Catpack

Dubrovnik, Croatia

It's our last night in Dubrovnik, and my friend Pat and I are nursing one final beer before moving on to the Dalmatian Coast islands in the morning. But it's late now. It's time to go.

I reach down for my backpack. That is when I experience one of the most creepy sensations I have ever experienced.

My backpack is made of nylon, but at this moment, it feels fleshy. It conjures up a horror movie scene in which somebody goes into a closet for a soccer ball and comes out with a human head that is still sort of wriggling.

I look down at my backpack, which is supposed to be black. Right now, my backpack looks milky white. I squint in the darkness. Finally it registers that in attempting to grab my backpack, I have instead grabbed the stomach of a stray cat who has staked his claim, going to sleep on top of my bag.

The cat is curled up in a ball. He has not flinched at my accidental groping of his stomach. He's settled in for the night to the Dave's Backpack Cat Hotel. Toilet probably included if I don't act fast.

"Ummm," I say to the cat, "excuse me?"

The cat looks up at me with the sort of indifferent glance one sometimes gets in the Mediterranean.

"Ummm... I am terribly sorry to bother you, but...."

The cat yawns, and turns away.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Do you speak English?"

The cat does not answer. He just stares at me.

Pat is standing now. He is waiting for me. I look at him helplessly. "I'm not sure what to do," I say. "I don't think the cat understands me."

English or no English, Pat wants to go. He kicks my backpack.

Not "kicks it" kicks it. He just gives it one of those gentle "scooch over, Cat" nudges that is sometimes necessary if one does not want to be held hostage by a cat until sunrise.

"Meow!" the cat hisses.

"AHA!!" I shriek. "So you do speak English!"

The cat rolls his eyes at me.

"Look, cat, I know my backpack is cozy and all, but it's mine. You need to move."

The cat does not move.

I look up at Pat. He looks more annoyed with me than the cat looks.

"What?!" I say to Pat.

He does not answer. Instead, he reaches down, and slowly lifts my backpack, evicting the feline from his hotel.

Eventually we make it back to our hotel and crash. But in the morning, I notice my backpack is covered in white cat hair.

Personal note to the SeaTac Airport customs officials: I promise the cat hair will be gone before I return home. I know how testy you guys get about people importing animal products.