What's New, Pussycat?

When my life is a little more stable, I intend to get a dog. It will be a small dog, perhaps a Jack Russell or one of those little wiener dogs, and I will name him Benjamin. I heard once about a breed of dog that is incapable of barking. That sounds quite promising. Perhaps Benjamin will be one of those. I want something adorable that doesn’t invade my space, won’t make unnecessary noise, and will love me without question.

Basically the same qualities I want in a boyfriend.
I will be traveling a lot in the coming months, and then the lease is up on my apartment and I’m moving, which might be limited by bringing an animal with me. So the timing’s not right for a pet.
A few days ago, when I opened my front door, a cat wandered into my living room, curled up on the rug, and began to purr. I was completely bewildered. She was more comfortable in my apartment than I am. I checked her tag. Her name, it informed me, was Frisky. I called the phone number below her name, and left a message informing them of Frisky’s whereabouts. Fearing for her safety, I allowed her to stay until the owner returned my call.
I sat down to write. Moments later, Frisky joined me on my lap. This was a sweet kitty. Not that I wanted a kitty. But if I did want a kitty, I’d want one that did this.
I realized Frisky might be hungry, so I gave her tuna, which she ate with greedy enthusiasm. Then I realized with horror that she would need to relieve herself at some point, but I couldn’t let her outside. What if I let her out and she ran away? And then the frantic owner called, only to discover I’d let their beloved feline slip from my grasp? I would have to buy a litter box. But what if my leaving for the store caused Frisky such distress that she peed all over my furniture? I called George, and asked him to buy me a litter box, and more tuna. And some sort of toy on a stick, to amuse her. Maybe some catnip.
George is not a cat person. But, he conceded, if he liked cats, he would like this one. Frisky responded to this appraisal by rolling on her back and encouraging George to scratch her belly.
"She doesn’t look like a Frisky," I told George.
"You can’t rename someone else’s cat, Topher, it’s tacky," he chided.
Despite this, George and I began calling the cat Linda.
Linda slept on my bed that night, close to my head. I fell asleep to the sound of her purring. The next morning, I got the call.
"She’s an indoor-outdoor cat," said her owner, who lived around the corner. "She likes to explore. Just let her out, and she’ll come home."
So, I let her out. She had a home, and I didn’t want a cat anyway. That night, walking about a block from my house, I saw a bouncing ball of white fluff crossing the street. It was Linda. She followed me all the way home.
"Go away, Linda," I told her. "You don’t live here."
Then I gave her more tuna, and entertained her with the feather on a stick.
"Topher, she’s not yours," said George, watching me with disdain.
"But, maybe she’s not happy with her current owner," I replied. "Maybe they don’t appreciate her, and she wants a new life."
"Oh my God, you’re a fucking homewrecker. If I ever get a boyfriend, I’m never leaving you alone with him."
George was, of course, correct. It was obvious from Linda’s disposition and appearance that someone loved her very much. Someone completely oblivious to the risk that a crazy fag might kidnap her sweet kitty and refuse to give it back.
I picked Linda up and set her outside. She meowed at the door for a bit, confused by her abrupt departure, and then gave up and took her leave.
"I miss her already," I said, watching from the window.
"I know, darling," said George. "There’s nothing quite so bittersweet as the end of an affair."

I Should Be So Lucky

Once, I had this lucky bracelet. It was a small fabric cuff I bought years ago at Urban Outfitters, and I loved it dearly. My lucky bracelet was on my wrist throughout cancer treatment, was used as a costume piece in my first movie, and joined me on my first trip to Europe. I loved that damn bracelet. Last fall, I left it in the bedroom of a one-night stand. I didn’t have a phone number for the guy, and despite all my best efforts, I never got it back. My friends told me there was a life lesson to extract, something about letting go and that accessories cannot really bring you luck. But it’s hard to ignore the evidence: It’s been six months since I lost that bracelet, and I still don’t have a boyfriend. Coincidence? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Last week, I was at a bar with George and Slutty Mandy, celebrating the birthday of a mutual friend. The revelry was in full swing, and everyone present had reached that point of inebriation where every exchange, even with strangers, begins with, "I just...love you...so much."
My buzz, however, was about to come to an abrupt end.

As I scanned the room for any interesting possibilities, my gaze landed on a fella standing by himself, apparently three sheets to the proverbial wind himself. In an instant, I felt stone sober. I nudged my companions.
"Topher, I just... love you..." Mandy began.
"I love you too," I said. "Now, look over there, by the stairs."
They followed my glare.
"Go for it," said George. "You could have him."
"That’s just it," I said. "I’ve had him. That’s motherfucking Bracelet Guy."
"You’re kidding me," said Mandy, getting up. "Okay, I’m settling this shit once and for all."
"No no no," I pleaded, blocking her path. "If you scare him off, I’ll never get it back."
"And then we’ll hear about that damn bracelet for the rest of our lives," said George.
"Exactly," I said. "I’ll handle this. All I need is an invite back to his place, and I can get it back."
"Wait," said Mandy. "You’ll sleep with him again just to get the bracelet?"
"I don’t have to actually sleep with him, he just has to think I will."
"And then what? You’ll escape?"
"If possible, yes."
"You know, Topher," said Mandy. "Sometimes it’s like you live a really gay episode of I Love Lucy."
"Here’s a thought," interjected George. "He might not have it anymore. What then?"
"Then I will steal his cat."
And with that, I let my hair down, picked up my drink, and crossed the room, boosted by slurred cheers of encouragement.

A week later, I’m out at my regular haunt, but without George, who’s at home, knocked flat by "a thing". It’s some sort of wretched virus, or food poisoning, or something. When you don’t have health insurance, every illness is a mystery. You just have "a thing" until you don’t anymore.
A dark-haired stranger sits down next to me. We strike up a conversation. He’s actually doing most of the talking, because I’m too busy staring at his biceps to pay close attention. This guy has the arms of a superhero. And come to think of it, he looks a little like Clark Kent. Quickly, I envision a half-dozen scenarios where he has to rescue me from peril- I’m trapped in a burning building... I’m walking through Piedmont Park, and a tree falls on me... A robot monster is destroying Midtown... When I return from my reverie, I notice he’s having trouble lighting his cigarette.
"Cheap lighter," says Superhero. "Only works half the time."
I take it from his hand and give it a try, producing a flame on the first attempt.
"How ‘bout that," he says. "You must be good luck."
"Better keep me around, then," I say.
"For my own protection," he agrees.
I look down to my wrist, at the frayed brown fabric cuff that has returned to its rightful home. Damn if it ain’t working already.