A cat by any other name; Oh deer me; We (Scrooge and I) come a wassailing

"Cats have it all - admiration, an endless sleep, and company only when they want it."

AUBURN, Maine — This holiday season the Blasi family made a momentous decision to change the cat’s name — or at least use several other aliases.

The resolution will affect the household for the coming year. We debated and debated — for five agonizing minutes — at the kitchen table over a bowl of hot punch. After all the haggling, we agreed to a new name for a cat that never ever stops talking.

We will be in court on Monday to make it official after we file papers with several lawyers. The cat will also be summoned by several aliases depending our our moods and how much this hairball bothers me when I am filing a damn story at the kitchen table.

My wonderful, beautiful wife named the cat “Cindy Lou Who,” the sweet kid from Whoville in “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.”  Every time I hear Grinch, I think of a nonsense-filled Washington, D.C. occupied by Li'l Abner and his hillbilly friends.

Terri has also called the Cat — Diva — which has several definitions, including “a self-important person who is temperamental and difficult to please.”

In this case, it is a cat and it owns our hearts — and she knows it. It screeches when it demands to be fed and wanders the house, bellowing “Hello.” It really does sound like that.

The cat, which we bought from an animal shelter the past March, is a drama queen — and we are convinced “Diva” is appropriate. She wakes us out of a sound sleep in the dead of night with her ear-piercing, unbearable screech. She is miserable until she has her morning, stinky food, much like I feel when I suck down my first of cup of coffee.

Diva never stops talking and screeching — and it can be intolerable until you give in and crack open another can of smelly cat food. This is a cat with a hair-trigger temper that will take a swipe at you when she’s having a moment— and there are many.

She’ll steel your chair because Diva is a rascal and an assassin, who knocked off several mice and screamed at the top of her lungs after she committed the bloody deeds.

And so Diva will be the cat’s name — along with several aliases.

To be honest, I don’t think the cat gives a damn so long as it eats — just like a Scrooge acquaintance — who wouldn’t attend “The Old Screw’s” funeral unless he was also fed.

Oh deer me!

I was hustling back from a University of Maine at Farmington men’s basketball game that I covered a couple of Friday’s ago in Farmington.

It was a dark and cold night, my friends. Everybody was at home enjoying their wood stoves while I kept my eyes on a lonely stretch of road in search of danger.

I had to file a story, because that’s what reporters do.

I raced around a hair-pin turn on a hill at about 50 mph on dangerous Route 4 in Livermore when a giant buck leaped in front of my Rondo Kia. 

I had a three-second window to decide if I wanted to live or die on a dimly-lit country road on a freezing Friday night.

I skidded, veered a bit to the right, hit the gas pedal and slammed in the deer’s ass. I hit it hard and it limped off into the woods. I drove off to call it in. I accelerated to lift the hood to prevent the deer from crashing through the window.

I heard the glass cover on the left-front headlight shatter after the impact, which could be heard for miles. I limped home with one headlight and a fear that there were other deer lurking on the side of road ready to pounce on other unsuspecting drivers.

I needed to file my story because that’s what reporters do.

I also needed a stiff drink because that’s what this reporter required after dodging the Grim Reaper.

The Old Screw warmed my heart

I have read just about everything that Charles Dickens published over his lifetime, but I never sat down with “A Christmas Carol.”

I’ve watched several movies called a “Christmas Carol” or “Scrooge.”

So I promised myself that I would read the Dickens’ story about angry old man — like Henry F. Potter — who despises the world and tries to make Bedford Falls a hellhole for young George Bailey.

There’s a real-life versions of Scrooge or Potter in our nation’s capital.

I was enthralled as Dickens took us through Ebenezer’s tumultuous life — with three diligent spirits who slapped around the miser along the way.

He certainly had it coming to him.

The short story is spectacular, especially the way Dickens reveals his characters through sharp dialogue. The book has certainly withstood the test of time, just like Philip Van Doren Stern’s short story, “The Greatest Gift,” which we all know as “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Dickens and Van Doren Stern had it right when they penned two ageless stories about miserly, selfish old men whose only concern is themselves and the bottom line.

Sound familiar?

But “The Old Screw” figured it out in the end when he said: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!”

I leave you with Scrooge’s epiphany and bid you all a happy holiday.

Catching the show on the road

FARMINGTON/LIVERMORE/JAY— Route 133 is a road lined with bird’s-eye views of Western Maine’s rolling mountains and a breathtaking skyline that rivals anything man-made in a big city.

You could say this is Maine’s version of Route 66 — although a much shorter version of that storied road.

This road is filled with twists and sharp turns — and the last thing you want to be doing is looking down at your phone or speeding like a NASCAR driver behind the wheel of a supped-up stock car.

Ignoring the speed limit or being distracted will cost you your life — or worse, somebody else dies because of your stupidity.

And then there are the local sheriffs, who remain invisible until they come dashing out from the tree line like a fox that just spotted its next meal across the street. I often smile at a driver that passes me at the speed of sound, only to find that same driver down road next to police car with flashing lights

If you race across this route like a NASA rocket hurled through space, they will be picking up what is left of you with shovels. And then there are the sheriffs who will gladly hand you a ticket or arrest you for driving to endanger — depending, of course, on how fast you were going before you saw the boys in blue in your rearview mirror.

Route 133 is about 31 miles long and runs through several towns before it empties into Route 4 in Farmington— a college town that features the University of Maine at Farmington. I usually pick it up in Livermore to avoid most of Route 4. If you are obeying the law, it takes about 15 minutes to traverse it. This allows you the opportunity to avoid an endless array of traffic lights and the numerous school buses that descend on these towns after 2 p.m.

I travelled around the state covering everything from high school sports to boxing and auto racing. 

Yeah, I have been around.

I got a hot tip to use Route 133 to avoid a segment of slow-moving traffic on Route 4 as well leaving a trail of loud expletives throughout those quiet towns.

Yes, there are dangers to using Route 133, with deer crossing and drivers, whose skills behind the wheel are dubious.

But the views of these mountains on a sunny day are spectacular.

I refuse to drive Route 133 at night during the winter months due to black ice. During the day, the road is fine.

In a way, that road also acts as boundary when it comes to winter weather. I have often seen rain to turn to snow as I headed into Farmington. 

And in the fall, the view of Maine’s foliage is stunning and the tree line along the 133 appears to be on fire with its bright colors.

Those views of Maine’s mountains are worth the drive just to spend 20 minutes marveling at our green planet.

Enjoy the photos. My wife Terri took the wheel of the car so I could rattle off pictures of nature’s creations with my Nikon.