DELILAH’S SECOND GREAT ESCAPE

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Well, she did it again.

Queen Houdini pulled off yet another daring escape into the great outdoors. Fortunately, though, she only held a city hostage for a mere day and a half this time.

I am talking, of course, about my cat, Delilah. You may remember that she escaped from our home about a year ago. She showed up six weeks later at my work, which is a considerable distance from my home.

You may also remember that Delilah has all of the kindness of the lovechild of Charles and Marilyn Manson. Nice is not her strong suit. OK, truth be told, check her closet and you will see that nice is not a suit she owns. Crammed in there are nothing but sweaters of vengeance, slacks of hatred, blouses of despise (Editor’s note: The closet analogy was a stretch to start with, but now he’s just being ridiculous), and, of course, culottes of contempt.

First, though, let me address one thing. Every time I write about my evil cat, I have numerous people suggest that I give Delilah away, preferably to someone in Taiwan. But you don’t understand -- this is our cat. We love Delilah, even if she does routinely maim our friends. It is like telling a parent just to give away a child, merely because little Timmy routinely jumps from the back of the couch onto the top of mom’s head, claws extended, and bites her ears. Delilah is our baby (and perhaps Rosemary’s as well).

So you can imagine my shock when I came home for lunch the other day and was not attacked moments upon entering the house. It was so weird -- actually walking through my kitchen without blood streaming through my Dockers. This was not like Delilah, so I assumed that she had dragged a neighborhood kid through the window and was busy with that.

After eating my lunch, I decided that I would take a stroll through the house to see if she would turn up. I looked and looked. And looked. And looked. It then occurred to me that I was at my house, not the Biltmore, so one swing through should cover it.

Indeed, she was nowhere to be found. I checked everywhere -- under the cabinets, in the clothes hamper, at a bar downtown. Nothing.

I went through the standard idiotic motions of wandering through my neighborhood, looking in people’s bushes, giving the appearance of a very inexperienced Peeping Tom. Of course, all the while, as if to say, "Hey, I’m not a pervert!" I would loudly announce things like, "Boy, I wish that cat would return!" and "Here, kitty! Don’t you wanna come home?" and "Seriously, I’m not a pervert."

I called my wife and explained to her that the cat was missing. My wife, showing the love a hostage often develops for the captor, began to get upset and worry excessively about the fate of her "poor, widdle kitty." My wife actually expressed concern over the cat’s safety while on the lam. I was far more worried for other living things than for Delilah. Imagine letting a crocodile loose in a community swimming pool in the middle of summer and worrying that the chlorine may bother its eyes.

This time, however, Delilah did not spend a month and a half away from home. This time, she was back after a day-and-a-half, apparently not wanting to relive that time in her life she refers to as, "The Don’t Get Fed on a Regular Basis, Making it Difficult to Bloat up to the Size of a Porpoise Years."

One mystery that remains unanswered is where she went this time. She came back covered from head to tail in red clay, so I’m thinking she was somewhere in south Georgia. Or perhaps at the motocross.

After her return, I told my wife that we needed to put a collar on her with her rabies vaccination information. For one thing, if anyone tries to take her home, they will, presumably, have to pick her up and they will, definitely, bleed. You’d be better off juggling porcupines than picking up Delilah. But if she has her tags on, at least whoever finds her will know exactly where to return her. And to send the medical bills.