Why 3-Legged Cat Press?

I know you're wondering why this is called 3-Legged Cat Press, so I guess it's time to let the cat out of the bag.

*cough*

Well then, here's the story as my lady tells it. A simple tale of a happy childhood memory, yes, but our earliest memories are often our most cherished.

When I was a little girl, before the turbulent teen years when I traded in my pink ruffly dresses for black t-shirts and my Genesis records for Alice Cooper, I actually loved going to church. It was fun sitting in the pew, sneaking sips of the magic juice and snagging a few pieces of what I called tic-tac bread to stash in my pocket for later. When the congregation sang hymns, I swung my legs and chimed, "Dog, cat, dog, cat, kitty, puppy, kitty, puppy!" This amused my brother at the time, but the admiration turned to disgust in later years when "Dog, cat, kitty, puppy!" turned into "Kill 'em all!" (don't worry, it was a Metallica song, not a threat) and "We're Not Gonna' Take It!" We were two slabs of land living on opposite sides of a shaky fault line. Needless to say, our house shook a lot back then.

But in my early years, when I was a cute, dimpled towhead, everybody wanted to adopted me, including Mr. and Mrs. Crocker. They were much older than my parents, and I think they either had kids who were grown or didn't have kids at all. They lived in a beautiful brick two-story surrounded by flowers, including a rose garden. I got to visit them a lot and, although I can't remember anything they said to me, other than wishing they could keep me, I remember being happy when I was with them. Mrs. Crocker was petite and had short black hair. Mr. Crocker was a big, plump man with a bald head who wore tiny round glasses.

My favorite feature of the Crocker house, however, wasn't the gardens or even the Crockers themselves. It was their cat. Now, don't ask me its name or whether it was a girl or boy. I can't remember. I was pretty young, maybe four or five years old. I'm not even sure if it was black and white or a tabby. I do remember that it had only three legs. I would watch this cat hop around, pouncing on bugs in the grass and smelling the flowers like a normal cat. I can't remember if the cat was born that way or if it had been hit by a car or injured in some way. I loved this cat because it let me rub its tummy and the little knob where its fourth leg used to be or should have been. It chased me around the yard and always caught me. Those three legs sure made up for the missing fourth one. I always wondered if it had the phantom itch, that strange sensation that amputees sometimes feel when their missing leg hurts or itches.

I loved that little cat. It was my first cat friend, and its spunk and love of life live on inside of me. Memory is like a severed leg. It's still there in spirit, even when you forget about it. But sometimes it wakes up and begins to itch, then you scratch and it turns real once more. Maybe it's a scientific phenomenon or perhaps the secret of immortality. I have no idea, but sometimes my 3-legged cat friend nudges me awake and I listen to the silence of its eternal meow.