I am a cat. But not just any cat. A cat who knew too much, way too much. Why is that, you ask? Glad you did, as it’s too complicated to answer with a simple one-liner. Call me Boris; I was born as part of a litter of five. I am a bonafide Persian with a little bit of Heinz 57 thrown in for good measure.

My daddy was a preacher and my momma was an alley cat. Kind of the other way around, actually, but it sounds cool, right?  Daddy would chase down any available Kitty Kat in sight and take care of business like the Tom he was, and momma was left holding down the fort and providing for all of us offspring.

We lived in a loft with an interesting family named Johnson whose first names not-coincidentally started with J. John was the patriarch, Joanne the mother, and the kids were Jason and Jasmine. And they had the gall to call me Boris, but I didn’t feel too bad as my brothers and sisters names all started with other letters, as well. I guessed–no I knew–that it was a human/cat thing.

All of us kittens grew up fairly normal, learning the key elements of litter box training, chasing after cloth mice and then real ones, but most importantly to stay out of John’s way when he was writing. He was extremely focused when he was working, and he worked the crime beat for a major metropolitan newspaper. We all learned pretty quickly what the repercussions were when my brothers and sisters tried to play with his printed pages; a nasty cuss, a boot in the behind, or a squirt of water from a spray bottle that he always managed to have handy. And all of us kittens hated water, except me, of course, because I was the odd duck…oops, kitten…of the bunch.

I would not go near John when he was writing, but if he ever left any printed pages lying around, all bets were off. You see, I had a gift no other cat–or any animal, for that matter—had: I could read.  I devoured his research and bylines like my brothers and sisters did voles, mice, chipmunks and even the occasional small bunny, in season, of course.

John was working on a particular complex story about a Financial Services company that rose from the ashes to become one of the key players in the industry and in the Stock Market in the matter of a few years. This was sounding too purrrfect to me to be true. Normally, it would take years for an organization such as this to rise to prominence. Something smelled really fishy, even more so than that Friskies fish pate we get served once in a while, which my brothers and sisters gobbled up like starved calves. I, of course, knew better. I read the ingredients and realized we’d be lucky if a trace of a fish fin was actually in this by-product concoction.

John, through meticulous research, traced the company back to a mysterious individual who appeared at the same time this company began its rise to market dominance. What made my whiskers curl even more was that John could find out very little, if anything, about this mysterious and exotic individual.  Strange and unexplained things were happening in the city, especially after this company and its elusive chairman appeared on the scene.

I was fascinated and would sneak on silent pads into John’s office whenever the opportunity arose, and I let my siblings know I was not to be disturbed. I had the sharpest claws, and I knew how to use them. The more I found out, the more frustrated I became. I could read, but I couldn’t tell anyone–after all we cats don’t have vocal cords, and all a lot of meowing would get us was a trip outside in that nasty -20 degree weather we’d been having.

To make a long story short, curiosity got hold of this cat, and I just had to see through my own slit eyes what was going on with this long-haired, dusky and—according to John—extremely dangerous Russian. I was going on a road trip to find out what the scoop was, and I mean that literally. But that will be a story for another day and another time. My immediate problem was going to be how curiosity was not going to kill this cat. Because I just knew too much.