One day, I tried to count how many times in a day I lie, and counted exactly 16. I don't think I'm much of a liar, but sometimes I like to take some creative license with my anecdotes. For instance, what's more entertaining - telling you that Ulysses is a family name, or that my mother went to a psychic who told her that Ulysses should be the name of her third son, and that Ulysses would be "fabuloulsy successful?"

See, here's my reasoning for telling a white lie: If I tell you the latter explanation for the origin of my name, you might think, "wow, Ulysses mom must have been messed up." You then might think, "well, what has Ulysses done that's successful?" And naturally, a whole list of accomplishments comes to your mind, a glorious cruise ship sails into your cortex and its manifest names my successes. And then, you may think, "wow, Ulysses is so successful despite having a messed up mom who takes advice from psychics named Juanita with three inch long pink acrylic nails, he must be REALLY impressive." And I have you won over. And you will never, ever tell the difference. But, in telling you that I was predicted to be a success before I was born, I primed you to look exclusively at  my successes and ignore my failures. Yes, indeed I have won.

That same day, I counted the number of times I told the truth, and I forgot to keep counting because I found that most of the time, I tell the truth, and so it's not worth counting. Isn't that interesting? I forget about the truth, which is supposedly really important - truth, justice, yadda yadda - but I am able to calculate exactly how many little white lies I tell in a day.

The next story is true. I promise.

History is primarily an indoor cat now that he has decided to take residence underneath the couch. I think that he believes he is protected on all sides but forward. I liken him to like some stalwart archer, standing within a tiny cylindrical vantage point high in the fortress, with no opening except for the narrow slit in front of him. He peers out, chooses an arrow from his quiver, draws the arrow back across the string of the bow about to play a song of war, much like a cellist may begin to play a symphony. The song has only one note, and only one rhyhtm, kind of a "thwick" or a "shhthwick." I'm just speculating, though, I've never really heard an arrow being flung from a castle. The archer is ready, releases his arrow, which finds its mark in the eye of a soldier of the advancing army. If History is the archer, and my dangling foot is the advancing army, picture then that he springs forward from his haunches, only to be halted by the couch itself, as his vertical trajectory destines him for a slab of wood rather than catapulting forward to the foot. It's as though the archer shot the wall instead of through the tiny opening - he is humiliated, arrowless, and his song is over before it started. This is where the analogy parts ways with reality - History's song has just begun, as he yelps in pain. I believe it's a D-flat every time.

What I find most curious is that History does not ever attempt to leave. I always "accidentally" leave the door open just a tiny bit, not because I want the little bugger to run away, but because I thought he would have a harder adjustment to indoor life and would like some fresh air now and then. I stand outside the door, out of his sight, and expect to see little trembling whiskers peek out. Nothing. I close and lock the door.

But every day, when I return home from the gas station, he is sitting outside my door, facing the doorknob and looking up expectantly. He cocks his head to the side so he can give me a reproaching glance, lets out a slight meow - a C this time - as if to say, "I am cold, shivering, and hungry. You locked me out, you evil, heartless ape." The archer's arrow meets its mark. But then I wonder...how did he get out?

I open the door, and he darts in, straight for the litterbox, his tiny colon about to burst. No semicolons allowed for this kitty. I examine all the walls, all the windows, all the doors. There is no way that cat can exit my apartment if the door is locked. I test the lock several times. Nope, there is absolutely no way to get in if the door is locked. I learned that out the hard way, when I locked myself out when I used to chronically sleep walk. Even the locksmith had trouble that time. If a professional locksmith could not penetrate the walls of my castle, how could a measly 10 pound creature lay siege to my drawbridge, only to build it back again before I was to return? 

I was dying to find out.

I set about affixing a "kitty cam" to the ceiling. Kitty camS, really. I bought four web cameras and set and reset and set them again until I was satisfied that, among the four of them, the entire apartment could be viewed. This was easy in my shoebox studio.

I turned on the cameras. To make sure all the conditions were right, I dangled my foot over the side of the couch. He banged his head. D-flat. Yes, everything was as it should be. I locked the door and set off to work.

Eager to solve the History mystery, I started up the webcam program with bated breath upon my return from inhaling 87-octane fumes. I could see a bird's-eye view of my apartment, and a little black bug-looking thing (History, I presume), crept out from under the couch. He sniffed around as cats do, making sure that nothing is at all different, lest he be thrown into a frenzy. And then static. Those damn cameras, 100 bucks a piece, worth weeks and weeks and weeks of litter and cat food, broke at their shining moment. 

But then, at minute 5 and 34 seconds of the recording, the cameras turned back on. 

So what happened to History?

Puzzled, I shook my head, turned off the computer, and started at my reflection in the black monitor. My eyes looked particularly dark and droopy, no doubt reflecting my state of mind at the moment. I made faces at myself and laughed quietly.

The phone rang, and it was my downstairs neighbor, a dangerously skinny blonde thing that I nicknamed "Skeletor" in my head, due to her gaunt features and wispy hair. She always seemed to be on high alert. I remember I sneezed once and she called me and told me to - and forgive me, I may mess up the spelling - glockenspielshnitzelfrankfurthamburgergesundheit, or something to that effect. Whatever it was, I became certain she was no Bavarian princess. This phone call was surprisingly lucid, as she told me,

"You need to come and get your kat."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, your kat seems to haf gotten missing itself and is under my couch. Ven can you retrieve you him?"

"I - I - I'm sorry, I'll go get him." I hung up, trotted downstairs like the obedient little terrier I became when Skeletor was angry, and gladly reclaimed History. I returned, bleary-eyed, upstairs, and let him down on the floor. He licked his chops, and looked at me, clearly pleased with whatever he had done.

He repeated himself by returning to his solace under the couch, bow taut, poised, and ready to fly.