Giuliani was Never the Cat’s Meow
After they called the man he was named after “America’s Mayor”, we called him our brother. The one who snuggled up close to Mom and put out his sharp Claws of Warning when anyone else tried to get near him.
He didn’t need hair dye, even in his dotage. His mantle of black fur never turned grey. He was our Big Boy, and enjoyed lounging among the Calla Lilies in my sister’s San Francisco backyard.
He never journeyed to New York. He lived strictly in D.C. and then in the City by the Bay. He was a hero — to my Mom, at least — but never took credit for saving either city of his domicile.
If we’d thought about it, we could have called him Rudy Colludy. But that would have been an insult. My sis and her hubby called him The Bear. Or Rudy Kazootie, which is close. He had an orange friend — no, not the former guy, but a matronly kitty sister named Ginger. His best friend was another Good Boy with a similar sable-sleek coat named Bubba. In the three-feline pecking order of that San Francisco house, Rudy was Top Dog, even though he was, well, a cat.
Why did my Mom and Dad name their little kitty Rudy oh, so many years ago? He didn’t look anything like “America’s Mayor”, nor the man who so many years later told gargantuan lies to try to steal a presidential election for his equally corrupt client in the Oval Office.
Shortly after he entered this world, our tiny fluff ball had the lungs for it, though. He screamed his everlivin’ head off at the D.C.-area adoption fair where we met him. He was the tiniest of the litter, but the loudest. My Mama always rooted for the underdog.
We brought him home, and set up his “necessaries”, as my Pops sometimes called all the accoutrement that accompanied a new member of the household. Food and water station — downstairs in the kitchen. Litter box in the front bedroom upstairs. Scratching post? I’m not sure my folks had one of those. The evidence on my Mom’s Laura Ashley loveseat that I inherited years later showed evidence that Rudy’s claws were in tip-top shape.
“What’s this critter’s name?” my Daddy inquired.
“We don’t have one,” my Mama said with a slight shrug. “We thought you’d have some ideas.”
After awhile, my Dad, always the inveterate newshound, knew exactly what to name this loudmouthed fur baby.
“Rudy. Of course,” he asserted. He’d just looked over the adoption paperwork. Their new addition was born in September 2001. Perfect.
Rudy Kazootie would be 20 years old — 140 in cat years, way more than Colludy’s piddling 76 — if he’d lived to see the upcoming anniversary of the Day the World Stopped Turning in New York, D.C. and a farmer’s field in western Pennsylvania. But he went to the Great Litterbox in the sky last summer.
“Rudy —Kazootie, our little guy, The Bear — was unceasingly devoted to his humans,” my sister wrote in her social media post honoring our brother’s passing. “I often say I can measure my life by all my kitties. Kazootie holds a special place…in our collective pantheon of beloved cats.”
Unlike the spineless cretin whose home and office were raided by the FBI last week, our Rudy was definitely his own man. From his loud pronouncements, to his stubborn insistence on staying out among the backyard Calla Lilies, to his refusal to go quietly when Mom moved out of her D.C. row house and he found a hole under the kitchen cabinets to scrunch into the farthest recesses where his humans couldn’t get to him. After a couple of bare-handed attempts, my brother-in-law donned oven mitts and crawled part of the way underneath the sink to retrieve the soft kitty with the extremely sharp claws. Which, of course, had been honed quite nicely on my Mom’s classic loveseat.
I’m not a political soothsayer, but I’m with fixer Michael Cohen, who predicts that Rudy — he of Rudy Colludy fame — will demonstrate his complete lack of a spine in this most recent brouhaha he’s become embroiled in. He’ll — predictably, I might add — give up the former guy in exchange for some kind of immunity. Although, I have to say, there’s so much this clown is guilty of it will be a cold day in hell before the proper “authorities” exonerate him of much. He should be jailed, at least, for his bad hair dye job and his press conference at Four Seasons Total Landscaping. But I know the Feds have bigger fish to fry.
My brother Rudy was nothing like that guy. He was loyal; he endured; he loved my Mama to the moon and back. He would never turn on his people. And I’d bet he’d have a lot to say — in loud, demonstrative, plaintive tones — about the antics of the former occupant of the Oval Office and the creepy sidekick who shared a first name, but not much else, with our Best Boy.