The sensation was familiar, but its duration was new. I hit the ground hard and bounced once. The soft, wet soil I landed on was very different than the hard marble floor of the apartment I lived in. My child threw me as hard as he could over the second-floor balcony railing and watched me all the way to the ground before he disappeared back into the apartment. Now on the ground, the backyard was quiet. Birds were chirping from the tall cypress that stood on the property line. The sound of a passing car came from the street, then silence. It was a typical quiet afternoon in the neighborhood.
I lay on my side, waiting for my child to come and return me to the apartment, but he did not, at least not right away. After some time had passed, I began to wonder if he could be engaged in another activity, perhaps playing with other toys or eating supper? The sun hid behind the next building, making it hard to tell whether it was dinner time. More time had passed, and the sky changed from blue to orange. I began to worry whether my child had forgotten about me altogether. Would one of his parents come pick me up instead, as they had before for other toys that met the same fate? Counting on them was risky; They never took count of the toys in his room, and since there were quite a few of us – he was an only child and the first grandson on both sides of the family – it could take a long time, perhaps even a miracle, for my absence to be realized! Calm down, I thought, there’s no reason to panic. At least not yet. I must think clearly to get myself out of this situation.
I ran a quick check of myself. A new ding decorated my bottom left, right where I hit the ground moments ago. It added to the other signs of damage I sustained from past falls during rough play. My battery compartment door opened when I hit the ground, and the two D cells rested in the rough grass nearby. Without them, I could not tell if my little DC motor or the mechanism’s gears were functioning.
The afternoon shadows stretched higher on the building side, and evening began to set. The only visitor I had the entire time was a gray stray cat who stopped briefly to sniff me before continuing his prowl. Soon after, the streetlights turned on. I could be spending the night in the backyard, but that was not necessarily a frightening thought. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen to me down here?
Movement! On the other side of the building, the top balcony! Another child, somewhat older than mine, appeared over the railing. Did he notice me? He sure did! I could tell. He looked down at the backyard, and once he spotted me, he stopped and concentrated for a few seconds. My white metallic body stood in contrast to the dark ground, but I was not sure how clearly I appeared in the dim light. The boy soon disappeared back into the apartment and, in a short minute, reappeared from the front entrance. He stood over me, picked me up, and examined me from top to bottom. Then, with me in hand, he walked around the area, looking for parts that may have fallen off me. He looked up at my child’s balcony, perhaps estimating the trajectory I followed down, perhaps looking for witnesses, then resumed his search. His facial expression was that of dismay. Damn right! Who would throw down a perfectly working space rocket like me?! I wondered if he, too, had been familiar with my child’s abusive treatment of his toys. Another minute, and he walked back up the stairs with me and my two D-cells in hand.
I was excited and relieved. Soon, he would knock on the door of my child’s apartment and present me to his parents. I will be taken in with thanks and appreciation, get cleaned up, and returned to the toy box. The parents would likely not scold my child for his actions. I saw them do that only once during my time with the family, when my child destroyed a brand-new fire truck during a tantrum. In any event, the two sets of grandparents seemed to compete over showering my child with new gifts, so new toys regularly replaced others that broke. One more flight of stairs, and I will be home again.
But when we reached the second-floor landing, the boy continued walking up the stairs. He moved fast, and I thought he missed his stop, but then quickly realized he had a different plan in mind.
We reached the top floor. The boy opened the door and walked in. This apartment had the mirror floor plan to the one I lived in, but with one big difference – it was a bigger family! I counted three other kids as he took me to his room and placed me on the desk. He inserted the batteries into my compartment and tried to close the cover, but despite several attempts, it still would not close. My body, mangled by the fall, prevented that from happening, and the boy seemed to notice that. He held the batteries in place with one hand and tried to start me. I could feel my gears were jammed, but I had no way of sharing that fact with him. He proceeded to give me a thorough examination under the desk light, looking for a way to repair me.
My mind raced. What were this boy’s intentions? Why did he not simply return me to the child’s family? Why did he bother with trying to fix me? He left for a moment and returned with some tools: a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. An operation?? Just before he could use any of these tools, his mother called everyone to dinner. He rested me on the desk and left for the kitchen table.
I did not know how much time I had left. My child would be sitting for dinner about now as well, playing with his food while his parents talked. The mother liked to light a cigarette after she finished her meal, and my child would follow the smoke rising to the ceiling as if hypnotized by it. I heard voices from the dinner table. Soon they will finish eating, and the boy will be back here to open me up. I had no time to lose! The batteries were still in my compartment. I checked my DC motor. It worked, but my gears would not move. I tried again. Nothing. I’m a cripple, I thought. Before I could sink into hysteria, the boy returned to his desk.
He tried to start me up, but his results were the same as mine. He played with me for a few minutes but seemed bored with that. Without my gears working, I was just a plastic Saturn rocket. I could tell he was bored with this game. Several airplane display models stood on the shelf over his bed. There were fighter planes and an Apollo moon landing model. Perhaps he would place me next to them? Being a static display wasn’t what I had in mind for myself, but if he wasn’t going to return me to my child, it didn’t seem like a bad option. Oh, my naiveté!
The boy removed my batteries and, using the screwdriver, carefully disassembled me! He appeared skilled and patient, finding the correct order to remove part after part, until I lay on the desk in pieces. He picked up the gear assembly and attempted to move it. Just as I sensed earlier, it was stuck beyond repair. He used his tools to try to unjam it, but after several attempts, he gave up. The boy put his head between his hands and looked at the array of parts scattered across the desk. Another minute, and he carefully removed the small motor from the gear assembly, careful to preserve the switch and tiny electrical wires. Using a pair of scissors, he fashioned a propeller from a piece of cardboard and attached it to the motor. He switched it on, and his eyes brightened when the tiny fan he made blew air in his face. The rest of me was shoved to the side of the desk.
It was time for bed. My child would be going to bed soon, too, I thought. Is he missing me right now? Did one of his parents notice my absence after all? Were they looking for me everywhere? Probably not, I realized, but there was a silver lining to my ordeal. It turned out that I was more valuable to this boy as parts than as a shiny toy to a spoiled child. The boy’s joyous face more than made up for my gloom as the lights were turned off for the night. At the end, I made this kid happy, and that’s all that matters to a toy.
He peeked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes that felt like a hundred or longer. The server gave him a look when he walked to the table behind him, a look that combined wonder and pity with a sprinkle of disdain. He raised his near-empty water glass and slowly sipped from it as he clandestinely scanned the area. No new guests stood at the door or in the waiting area. He placed the empty glass on the table, hoping the server, who was busy with the party behind him, would notice it but not him, sitting there like a putz, taking up the table, taking up space, wasting time, alone, by himself, waiting. He managed to overcome the urge to look at his watch, but knew she was late. Very late. The waiter repeated the table order to the guests and would pass by him again momentarily. He concentrated on a new dilemma: Should he call her or not? What would that look like? Desperate, impolite, rude, childish, obnoxious, impatient? Better not call. Okay, he won’t. Still, where is she? Did she forget about the whole thing? Would she be surprised to see his number on her screen and be embarrassed to answer? What if she is on her way over, stuck in traffic, parking her car, getting off her Uber ride, about to walk through the door? That would be embarrassing. Will it seem too soon? He decided not to call, so what’s up with that? But if she was late for any of those reasons or any other he hasn’t thought about, why hasn’t she called? He would, of course he would. But she is not him. He barely knows her. Is she delayed by something, a traffic jam, an accident? Did something happen to her? Now you think like your mom, he thought. No calling. Definitely not calling.
הפעם הראשונה שאני זוכר את עצמי יורד אליו הייתה במהלך מלחמת ששת הימים. ילד קטן, בן חמש, אוחז במעקה וממהר מטה במורד מדרגות הבניין מספר צעדים לפני אמי הנושאת את אחי התינוק. הסירנה מייללת רמות מאי שם, מהדהדת בחלל חדר המדרגות ומלווה אותנו אל המקלט הקטן והטחוב הממוקם מתחת לבניין. עמדתי בחלל הצפוף, בוחן בעניין את פניהם המודאגות של השכנים ומנסה להבין את הדרמה המתחוללת סביבי. בימים הבאים הוצמדו מספר מיטות מתקפלות לקירות המקלט ועליהן ישנו בלילות עד לתום המלחמה הקצרה. הזיכרונות העמומים שהותיר בי המקלט מאותם ימים הם הצפיפות באור העמום והרגשת הזרות בין מבוגרים שלא הכרתי. נוספו אליהם גם ריח העובש באוויר העומד והאבק שכיסה את הרצפה, המדרגות, וכל משטח אחר. אני זוכר את עצמי תולה עיניים בפתח החילוץ הגבוה שבקיר הדרומי ותוהה כיצד אוכל לטפס אליו במקרה חרום בהעדר סולם או כל מתקן אחר. המלחמה הסתיימה בלא שנדרשתי לחלץ את עצמי דרך אותו פתח חרום. המיטות קופלו ואוכסנו מחדש ואני המתנתי בקוצר רוח להתחיל ללכת לגן חובה. זיכרונות תלושים שאני נושא מאז, כמו היו תמונות דהויות באלבום ישן שלא צולם מעולם.
To receive the proper attention it deserves, this collection of short and funny cat stories can be found on its own page via 
Someone shook my shoulder to wake me up. The chill sent me shivering as I awakened from an uncomfortable slumber. The ground I laid on instantly reminded me of where I was. I held my hand up and looked at my Seiko. The hands glowed dimly. 2 a.m. Time to get up.
