Relay

Jason Biondo

Somewhere between my 83-year-old grandmother's having a stroke and my 7-month-old daughter's visiting a pediatric ear, nose, and throat specialist in New York City, I realized the damn cat was missing.

Enzo, an orange tabby, was a gift for Jessie on her 28th birthday. But since the arrival of our daughter in October, it would be a gross understatement to say that our once beloved cat who slept on the bed was now playing second fiddle to baby Raven. The cat was more like the tone deaf geek who slammed the cymbals together in a high school band - not very popular.

Martha Stewart catches her share of flak on the South Fork, but in our house she's more a constant personality than Derek Jeter, Charles Bukowski, or that host from "Fear Factor." That's because we opt for the blue light special at Kmart over the Saturday morning antiques festivals of Sagaponack.

Included among our most recent truckload from the Bridgehampton Commons was 80 feet of Martha Stewart Everyday five-eighths-inch-diameter five-ply standard garden hose. I brought it home, tested it, coiled it, and stashed it neatly on the front deck between a propane tank that led to the oven and a wooden chair that led to happy hour.

By storing the hose there, however, I had unwittingly blocked the only means of entry to (and exit from) Enzo's favorite hiding spot under the deck. As a man whose father has always raised German shepherds, I have never considered a feline to be any more of a pet than I did deer grazing in the yard or raccoons pillaging the trash cans. They did whatever they wanted and needed you only at feeding time. I figured he would show up sooner or later.

Before I returned from work on day three A.E. (After Enzo), Jessie heard a faint meow from under the new hose. She moved it, and out staggered a woozy orange cat from a tiny black opening in the deck boards. To Martha Stewart it may have been standard garden hose, but to a seven-pound tabby it was about as movable as the Alaska pipeline.

Immediately, he showed signs of injury - a little hitch in his get-along. Considering the status of my family's health, I was not about to trek to the veterinarian. In my frazzled state of mind, I would sooner have escorted the maimed critter behind the garage with my framing hammer and bought him a one-way trip to Asia. Euthanasia, that is.

Days passed, as did thoughts of a mercy kill. And though his stutter step was gone, a new problem arose. Enzo had gone insane. His stint under the deck evidently had the same effect on his psyche as too much time in solitary would have on an inmate. He hid under the bed and emerged only to run full speed into glass sliding doors.

I felt awful. In an attempt to give him some much needed affection, I noticed that his tail was in bad shape. It resembled a dead eel, and I knew that couldn't be good. Enzo and I walked out of the veterinarian's office the following afternoon with a fresh bottle of animal antibiotics, a receipt for three hundred something dollars, and a blond nub where his tail used to be.

The vet seemed to think the little daredevil didn't quite make it across the road and literally had his tail end run over. Since a fleet of school buses and garbage trucks keep their headquarters at the end of our road, the theory was highly probable. In retrospect, he must have hidden in his favorite place right after the accident, only to get sealed in by Martha and me. Rough week.

So my grandmother is hanging in there, Raven is just fine, and, like a lot of us, Enzo is rolling with the punches and working with what sanity he has in a world that makes no sense. In the meantime, I've bought some gourmet canned food to mix with his kibble. He seems to like it.

Jason Biondo is a reporter for The Star.