THE ORANGE BARON

     Several times during the first few years of Sage’s life, I would pick him up and inspect his lethal paws for springs.
     His hang- time was incredible- I mean, it was almost slow motion across the room, arms and legs caught in a flawless moment in time, his mouth open like his head was stuck out the window of the back seat of a car, laughing like a hyena. I have never laughed so hard, so genuinely, and so often in my life like I did during that time. I would be sitting on my shredded couch, watching the one channel I could get with the rabbit ears cocked just so on my tiny black and white TV, eating a slice of pizza. He would appear from behind the shredded armchair, ears tilted back, nostrils flaring, eyes big and black, like saucers. His tail would be an oversized pipe cleaner, and straight up into the air, like an antenna. Every whisker off of his head was pointed forward, and he was as low to the carpet as he could get. I sat forward, a grin spreading on my face, the crummy TV forgotten.
     I had no idea what he was targeting, but my eyes darted to and fro with curiosity. I went back to him, not wanting to miss the moment.
     He slinked three steps, stopped, wiggled his butt. Paused to sneeze. Then forward again, another three steps, another wiggle, and then…
     He was up, took two bounds, and propelled himself into the air with seemingly no effort at all, onto the arm of the shredded armchair and up to the backrest. All the while his face bore the same exhilarated expression, his eyes never wavering from their target, which was not the shredded armchair. In one single leap, his claws sending forth a wrenching, rending shriek as he tore off the upholstery, he hurtled into the air and proceeded to break world records in feline hang- time. My face would be frozen with awe as I counted one second, two, then three, and watched him land only with two paws on the top of the TV, causing the reception to vanish into snow, and rebound off the lampshade, sending that to the carpet in a clattering heap. He surfed through the air like he was flying, hell, he was, and dismounted onto my leg in a tearing scramble, causing me to drop the slice of pizza I had been holding. By the time I had my eyes open again, my empty hands gripping my leg feverishly, he was gone. So was the slice.
     The Orange Baron has struck again.