Playboy (last month’s or the month before, I don’t recall which), I have come to like Lisa Marie Presley. This surprises me, frankly, because I expected to think she was a whiny little brat. She’s not, though – she seems to have a sense of humor and doesn’t take herself too seriously.
And DAMN she looks like her father. Who’d’ve thunk Elvis would be so good-looking as a girl?
I’d even like to see her in concert, but she’s going to be in Maine when I’m in Alabama, and Alabama when I’m in Maine. Bah.
It should probably be noted that I was certain, as a child, that Lisa Marie was my separated-at-birth twin sister, because in a picture of my father as a young man, he strongly resembled (at least to my eyes) Elvis, and Lisa Marie’s birthday is only about a month after mine. Too bad it’s not true – I could definitely have used some of those Presley genes. (Insert joke about how she got the “Young, good-looking Elvis” genes and I got the “Old, fat Elvis” genes. Heh.)
Fancypants, it appears, is missing. The last time I can definitely say that I saw him was Sunday night, when I got up to go to the bathroom and saw him laying in the chair in the corner of the room, which is an unusual place for him to lay. I may have seen him sometime Monday, but if I did I’m not remembering it. I didn’t notice that anything was amiss until last night around 6 when Fred said “Have you seen Fancypants lately?”, and I realized that I had not.
It’s not unusual to go for most of the day without seeing him, because he spends part of his day sleeping in the guest bedroom, and part of his day outside wandering around the yard or jumping the fence to do god knows what. I usually catch sight of him when I go upstairs to take my shower after working out, and he almost always comes in and visits while we’re watching TV in the evening.
We went out driving around last night, hoping to see him running fancily across a yard, or jumping over someone’s fence, but didn’t see a thing. As I told Fred, though, we don’t really know where he goes once he’s over the fence. He might stay in the back yards in our neighborhood, or he might cross the busy street our back yard faces to go into that neighborhood. We just don’t know.
He’s wearing a collar (hot pink!) with his name, and our address and phone number on it, but it’s a breakaway collar, designed to come apart if he gets hung on something.
Fred called Animal Control and made a report. They hadn’t seen any fancy black cats, but they’ll keep an eye out for him, and they’ll check with the guy who goes around cleaning up roadkill.
I know it’s only been a few days, and I also know that cats tend to roam and it’s entirely possible he’ll come sauntering home in a day or so, but it’s hard thinking that he’s out there, possibly hurt, possibly dead, and just not knowing.
I’ll say that I do rue the day that damn neighborhood cat jumped over our fence, and Fancypants was sitting there watching. I could see the light go on over his head at the realization that – “Hey! I don’t have to try to go UNDER the fence! I could jump OVER it!”, and there was no holding him back from there on out.
There have, you’ll recall
, been times when I’d have liked to toss Fancypants out the door, lock it, and never set sight on his fancy little ass again. But as much as I’ve hated the little bastard from time to time, I love him too. He’s the bad-ass kitty of the family, out tomcatting all night long, then coming in and making Tubby groom him all the live-long day, then swishing across the floor, meowing pitifully for attention. Mamas always secretly have a little extra love for their bad kids, and as much of a pain in the ass as he can be, I love to pick him, flip him over on his back like a baby, and rub his belly. And as much of a badass as he pretends to be, he likes to have his belly rubbed.
Fred and I were talking last night, and I suggested that maybe Fancypants has become close to another family in the neighborhood and decided to throw us over for them.
“Yeah!” Fred said with a grin. “They saw that his name is Mr. Fancypants, and said ‘Oh, we’ve GOTTA keep this cat! Poor thing! Who would name their cat Mr. Fancypants?'”
Oh, I know it’s unlikely, but I’d rather believe he’s living like a king somewhere else than think of the alternative.
I will, of course, keep y’all informed if we learn anything.