I was living a Young Frankenstein existence, experimenting with a new life form after my first divorce. My Igor, however, was feline.
Marty was rescued by my son Dylan from a litter born outdoors on my first husband's property — the new wife wouldn't let cats in the house.
Marty Feldman had recently died, so when Dylan said the kitten's pop eyes reminded him of Feldman's, we agreed that naming the kitten after our favorite comedian would be a fitting tribute.
When my son left home, Marty stayed with me. My apartment at the time was in downtown Cincinnati and I became a regular at Joe's Bar on the next street, where I made friends with Mike, a jazz promoter. I traveled for my work, and Mike didn't have a car, so we struck a deal: if he drove me to and from the airport and took care of the cat, he could use my Honda Prelude while I was out of town.
When anyone asked where he got the Prelude, Mike would say, with no further explanation, "Oh, Mary lets me use her car in exchange for feeding Marty Feldman."
Marty Feldman had recently died, so when Dylan said the kitten's pop eyes reminded him of Feldman's, we agreed that naming the kitten after our favorite comedian would be a fitting tribute.
When my son left home, Marty stayed with me. My apartment at the time was in downtown Cincinnati and I became a regular at Joe's Bar on the next street, where I made friends with Mike, a jazz promoter. I traveled for my work, and Mike didn't have a car, so we struck a deal: if he drove me to and from the airport and took care of the cat, he could use my Honda Prelude while I was out of town.
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