Kalamazoo behaves like an ordinary cat – some of the time. He purrs, bats tinfoil balls, chases birds and mice, is finicky about his food, twitches his tail, cleans himself, and sleeps a lot.
But Mooze – as Jim calls his cat-buddy – also plays guitar, paints, rides a Harley, types on a laptop, and sails in the Gulf. Jim never knows what Mooze will do next. Here’s a snippet from the time the two friends recreated a steer wrestling event they’d been watching on TV. It was Jim’s turn to play the steer.
Mooze wandered off to his room and took the longest time in preparation, while I put away my hat and boots. I left the shirt on since it was sweaty anyhow. I was about to call him when I heard a slurred, Buenas tardes, amigo.
He made his entrance in style, sashaying into the living room wearing the fanciest boots I’d ever seen on a cat—blackened armadillo, mind you. His little ears poked through a tiny black Stetson. Chaps with more studs than a rock star protected his rear legs. A black silk bandana circled his neck. He must have practiced the bow-legged walk, because he had it down pat, and I mean pat.
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