arrived home. Mr. McCall stoically walked to his front door and disappeared inside. The three of us, led by my mom, rushed after him. So much for Southern decorum, there were questions to be asked and answers to be had. In the front door, down the stairs, and into the library the four horsemen charged. Sitting in his chair with Carmichael in his lap, Mr. McCall glanced at us and reached for the forbidden box. Without saying a word, he slowly unlocked it, opened the top, looked at the royalty purring in his lap and asked, “Cigar, Carmichael?” The End