In all that time, excluding those occasions when he was nice to my landlady, who regularly fed him carefully prepared dishes made of chopped chicken liver, I couldn’t recall a single instance in which he’d ever done anything that could remotely be construed as beneficial to anyone. Mostly he just took up space. But as I stood there against the garage wall, debating whether to go barreling in and surprise the gunman inside with the rock I clutched in my hand, Kiddiot swung into action. He climbed down from the oak tree, jumped the final few feet, and, with his tail pointed up, padded straight into the garage. A classic tactical diversion. Nice work, cat. Counting silently to myself—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—I was about to make what professional door kickers refer to as a “dynamic entry” when I heard a woman’s voice squeal gleefully inside. “Kiddiot!” she said with obvious delight. “What’ve you been up to, my little muffin?” “Hold your fire,”
