I named my cat History because I thought it would lend itself to some delicious, tongue-in-cheek statements. History puked on my shoe. History cuddles up to me at night. History ran away. History gets really hyper, until you rub his belly and he falls asleep. But, looking back on it, I really wish I met a dog named History. Then you could say, History bit me in the ****, or History humped my leg today at the park, resulting in some awkward social interactions. No matter. My cat’s name is History, and so far History just lounges in the background. Nobody really notices him, but man, feeding him is quite expensive.

Before History doesn’t really matter. After History, I worked at a gas station on the corner of Main and Elm. It was great because most of the day I could just play Tetris on my cell phone, every once in a while catering to someone’s gambling problem or mid-afternoon snacks. By night, though, I was a security guard. That was a hoot. People would ask me, “So, what do you do as a security guard at a retirement home? Do you have to clean up old people’s, you know, soiled garments?” “Soiled garments” was always italicized in these conversations. Or it was just plain “****.” Either, way, that’s not at all what I did. That was for the nurses. No, most of what I did was guide the geezers back to their rooms, after they went looking for the toilet out in the public garden. “No, this way Mr. Bagarowski, I promise you'll regret doing that on Mrs. O’Connell’s prize tomatoes, no matter how much of a *&$^ she is.” At that point, Mr. Bagarowski would laugh, mumble something incoherently, and allow me to guide him by the arm back to his room, all the while shuffling in his robin’s egg blue slippers. He would open his door with a satisfying snap of static discharge. Oh man, I lived for Mr. Bagarowski’s throaty “oh!” and the shake of his arthritic hand. Have a good night, sir. Yes, I’ll take care.

But like I said, the gas station/security guard thing was before History. I would like to say I chose History, but really, History chose me. Allow me to elaborate.

“Greetings, Mr. Heston.” That was my boss at the retirement home, Mr. Heston. He was what one would call simpering. Even though he was my boss, I viewed him as constantly seeking a fatherly pat-on-the-head, sucking up a little bit, but always, always trying to assert his dominance. He had jowls down to his neck, and his lips were always just a little bit chapped and swollen. His eyes peeked out through tufts of eyebrow that spilled from his brow down into tiny, cavernous sockets. Did I mention the jowls? He had a fantastic speech impediment. Observe:

“Hewwo, Yules.” My real name is Ulyssees, but Yules seems to fit my personality better. Unrelated friends, acquaintances, and enemies have all converged on that one nickname at different times in different places. It’s otherworldly, really. But anyway, the way Mr. Heston said it was like “Yewes,” or “Yoos,” I could never decipher which, but I was always waiting for the part where he was “hunting fow wabbits.” His snaggle-toothed mouth would open into what I think should have been a smile, but was definitely more of a sneer. He was just that kind of person.

 “Hewwo, Yoos. I would wike to discuss yo’ job puhfowmance.”

“Absolutely! I am always willing to accept praise.”

“I don’t think you unduhstand me, Yoos. Mr. Taywo’ passed away wast night.”

“Oh no, that’s awful!” I was sincere. Mr. Taylor was my companion many a foggy dawn, when I would doze off with my arms folded across my chest, slumped forward in the easy chair in the lobby. Mr. Taylor would tap my shoulder, snicker, and say “the morning guard’s coming in, doesn’t want to see you slackin’!” He always smelled of wine at 6am. “Thanks, Mr. Taylor,” I’d say. He’d wink back and offer some wine. I’d decline.

“Yoos, he passed away on yo’ shift. Because yo’ wuh sweeping. He few down in the night and yo’ didn’t even notice. Wasn’t till Wojuh (Wojuh is Mr. Heston-ese for Roger) noticed his body in the mo-nin’. Expwain yo-self.” I thought for a minute, and realized he wasn’t referring to janitorial duties.

 “Um, Mr. Heston, I don’t sleep on my shift…” Mr. Heston was not amused. His coal eyes seemed to become even blacker, his jowls even saggier, his teeth even snaggly-er. “Get out, Yoos.” He didn’t have to tell me twice. I didn’t like that job anyway.

 So you’re probably wondering why I left so readily. You’re probably wondering why I always sleep on my shift, why I seem like such a slacker, why I would rather play Tetris and dole out scratch tickets with names like Bubba’s Buck-a-roo and Jack Black’s Jackpot like they were candy and sell Camel Lites to clearly underaged females with names like Bobby-Jo than use my doctorate in medicine to better further the community. You’re also probably wondering why I waited so long to tell you I’m an M.D. And lastly, you’re probably wondering more personal questions about me, like my last name, my age, my astrological sign, my social security number, and other things that good, responsible autobiographers should tell you. But I won’t right now, because I don’t know you.

So I walked to my car, entered, and rested my head on the steering wheel. The sun was just starting to peek up over the horizon, as if it were creeping over to me and asking, “ooh, having a bad day? Let me take a closer look…” Sunlight shone briefly in my eyes, but then was blocked by the dark stormy clouds in the East, as if the sun said, “Uh oh, Ulysees is having a bad day. I’d better hide behind this cloud until this all blows over.” That’s right. My bad moods cause the sun to sail across the sky in terror.

Without disrupting the marriage of my forehead to the bumpy leather steering wheel, I clumsily threw my right hand forward, key outstretched, into the ignition. The familiar sound of the engine turning over followed. I finally divorced from the steering wheel, threw the car into reverse, when History sprang onto the hood of my ’03 Ford Focus. He is always dressed to impress, with an all black jacket, white gloves, and a white shirt that extends from his neck to his belly. He wears a white monocle. Really, really classy cat. He sat down on his hind legs, right in the middle of the hood, and looked at me. His green eyes suggested that maybe he wanted something.

 I wasn’t willing to give it.

I reached my right arm around the passenger seat, peered over my right shoulder, and backed out of my parking spot as fast as I could. Then I faced forward, shifted into drive, and pounded the gas pedal. History flew up onto the windshield, with a sickening “crack.” I continued forward, down the winding path toward the main road. History left a trail of blood in his wake as he slid up the windshield like some macabre snail from the river Styx, and then I saw him out the back window as I glanced into my rearview mirror – he bounced once on my trunk and once on the road behind.

 I’m not violent, really. I’m still not quite sure what possessed me to kill a cat 24 hours after Mr. Taylor died supposedly died. Maybe I was so saturated with guilt already, I figured a little more couldn’t hurt. That’s the American way.

 My eyes never strayed from the median as I drove down Shore Road to my apartment building on Shore and Ferry. I could see the ocean from my apartment, if you leaned out the window, craned your head to the right, and if autumn had already stripped the trees of their leaves.

 I could also see History.

“What the –“ I stepped back, rubbed my eyes that were heavy with morning dew, and there he was, as clear as the window separating us. History had followed me home, and was on the third floor windowsill. Of course, his name wasn’t History yet. I think I had some choice four-letter words, for him, though. I opened my window. He did not enter. We exchanged glances. I smiled and nodded. He licked his chops. It was a social stalemate. Normally I refuse to be started down by a cat, but he was so damn cute. And then there was the whole, how-did-he-get-here-before-me-after-I-broke-all-his-bones factor. Which I still don’t entirely understand.

So that’s how I came to meet History the cat. I let him in, gave him a nice bowl of milk, and he hasn’t left. He has here all the necessities that a cat needs – piles of dirty laundry to lounge on, food, a clean litter box. And I leave him alone. He hasn’t even attempted to leave yet, which I think is rather peculiar.

Even more peculiar, however, is how I learned that History repeats himself.