The Dive Bomber: Meeting the Demon at the Cat's Meow

Considering my history of bars with cats -- sitting on the bar with me, being called one, lewd drinks referencing them and the beckoning feline presence in parking lots -- I have no idea why I waited so long to visit the Cat's Meow. I guess it seemed too obvious.

Robin Wheeler

​You know what more bars need? Inspiring kitty posters that people can read while doing shots of maraschino cherries soaked in vodka and Everclear. The Cat's Meow calls that a Cat Nip, probably because it induces the urge to roll on the floor and bite the feet of passers-by.

The felines at the Cat's Meow are a friendly pack. My friend Megan and I were treated to root beer barrels by a fellow named Demon, accent on the second syllable. Demon's friends had teased him for wearing a t-shirt, gym shorts, a newsboy's cap and work boots to the bar, but he'd had a bad day. I'm not sure why he insisted on buying the round for us.

Perhaps it was an effort to improve his day with some random kindness. Or he just really liked Megan's rack.