me in the piazza

I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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R.I.P., S.O.B.

Fugazy the cat, 1993, or '94, or '95 - 2011. Oct. 29, after a short, fierce (of course) battle with cancer.

Known variously as "F," "Fu," and "the s.o.b. cat," Fugazy was a giant: 19 pounds of solid muscle at his peak. He was a renowned mouser, powerful, focused, and lightning-fast, with 49 recorded kills and an unknown number of victims slipping back into the walls to expire. This speaks highly of Fugazy's skills, though not so highly of the building where he lived.

Fugazy insinuated himself into the household of a writer at a young age, though according to his vet not as young as advertised, by pretending to be 1) sickly and 2) cute and cuddly. After his adoption it was revealed he was 1) two or more likely three years old, not "barely a year," 2) robustly healthy and 3) a real ankle-biting thug. (Thus his name: 1970's Mafia slang for "phony.") His owner traveled a good deal, so Fugazy had many catsitters, the majority of whom did not come back a second time. Two sitters refused to sleep in the bedroom because Fugazy hissed and clawed at them when they approached the door. (There were a few he actually liked, however. You know who you are.)

A paper-chaser and cardboard-chewer, Fugazy had many friends who gave him gifts of catnip mice, food dishes, and in one case a handmade quilt. He appreciated all these gifts, though true to his feline code he refused to show any affection for the givers. Fugazy disliked other cats but liked dogs, especially his cousin, Murray. He was fond of his vet, though he hated the ride over there. Fugazy didn't care for fish but would kill (and tried to) for chicken. He joined living room conversations, trotting in and sitting on or under a chair, though he rarely contributed, being the strong, silent type.

Fugazy, who knew when it was time to go, said his goodbyes and left on his own terms (as he did everything else). He leaves behind his heartbroken owner, and a building full of jubilant mice.

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