Pussy

McDougal stole my cat and smuggled it aboard an Argentinean freighter bound for Morocco.

The cat died en route and McDougal brought him back to life with an alternator from a 1978 Chevy Nova, a TI-99/4A with a voice synthesizer and a holographic picture of a Yorkie Terrier.

When the vessel arrived in Morocco, McDougal presented the resurrected cat to the king of Amsterdam, who in exchange freed McDougal's commonlaw wife from the secret Moroccan dungeon, where he'd kept her locked away for nearly 16 years.

When she emerged, she'd grown a full Oak Ridge Boys beard, and was wearing only a leather thong and an Ocean Pacific half shirt.

McDougal immediately shit his pants, took back my cat, and flew straight back to the states.

When he landed on my front lawn, I said, "McDougal -- I didn't know you could fly."

Well, neither did McDougal.

And I still have that damned cat.