Author: Scott Adamson

The cat eyed the visitor standing outside the front door, let out a quick yawn, and then laid its head back down on the sofa, its fluffy, gray tail switching rhythmically.

“You must be Jeff from that dot com,” said Malcolm Scrimm, his gap-toothed smile stretching across his wrinkled face. “Come in, come in. Here … I made you a cup of my famous tea. Everybody that enters the House of Scrimm has to at least try it.”

Scrimm was the owner of Vlad, a Norwegian Forest cat who – according to its owner – was 39 years old.

Jeff Jaffee worked for CandidCritters, a website that specialized in writing offbeat articles concerning animals. Having received a call about Vlad a week earlier, Jaffee wanted to see if there was something to the story.

“I appreciate you letting me come out,” said Jaffee, who had no real interest in the tea but politely took a sip after Scrimm passed the cup. “Wow … that’s really good, thanks. Well, I can see Vlad has quite a tail. Now I want to hear the tale of a cat that’s nearly 40. Do you mind if I pet him?”

“Please do.”

Jaffee gave Vlad a couple of soft rubs on the head, then scratched his chin.

If Vlad was, in fact, 39, then the folks at Guinness would need to amend their list. Creme Puff was a Texas feline that lived 38 years and three days from 1967 to 2005, making it the world record holder.

“Just curious,” Jaffee said. “How exactly do you know that Vlad is 39?”

Scrimm walked over to a table beside the sofa and grabbed a scrap book.

“Because I found him 39 years ago,” he said with a chuckle. “Just showed up on my doorstep on July 3, 1985. Couldn’t have been more than three or four weeks old. Here, look.”

Scrimm pointed to a photo of himself holding Vlad while standing on his porch, which was decorated in Fourth of July bunting.

“There’s your proof,” he said. “As you can see I had some 1980s hair going for me. I think I was trying to channel Howard Jones.”

Jaffee looked at the photo and it appeared to be legitimate. Still, he needed more proof than a faded Polaroid.

“That certainly looks like you and Vlad as a kitten,” he said. “But don’t you have any veterinarian records or something like that? I just need to cross the Ts and dot the Is … you understand.”

Scrimm rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Lemme get it from the drawer in the kitchen.”

As Scrimm left the room, Vlad continued to eye Jaffee. There was hardly anything unusual about a cat stare, but the look he was getting from the creature was unnerving. Making things even weirder was that he was struggling to look away and felt himself overcome by a wave of dizziness.

Jaffee stumbled back against the wall after Scrimm returned with a yellow piece of paper and silver tag.

“I found what you need,” Scrimm said. “This is the paperwork for his first rabies shot in 1985, as well as the tag. Of course I’m guessing the last thing on your mind right now is your little write-up.”

Scrimm plopped down on the sofa next to Vlad, who moved onto his lap without ever breaking eye contact with Jaffee.

“I can’t tell you the number of people who are just amazed by ol’ Vlad here,” Scrimm said, gently stroking the cat. “They can’t believe he’s as old as he is and looks as healthy as he does. But I’ll let you in on a little secret before you nod off, Jeff. It all comes down to diet.”

Poisoned by the tea, Jaffee could no longer move. He slowly slid down the wall, his shirt riding up his back and his legs sprawled in front of him as his life drained away.

“See, cats need a balanced diet to stay healthy,” Scrimm said. “A little chicken, a little fish, some grains … now you feed a cat that, and he’s probably gonna give you 15 or 20 good years. But Vlad here, he’s special. And as soon as he showed up, I knew we had something in common.

“I like killing people, and he likes eating the people I kill. Turns out you give a cat some long pig, and it adds years to their life.”

Scrimm grabbed Jaffee by his feet, pulled him toward the door leading to the basement, and shoved him down the steps.

Vlad’s tail raised straight in the air as he leapt from the sofa and headed for his dinner.

Scrimm reached for his phone and punched in seven digits.

“Yes, is this CandidCritters? This is Malcolm Scrimm. That fellow you were supposed to send – Jeff was it? He never showed up. But it’s probably just as well. Me and my cat don’t really like drawing attention to ourselves, anyway.

“Have a blessed day.”

Grady Grande had always dreamed of being in the big leagues.

Like a lot of kids, he was a Little Leaguer, so naturally he entertained the thought of staying a kid forever and playing ball for fun and profit.

And by the time he got to high school at Iron City Union Magnet, he thought he was a pretty good catcher.

His coaches, unfortunately, didn’t share that opinion.

By the end of his senior season, he had caught a grand total of six games in four years, playing on a team that never made the district playoffs and managed just one winning campaign during his entire time on the roster.

At the senior baseball banquet when the awards were handed out, all he earned was the equivalent of a participation trophy.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

The plan in his head was to make All-State, be an All-American at a Division 1 school and then become a first-round selection in the Major League Baseball First-Year Player Draft where he would sign an incentive-laden contract with either the New York Yankees or Chicago Cubs – depending on who made the best offer.

A long, storied professional career would end with him as a multi-millionaire baseball legend, one who would open a string of sports-themed restaurants right after making the National Baseball Hall of Fame on the first ballot.

Instead, as close as he got was playing beer league softball after work.

So, years later here he was on a Saturday afternoon in late June, sitting in his den watching the Yankees-Braves game with his granddaughter, Stella, daydreaming briefly about what was and what would never be.

“Papa,” Stella said, pointing at the TV screen, “you were like Jose Trevino once, weren’t you? Did you play the position like he plays it?”

Trevino was the New York catcher, and on this day, he was on the receiving end of Gerrit Cole’s four-seam fastballs.

“Oh, goodness no,” he said with a chuckle. “Jose is great. He played college ball, summer league ball, worked his way up from the minors … I’m afraid your dear ol’ grandad was never great. Or even good. I was more of a doorstop than a catcher.”

Stella smiled.

“I wish I could’ve seen you play,” she said. “I bet you were a lot better than you let on. Just to be out there on the field had to be fun. I’ll tell you what … that would’ve been enough for me. Just to have had the chance.”

Grady thought back to the days when he could get up and down with little effort, although the strain on his knees was more evident as he got older.

Even the pain in his catching hand still flared up now and again.

Still, knowing he had an opportunity that Stella never would put things in perspective.

“I played,” he said, “but you know the one thing I could’ve never done? Coached. I wasn’t smart enough to fill out a lineup card … to figure out what players were best at their positions. I would’ve never known the right time to make a pitching change, whether to send or hold a runner … none of that stuff. I was too busy trying not to screw up that I didn’t observe what was going on around me.

“But you can do all those things. I’ve watched you scribble on your note pad and strategize like a boss. And you’ve been filling out scorebooks since you were a little girl. Shoot, I bet you know more about baseball than I ever did – or ever will.”

Stella paused before responding, watching Cole strike out Marcell Ozuna to retire the side and end the fifth inning.

“I do love the game,” Stella said. “There’s something about it that makes me happy, and I can’t even explain it. So many sports seem – I don’t know – complicated. But when I watch baseball, I see players work together on defense but then have to stand alone on offense. It’s like two games wrapped up in one game, and that’s really, really cool. And knowing you got to do that when you were my age makes me jealous.”

Stella put down her notebook and manipulated the joystick on her electric wheelchair, allowing her to navigate closer to her granddad. She then reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Do you really think I could be a good coach, Papa?” she asked.

Grady’s eyes welled up.

“Are you kidding me, sweetheart? You’ll be the best there ever was.”