This speech won second place at the Area Conference Humorous Speech Competition. October,2000
Time: 5 to 7 minutes

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Every Cat in the Twilight’s Gray

I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for - when I took that cat to the vet!

When the stray cat first came to my door, I said to my Uncle Jack. “I’ll feed him so he will trust me, then I’ll take him to the vet and get him fixed.”

Uncle Jack looked at me. “Remind me never to have dinner at your place,” he said.

But the cat continued to eat at my place until at last he would let me pick him up and pat him.

“What is your name?” I asked as I rubbed his ears.

The cat looked up at me and purred “Mo,” he said.

Mo. He’d told me his name was Mo! This was a wonderful, magical talking cat! My other cats Huckle and Butterscotch-Brickle had never attempted to say their names.

Uncle Jack was not impressed. “Every cat in the twilight’s gray,” he grunted. It was one of his favourite sayings. I think it meant that basically we are all really the same. And every cat looks gray in the twilight.

“You’d better see about getting him fixed.” My Uncle said.

Uncle Jack helped me put Mo in the carry cage. It wasn’t easy. He turned into a mad thing, screaming, scratching and biting. - (The cat, that is)

But we had no trouble driving through heavy traffic. Mo wailed, “WooOOooo,WooOOooo.” And all the cars pulled over to let us through.

“What do you call him?” asked the vet.

“Uncle Jack,” I answered. “Oh - you mean the cat? His name’s Mo - never mind what I call him.” I opened the carry-cage.

Mo shot out -with claws spread like fishhooks.

The vet grabbed and missed as Mo dashed under the table. I dived after him. So did the vet. We bumped heads and fell to the floor. Mo raced around the room, then climbed up the curtains and clung there howling. A haze of gray cat hairs hung in the room. The vet managed to pull him down. He was spitting and snarling. (The cat, that is.)

The vet placed him on the examining table, and he promptly wet all over the table. - (The cat, that is.)

And then…somebody opened the door.

Uncle Jack yelled as the cat hurtled between his legs and rushed through the door. Dogs barked in the waiting room as the cat tore past them into the night.

I raced after him. Past the dogs. Across the paddock. Over the fence. Where was he? I’d never find him in the dark. I called him. “Mo, Mo!” Cars roared past. What if he was run over?

And then… a slight sound came from the porch of a house nearby. I rushed up the stairs. There he was, crouched in the corner.

I lunged. “Gotcha!”

“Yeeoooow!” went the cat.

The door swung open…and out rushed this…this enormous woman - in a sheer pink nightie. She looked like a bunch of pink balloons.

“Hey,” she yelled. “What are you doing with that cat?”

I clutched the cat tightly and raced back over the fence, across the paddock. Car horns tooted. The woman was close on my heels, yelling and screaming. She had almost caught me up as I rushed back into the vet’s waiting room. There was Uncle Jack… with Mo in his arms! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Uncle Jack couldn’t believe his eyes as the woman in her flimsy nightie bounced in through the door.

“That’s my cat!” she shrieked. She snatched the cat from my arms and glared at me. “It doesn’t even look like your ugly cat.”

I was lost for words. I looked desperately at Uncle Jack and found inspiration.

“Well,” I shrugged. “Every cat in the twilight’s gray.”

We drove home in grim silence. I was covered in scratches. So was Uncle Jack.

And the worst of it is, he still hasn’t had his operation. - (The cat, that is.)