Burlingame Adventures: The Kohl Mansion Kaper with Davey Krockat and Kristofur Katlumbus

Chapter 1 Tuesday Evening Davey and Kris We are kats living in Burlingame. Visiting landmarks our daily aim. Kris walks with a waddle. I stroll like a model. Nonetheless, dodging rain brings us fame. The name’s Krockat ... Davey Krockat. I’m a kat. No, not an ordinary c-a-t cat, but a twenty-first century kat spelled k-a-t who likes to tell stories and write poetry. My best buddy is Kristofur Katlumbus. I also call him Kris, Kristo, and Kolombo. Yeah! He’s a kat too. We reside in the sleepy little village of Burlingame just seventeen miles south and out from under the famous fog of San Francisco. We became residents of this fair city of trees when the Burlingame artist k. k. johnson adopted us from the local animal shelter. KK, as we refer to her, spells all hard c sounds with the letter k. This explains the spellings of our names and a lot of other quirky words in this story. I agree, it’s all a bit weird, but we like our names, our mistress loves us, the room and board is fetchin’, and we kats don’t sweat the small stuff. Kris and I are very “kurious” kats. (I fear that I’ve acquired KK’s spelling idiosyncrasies). We explore our quaint village on an almost daily basis because it’s important for a kat to know his territory. ... Ka ... kat ... chooo! Excuse me. I’m sorry, but I sneeze a lot. I’ll explain later. ... It’s dusk on this particular Tuesday and we’re visiting the Kohl Mansion, a landmark residence in the wooded hills on the northwest side of town. Kris and I are leisurely searching for rodents in the rose garden of the estate when our pleasant twilight excursion takes an ominous turn. As dark clouds roll in from seemingly nowhere and sweep over the forty acre estate surrounding the forty-two thousand square foot, fifty-three room1 mansion, a man walking his hunting hounds sees us in the garden. He finishes his candy bar and tosses the wrapper aside, then does the unthinkable. He unleashes his dogs, points in our direction, and loudly commands, “Sic’em!” The dogs burst toward us barking lustily, muscles rippling under their sleek coats. Katlumbus hears the dogs first. He alerts me and we take off like racehorses leaping from a starting gate. We sprint from the garden toward the nearest large tree, reaching speeds of nearly thirty miles per hour.2 The hostile hounds are snapping at our tails as we scramble up an old oak growing along side the elegant 1914 Tudor style rose-brick structure. Kristofur, my trembling introverted companion, is huddling close to me. He isn’t much of a tree climber and it’s somewhat of a miracle that he successfully mounted this tree and escaped the dogs. I am much relieved that he is safely beside me in the fork of the tree’s branches. Although out of immediate danger, he is terrified to be so elevated from the ground. Yet I’m certain that he’s secretly proud of his achievement and extremely relieved to have foiled our attackers. We look down with condescending glares upon the two crazed canines barking, leaping, and hysterically thrashing about at the trunk of the tree. We arch our backs and electrify our fur to appear large and fierce. Porcupines discourage predators this way with much success. Kristofur emits low menacing growls with flattened ears while I draw back my lips to display my spiky teeth and broadcast snakelike hisses. At last, the mindless sharp-fanged beasts become bored with defeat and respond to their master’s repeated calls. They return to the dog walker in bounding leaps, wagging their tails deliriously, panting and slobbering with limp flopping tongues. As he attaches their leashes, he praises them saying, “Good dogs, you almost caught those good-for-nothing cats. Gooood work!” Kristofur and I are quite content to rest in the arms of the sturdy old oak while our breathing returns to normal, but the weather is degenerating rapidly and the evening’s dampness is turning into drizzle. We need to find refuge quickly because soaked kats, like soggy sandwiches, are truly despicable. Our best option is to follow the branch stretching upward toward an open fourth-floor window. So we begin to climb, digging our finely honed claws deeply into the oak’s cold, damp bark as heavy clouds enclose the estate in an eerie mist. Behind me, I hear Katlumbus grumbling to himself about his discomfort. “Jeeez! I thought my life was over. Those dogs almost ate me. I’ve never had an interest in climbing trees. I can’t believe I’m in this bloody oak. My Abyssinian ancestors didn’t live in jungles or forests. We developed great big paws for racing across sand dunes.” Kris is hanging on for dear life, moving one paw at a time to drag his belly up the incline. His protests intensify. “Must we climb still higher? The farther we go, the thinner this branch becomes. Oh ... what if I fall? This enterprise is much too risky for a desert kat. It’s totally against my nature. Sneezing fleas! Am I really in this predicament?” ! ! ! ! ! Little did we comprehend that night just how much our simple lives would change due to our nocturnal visit to Kohl Mansion, Burlingame’s mysterious landmark.