Relay: Putter and Summer, Brother and Sister

It is a foregone conclusion that East Hampton went to the dogs long ago. Now it is the cats! East Hampton began its meandering path to going to the cats mostly in the modern historical sense of time.

Our family cats began, when I was a little boy, with Black Nose. He was a family pet, yet the only significant memory I have of this cat was wrapping him in a blanket and putting him in the bathroom sink to rest. The cat was not well. Black Nose spent his last days resting in the bathroom sink comfy and dry, wrapped in his small blanket.

The next in line was a black Persian cat born at a neighbor’s house across the street. In the days when East Hampton’s empty fields grew tall with wheat and lawns were left semitended, cats crossed roads and cars stopped, especially if it was a black cat.

Needless to say, the cat picked our home, refusing to be taken back across the street to its birthplace. The neighbor gave up after multiple cat returns. The cat grew stately, with many reigning achievements of local lore at his new home. Once, the cat jumped out of the family car in Bridgehampton and spent a week roaming free until a family friend found it near where it had taken flight.

Not many local cats have caught and released a large live bat into their home. How my dad laughed as my older brother chased this evil-looking bat around the kitchen with a broom. Eventually, the bat exited the back door very much alive, mouth a-snapping, wings a-flap. For morning dramatics circa 1973, my dad would recite Shakespeare in small sonnets to the cat over coffee at 7 a.m. And who could forget the huge bloody jackrabbit the cat brought in alive to run around the ground floor?

Next in the lineage, but not least in any sense, was Marlin the cat. Marlin was born on a smallish, crumpled derelict sailboat that sat aground not far from what is known now as the East Hampton Point restaurant. Marlin, who was named after the Marlin fishing vessels docked at the Montauk docks, without question lived a charmed life.

Marlin’s charm could lead to the demise of any animal smaller than he by way of his terrifying claws. Known as the U.S. Marines of local cats, Marlin assaulted birds, rabbits, mice — oh, those poor mice. That cat was a terror! Having climbed the evergreen tree to eye level out the back kitchen window, Marlin put on a brazen show. As my little sister, Tara, looked on and cried in disbelief, Marlin’s evil little face peered in as he swatted a tiny baby birdie out of its nest. It was awful: My little sister screamed. What a terrible cat!

Dogs were scared of that cat. Those mice, those poor mice, how Marlin would catch them, run around with them in his mouth, toss them up in the air over and over again. The devil himself, that cat was.

On to the present: Putter and Summer, born from underneath a local house, cats as feral as the winter night is long — young, obstinate, and hardly sociable. Putter was uncoordinated, scattered, not predictable. Putter bashed and broke drinking glasses in his mad scramble to avoid nothing. Tripping over his paws, falling from the highest location that a beam could provide, crashing into whatever made itself available.

Any sign of housecleaning drove Putter deep into whatever closet depths, darkest drawer, or smallest space that Houdini himself couldn’t fit into. Putter, an indoor cat, nigh never braved the outdoors. Once having slipped out, Putter’s moans, like shrieks, were a fright. A window and door were left open. Putter came flying through a ground-floor window like something shot from a small cannon. The cat hid for days. The outside world of East Hampton was not worth the venture for Putter the cat.

Putter’s sister Summer: a small, shy female cat, introspective, not friendly. Summer was never much for being handled, had little sense of humor, and did not care much for anyone’s company except my son’s. Summer, when young, didn’t have much of a personality. She was a boring cat.

What happened to Putter and Summer? Today they bound around like circus cats doing all kinds of the silliest things, including cat tricks for children. What possible explanation is there for this butterfly-like transition into super cats?

Summer’s feline personality is developing. It never occurred to anyone that Summer would ride around on people’s shoulders, perched bright, claws drawn in. She drinks milk from a little glass, eats striped bass like a pro, fluke and sardine too. These days Summer goes outside, a few feet away from the house. Her coat is super clean, eyes brightly steady, temperament stealthy. An attractive cat who likes to sleep in the corners.

Putter has clearly outdone himself. Maybe falling and crashing for years teaches a cat a certain mentality of the nine lives. After all, maybe cats are meant to be upside down and airborne for part of their lives. Putter’s coat looks lion-like, shading to other nuances gaining depth — extraordinarily clean, that cat. Rather a comedian of cats, as if he is saying, No one is funnier than I.

From being an unfriendly, mean, uncoordinated cat to allowing my brother’s young son to carry him around in a bear hug for short periods of time, a fine cat if ever there was one. How did it happen? Any rational person might have envisioned doom for that Putter cat upon seeing him years ago.

It has also been discovered recently that both Putter and Summer like the Rolling Stones. Your guess is as good as anyone’s.

Morgan McGivern is The Star’s staff photographer.