Bad (with a capital B) Kitten: A neighborhood guardian legend

They call him BBK. All the scene needed was a bunch of guys snapping their fingers in "West Side Story" style as our hero swaggered down the walkway. His green eyes narrowed, and he froze behind the rose arbor. A woman stood on the sidewalk, talking to his person, with a leashed dog at her side. The dog was a rescued American Staffordshire terrier, which some call a pit bull. But its owner, who has had it since it was a puppy, calls it Snuggles. It started wagging its tail as soon as it noticed the ferocious guardian at the arbor.

Our hero blinked in shock when the two people continued their chat. How could his person ignore basic security precautions like that? Somebody could get chased here. BBK scoped out the potential crime area. When he realized the suspect was securely leashed, he plopped his backside down and resumed the stakeout. He smirked when the dog's person recognized him, Benjamin BadKitten, as the neighborhood celebrity. She even commented on his courage. He glared at his person's slanderous description of him as a wuss, who typically raced inside whenever a dog walked by.

After more vigilant recon, our hero sensed the threat had lessened. He rolled onto his side, casual in his confidence; he might even have yawned. The dog must have realized it was no match for the hardened street cat. The pit bull, obviously terrified, tugged on its leash and looked up anxiously at its person. (Further investigation revealed it had to pee.)

The cat watched with quiet satisfaction as his nemesis, who'd now been suitably schooled in the reality of the 'hood, walked away. BBK leaned against his person's knee and purred. I need a motorcycle jacket, he told her. And a pair of bad-cat shades.

A few days later, the BadKitten found himself deep into another situation, this time in his own backyard. A new cat had recently moved in next door. She was gray and white, and BBK's traitorous person had even described her as "sweet-faced." That was enough to make our hero feel like coughing up a fur ball. But rumor was, the rookie had game. She'd recently been seen running across the street with a mouse in a her mouth. (Of course, BBK himself could match her, mouse for mouse. In the middle of a recent night, his person had entered the bathroom and found a surprise gift: a dead mouse, with its eyes still open, lying on the bath mat. His person's screech was awesome.)

Now the gray and white cat crawled under the fence, straight into BBK's territory, and made herself at home in the middle of the yard. The BadKitten could see a power play going down. As stealthily as a 20-pound black and brown mound of fur can move, he pussyfooted along the yard's perimeter. Then he crouched, flat against the air conditioner. The newcomer had set herself up for a take-down. No cover; nothing but grass all around her. It turned out, though, that she had more moxie than BBK expected. When she saw him, she didn't run. She held steady and kept her gaze straight on him. She even seemed to be smiling.

The stare-down continued, filled with eye strain and steely nerves, until the gray kitty caved. She stood up - did she wink at him? - sashayed across the yard and ducked back under the fence. BBK couldn't find fault with her priorities. Who would risk being late for dinner?

When the near-rumble was over, the BadKitten flicked his tail and congratulated himself. For the second time that week, he'd defended his turf, without having to flex a claw. Maybe next week, he'd have to take down the two big poodles from up the block. If so, he'd be ready.

The basic events in this column actually happened. Benjamin BadKitten's interpretations of the events, however, include dramatic enhancement. Sydney Craft Rozen, the tough guy's ghostwriter, can be reached at scraftroze@aol.com.