Eventually he gave in, and we were allowed to keep him. Because of the one eye, Jackie named him Cyclops and, thus, Clops.

I always figured that a heavyweight alley cat must have been the one to gouge out Clops’s right eye because, despite it, he managed to ambush just about every cat in the neighborhood. Got so bad that I hung a big bell from his collar to tip the cats off, but it didn’t do shit. Clops continued to limp home at least once or twice a month with bloody fur around his mouth. Then came the fateful day when he snatched the Hanleys’ Siamese cat out of the loving hands of the little six-year-old. He was finished. A mob of hysterical neighbors came running over to the house, and Mr. Hanley shoved a bloodied clump of cat into my and Jackie’s faces as if we’d killed the poor thing.

That night when the old man returned home from a Local 57 softball game, Mr. Hanley gave him a call and described what had happened. The old man’s only words to the man were, “Don’t worry. He’s dead.” With that he hung up the phone, glared at Jackie and me, and said, “Where’s that bald-headed bag of dead cats?”

Neither of us answered.

“Well? Where is the little worm?”

“Outside,” Jackie said.

The old man went to the front door and whistled. Clops ran up but, upon entering the old man’s shadow, slammed on his leathery brakes and stopped. He turned his head to the side and looked at us. The old man reached for him but Clops jumped back and retreated to the sidewalk. My brother was ordered to call him.

“No,” he said, “you’re gonna hurt him.”

The old man grabbed Jackie by his shirt and picked him up on his tippy-toes. “You call that goddamn mutt or I’m gonna hurt you. You know I could get sued for this?”

Jackie started crying. “Come here, Clops,” he muttered.

The dog climbed back up the steps and stopped. I stood behind the old man and waved my hands over my head to warn Clops that it was a setup.

“Call him again,” the old man said.

“Here, Clops,” said Jackie.

With his tail limp, Clops started into the house. The old man slammed the door on the dog’s neck and fell against it in a rage. Clops’s eye bulged out of its socket. For thirty seconds the old man’s face bubbled with blood as he grunted and pressed his 250 pounds against the door. Jackie ran out of the room, crying. I stayed. First noise I heard sounded like the sharp crack of pool balls on a good break. Several lesser snaps followed.

Finally the old man released his hold and Clops slumped to our welcome mat.