I tried to explain. “You know, I can walk past, say, a nice pumpkin pie, or a warm pair of socks, and they’re really super, I mean, just swell … but… I still don’t want to marry them, you know?” She just stared at me. Boy, the emotional pain must be incredible, I thought to myself, but a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. “I can’t do it,” I insisted. “I know it’s important to you but you’ll get another chance—with another man.” She kept staring, like a soulful potato bug. It was all in those glittering eyes and their disquieting gaze. Stare, stare, stare, until I couldn’t take it anymore. “You know what?” I burst out, “I’d never marry you! I’d rather boil a genetically deformed tree frog, stomp on it with metal-toed boots, mix the remains with dirt and Vaseline and inject the whole mess into my eyeball with a needle the size of Grandpa’s pants than marry you, even if you are the heir to the Nebraska pickle-farming fortune!” This seemed to wake Snowball from her feline stupor. She turned around and scampered out of the room.

A little too dramatic, I told myself, next time stick to the facts. That’ll get her for sure. Snowball wasn’t really the heir to the Nebraska pickle-farming fortune. Honestly, the only experience she ever had with a pickle was the time we stopped at Subway on the way back from the vet and I lost one from my sandwich. She gobbled it right up and started choking frantically. I started laughing at the irony—we had gone to the vet to remove a cucumber slice from her throat—but my mom didn’t think it was that funny. A word to the wise—if you ever learn the Heimlich maneuver, don’t tell your mom, because believe you me, it’ll come back to haunt you. That shirt is still covered with cat hair. You know, my mom never fully understood irony anyway. Cucumbers and pickles are beyond her, I guess. I turned around and followed Snowball into the garage.

Oh no, I thought, she’s going to take her own life! Indeed, Snowball had perched herself high above me, at the edge of the canoe. It was just like the scenes from those cheap television shows, where the insane, suicidal maniac stands, waving his arms around like he was about to fly away, at the edge of the canoe in our garage. Yeah, you heard me, our garage. After a while of that we had to lock all the power tools away. (You could never know what those creepy cameramen were going to do next—sometimes they would start up the chainsaw and try to make plywood “art” while the director was pondering the latest take.) But the wandering memories that drifted through my head were swept out when Snowball leaped. This is the end, I told myself, you’ve caused an innocent death! You selfish, stupid fool! Now Mom will NEVER buy you another cat! But God had other plans. Somehow, Snowball landed on her feet and walked away from the canoe. I ran inside and shouted the joyful news to my mother, who was not particularly impressed. Evidently she sees acts of God like these every day. I wasn’t very interested in her cynical sarcasm, so I left to apologize to Snowball.

It took me an hour to find her. She had climbed up the maple tree in the front yard, and I was worried that if I spoke from underneath she would think I was alluding to the scene in Romeo and Juliet where seventeen-year-old Romeo is coming on to twelve-year-old Juliet, who is standing on a balcony, so I didn’t announce my presence. And don’t get me wrong—I’m not judging Romeo. You take what you can get, sometimes. I was still unsure about Snowball’s emotional state, though, so finally I climbed the tree and sat right next to her. For several minutes I explained my situation, but Snowball didn’t want to hear it. She turned and looked away while I spoke, sometimes nibbling a leaf or a caterpillar but always ignoring me. I couldn’t take it any more. “LISTEN to me! This is important!” She didn’t even turn around.

You know how when you put a whole lot of pressure on your little toe it breaks off of your foot? Well, I do, and I was that little toe, you know? I got so mad that I violently grabbed at Snowball, trying to turn her around. But just when I finally twisted her so she was facing me, she wriggled out of my grasp, falling out of the tree. Horrified, I watched as God tried for the second time in one day to right her in the air. She would have been all right, but when she was halfway down, she hit a branch and pinwheeled the rest of the way, landing with a sickening thump. I quickly climbed down from my branch to see if she was all right. Remembering the old folk tale about kitten safety, I shook Snowball around like a maraca. My little test worked—she was alive! Snowball proved this by biting my arm. Dropping her, I examined the beginning rivulet of blood on my bicep as she limped away with the remnants of her dignity. “You see?” I shouted. “We could never get along. What were you thinking?”

Later, I realized that she was just tense about the breakup. I couldn’t blame her for biting me—my mom gets mad at me when I shake her too. Actually, my mom gets mad at me even if I just shake my baby sister! Women. But even though I don’t understand, I know it’s normal. Snowball will get over it eventually if she can learn to walk with all four prostheses, and even the vet thinks she’ll be fine soon, especially after he removes the chunk of carrot that was stuck in her throat. She’ll move on. And me? I’m happy. I’m free again—just another alley cat on the prowl.