A Kitten Up a Tree

One summer morning we found ourselves in the only cafe in a tiny little town in Central Utah. Vern, the owner, poured us another cup and said, "Yep, this sure is a fine little town. Why--a person would be right proud to live in our town,and they’d be safe too. Our police force--George--not only takes care of the law breakers here; but he also can fix your electricity if it's broke or break your horse if it ain't.” Then he went on about George. George could do this; George could do that; George could do anything; Why--George could do everything.

Sam and I were beginning to grow a bit tired of “George the Great” stories when the door burst open. One of the local dirt farmers strode in (Bib Overalls, scuffed up boots and a beat up old straw hat) and he fairly shouted, "Gene's little cat got loose ! It's run up a tree in the park , and I need help to get it down."

Vern said, "Coming George." He grabbed the apron from his waist, and followed him out the door. Sam and I were left there alone snickering to one another.

“Suppose that was the mighty George?…”

“What a redneck…”

“He doesn’t look much like a police force… And he needs help to get a kitten out of a tree?”

The door opened again. George stuck his head in and bellowed, "Come on you guys! I said I need help! Move it!!"

We moved it.

Outside, George jumped into his pickup truck and drove off. The rest of us rode the two blocks to the city park in Vern's car. Once there George tossed Vern a lasso rope from the back of his truck and started to climb a large Chinese elm.

"There he is," said Vern, and pointed about twenty feet up the tree.

"Some kitten," whispered Sam as the two of us stood there, flat footed and jaw dropped, looking at a hundred odd pounds of mountain lion that was growling and hissing and spitting at George as he climbed toward him.

George just growled and hissed and spit back at that cat. And when he got up even with him he shouted, "TURN AROUND!" and, by golly, that cat was so startled he did it. George reached out grabbed the cat by the tail and jerked him off that limb.

There was George hanging onto that tree with one arm and both legs dangling a screaming mad lion by the tail. "Rope him Vern!" he hollered.

Now this kind of took us by surprise, because Vern never claimed any special skill for himself, (except pouring coffee). He shook out the lasso, gave it a couple of spins above his head and laid the prettiest triple-figure-eight loop right up between the leafy branches. One loop went around the cat's hind legs a second around his front legs and the third right around that cat's neck.

"Ah--You missed his muzzle," complained George.

"Why, I’m a bit rusty, I guess," answered Vern, "Let him go George; we'll fix him down here."

George let go of the tail, Vern pulled up on the rope and the cat hit the ground with a thump, all bowed up with its feet pulled up tight to its throat. Vern had both hands full of rope so he nodded his head toward a piece of green branch lying on the ground, and said, "You guys--tie that stick in its mouth."

That was a tall order for a couple of city boys but we took the stick to the lion and he just grabbed it. That lion was so mad he would have bitten a skunk by the tail if someone held one out to him.

Just then George jumped down from the tree. He took hold of the lasso rope and tied that kitten up quicker than a rodeo cowboy could tie a calf.

Even bound and gagged securely it took all four of us to get that squirming, snarling kitty into the hundred pound tater sack George had.

George hauled the cat back to Gene's; The rest of us went back to Vern's to see how long it would take us to hold a cup of coffee without spilling it. I asked Vern if George would be coming to the cafe.

"Nope," he said, "he's gone out west of town to help a guy catch his pet buffalo."

Sam scratched his head, looked up at Vern, and asked, "After he gets it out of the tree how's he going to get it into the tater sack?"