This morning as I poured my second cup of coffee, I became aware of a presence in the kitchen that felt neither human nor animal. I turned on my heel and saw only a flash of plaid flannel disappear down the hall. The catt sat staring at the microwave.
“Hey!” I shouted, “Who are you?”
No answer came. I heard only a faint scuffling, the intruder by now at the other end of the house. I surprised the catt by stomping my feet and he complied by running at a great clip to the bedroom. I pretended to chase him, but waited in the kitchen and sure enough, my intruder came running back to me, frightened by the appearance of the catt.
He stood before me, taller than I, with a chocolate-coloured knit toque obscuring his face and a plaid flannel robe sheathing his body. He was panting slightly. I held a butter knife, slick with peanut butter, against his throat. He waved his hands around frantically.
“No, no,” he pleaded, “I fight for good; I am the toqued crusader!”
“I have never heard of such a hero,” I sneered, “Prove your worth or prepare to die!”
He wheeled to face the window and its North view. He indicated the mountains, covered with fresh snow.
“So?” I said, “Snow. So what?”
“I made it so,” he said, “I have appeased the snow gods on behalf of our city and have returned winter to the lower mainland! I have conquered the Evil Rain Lords!”
“I don’t ski,” I said, “What have you done for me lately?”
He pulled from his pocket a photograph of my winter boots.
“Where did you get that?”
“No matter,” he said, “Isn’t it true that without winter, you can not wear these boots?”
“No,” I argued, but he was right: my favourite part of winter is boots. Last week I pulled my beautiful boots from the cupboard and un-nestled them from their tissue. They still fit perfectly and are so lovely. But he went on.
“And without me, the Toqued Crusader, there would be no winter. I dress to kick the ass of Fearless Fall every year. I battle the Evil Rain Lords with my Waterproof Jacket of Doom. I strangle the Warriors of Warmth with my Wool Scarf of Horror. The Master of Melting is no competition for my Ice Cold Heart Blaster. And of course, my identity is obscured and protected by my Toque of Terror.”
“And?” I asked, “You are in my kitchen because…”
He sighed a little and knelt before me.
“Because I am lonely,” he began, “and tired. Fighting the forces of evil is exhausting , especially when you are a seasonal superhero. There’s all the downtime and I’m always in rough shape when September rolls around. I need a partner, a sidekick, someone to shape, support and inspire me. Someone to sing “Eye of the Tiger” when I get low. Someone to see the man behind the toque.”
“Do I get benefits?”
“Full medical, dental and extended health. Plus life insurance. Not that you’ll need it.”
I agreed and left my house immediately to became Douser of Fires, Cooler of Ponds, Typer of Memos: The Scarfed Destroyer.
We took the catt, too. But he doesn’t like to wear his cape so he has to stay in the car.