It started with a cat named Queso
20 years ago I bought a house in Puerto Penasco, Mexico – 4 hours southwest of Phoenix at the top of the Gulf of California. It was a terrible investment. 20 years later I am struggling to get 80% of my money out. The Sonoran desert can feel like an Iron Maiden. Everything pokes and stings.
I wanted to give the beach to my daughters, where we could drive 4 hours and be in the ocean. The mere promise of water gives hope to months of dessication in Phoenix. I took my girls to Rocky Point 100 times.
In 2012 when they were 3 and 6, a cat appeared outside our door, making a nuisance of himself, like desperate cats do.
If he was scooped or inched in to my arms willingly, I could not tell the difference. He was happy and eating within moments. The girls named him “El Sombrero de Queso Pequeno Rivera”
Kitten names must be mere morsels, wisps of motion. If his name starts mucho grande it might negotiate down to Eduardo. Or Jesus. Or Arpaio. So many difficult choices. Like how to explain to Genevieve her role in our smuggling cartel to get him back across the border.
Me: You’re going to have your dvd player on, really loud, with ‘Bolt’ or ‘Tom & Jerry’.
G: What did you say about the bag?
Me: Don’t think about the bag. Think about your dvd, and laughing really loud. But not too loud.
G: he won’t like it in the bagG is fatal to a conspiracy, but we had grand fun scheming about it for 3 whole days. That we pulled it off is a tragic indictment of the Customs Bureau and Border Patrol. If they can’t stop a kitten and kindergartner giggling babbling ‘there’s nothing in the bag, bro‘, we are destined for nuclear winter or zombie apocalypse.