Chick The Cat
Watching Jon Bones Jones toy with Rampage this morning, I was reminded of the most amazing thing I ever saw.
In what was yet to become the shadow of TriStar Gym in La Belle Ville, PQ, I first met Chick The Cat. The year was 1991 and I had just begun my “professional” acting career. I was sooooo broke, and about to be homeless, when I answered a roommate wanted ad on a bulletin board in what has since become McGill University’s William Shatner Hall. That was the day I met Sarah T and her cat Chick. Sarah and I hit it off right away and agreed to cohabit a nice little apartment in Le Plateau. Chick and I? Not so much. I am not especially fond of cats, but that had nothing to do with our relational discord. Chick The Cat was in fact, justifiably timid of all things. The previous fall, poor Chick had been smacked by a car and broke her rear right leg. In healing, Chick would sit, as cats do, but with her injured extremity fully extended in front of her. It was quite a pathetic little pose this brave little feline struck.
As spring crispened into summer, Chick the Cat discovered something that turned her from fearful little mouse-cat into Super-Cat. She developed a penchant for pigeons. Oh she became so enamoured of her own skill, she would often boast of her prowess to Sarah by presenting her with approximately a pigeon carcass a week. I could always tell the two were engaging in their strange ritual from the telltale sign of a trail of pigeon feathers leading down the hall to Sarah’s bedroom as I emerged from my own slumber.
One such morning, Sarah happened to be away visitng her partner in Toronto. The feathers were abundant that morning and lead straight through Sarah’s ajar bedroom door and directly to a pile of laundry she had sitting there. As she would be gone for at least 3 days, I overstepped the roommatequitte and gave the pile a quick rumaging. Alas no carcass.
I swept up the feathers and made myself a coffee. While rinsing out a cup, I see chick, to my right, in our bathroom. I say, “Oh Hi Chick.” Chick the Cat jumps out the window onto our back veranda where she is fond of sunning herself on one of our two framed couches that take up a good 70% of the available space between outer bathroom wall and 3-foot-high picket fencing that runs the length of our second floor veranda, leaving a narrow path between the door and stairs that take us down into the common yard filled with patchy grass and washing machine shells, punctuated by a couple of rusted out dead cars. Trust me, this is all important to the narrative. Please get a good picture of this veranda in your mind before continuing down the page.
I’ll wait.
Got it?
Okay, so Chick jumps out onto the balcony and I…take…double take…lean/gawk… and slide/squint…
Holy Pigeon Shit Batman, there’s the sky rat in my bathroom, hobbling about, injured, obviously, but still very much alive.
I grab the teatowel and slowly advance on the bird and with a deft toss, covered and scooped it up and carried it out to the veranda where I give the poor creature a gentle toss into the morning sky. It flaps furiously, struggling with every flutter to gain what little altitude it could, in such obvious distress. It flies away for about 5 meters when it gives up the effort and decides to u-turn and fly right back at me as if it wants to land on the picket fencing between us. When it was about two feet from completing its seeming mission, from beneath the framed couch behind me, springing in what can ONLY be described as cat-like quickness, a full two feet above and two feet over the fence comes Chick The Cat. Snatching the pigeon midair (by the throat no less) and 4 meters between her and the pigeon, and terra firma, Chick The Cat now using her preternatural Tai Chi, allows the momentum of her much lighter prey to propel herself back over to my side of the fence, where she lands on all fours, at my feet, tail in the air, pigeon in her jaws and wagging her ass, as she heads on down the stairs, her preferred method of descent, over the 4 meter fall she was faced with mere seconds ago. I had to check and make sure I wasn’t living in a cartoon.
Amazing. The Most Amazing Thing I Ever Saw.
Later that day, I see the same pigeon, come hobbling out of one of the shells in the Washing Machine Graveyard. Still alive.
Suddenly, a mighty paw slashes out from the darkness of the Maytag sarcophagus, trapping the poor pigeon now being helplessly tortured by Chick the Cat. And Chick The Cat looked me square in the eyes and…smiled.
During today’s UFC Main Event, Quentin Rampage Jackson reminded me of that pigeon.
And the look in Jon Bones Jones’ eyes was identical to Chick’s self-satisfied, “I can do whatever I want to you” look.
I saw the pigeon again that day. As the sun was setting on Le Plateau, my playwright friend visited me and was helping me run lines for the one man show he’d created for me (nice guy) for The Montreal Fringe. I was telling him the same story I’ve been telling you when, right on cue, the pigeon once again emerges from beneath some refuse or other and attempts to take flight over the now Alcatraz-like walls trapping it’s now flightless frame within the confines of our backyard. We decided that it had gone on long enough and we euthanized the poor thing. It was a very brave fight, but in the end, the pigeon wore it’s heart on it’s chest, quite literally. We had no choice, as sensitive human beings, but to put this pigeon out of it’s misery.
I felt and still feel what we did that day was in service to the pigeon. It had suffered enough and it needed to be over. I write this today in an attempt to perform the same service for Mr. Quentin “Pigeon” Jackson. You were brave, you had a good run, but in The New UFC, there is Jon Bones Jones. Shhhhhh, Quentin…everything is gonna be allright…just close your eyes…