In Memory Of Malcolm

I don't like to argue about whose cat is best - that sort of thing is a pissing contest left to those who have something to prove - but my own favorite feline familiar, Malcolm X, was among other things a six-toed terror and an astute judge of character; anyone he didn't like, I didn't much care for either. Above everything was his cool, Paul Newman-like demeanor. One day my (former) father-in-law explained that he did not want to let his Yorkshire Terrier near Malcolm for fear that the cat would be killed. "They're known for being relentless hunters and they never turn their backs on their prey," he said, authoritatively. Malcolm lay sleeping lightly in the dog's bed on the back porch, opposite from where the dog was locked away in a bathroom for safety's sake. I decided to experiment. I let the dog loose, and he tore across the porch toward Malcolm. Malcolm remained prone until the moment the dog was in reach, then sprung to like a cobra, pasted the canine upside the head with his great paw, and sank back into the dog's bed as the Yorkie ran back to his bathroom, whimpering. I shut the door to the bathroom on the fallen pooch, sat back down next to my speechless father-in-law, and said not another word about it. Not that day.