I’m from Springfield (yes, that Springfield), and I’m here to tell you a cat story that has nothing to do with Trump’s lies.

By now you’ve probably heard more than you care to about Springfield, Ohio. Because of the nonsense of Messrs. Trump and Vance, our city is getting 15 minutes of fame it didn’t ask for and doesn’t deserve. Their silly, sleazy tales invalidate much of what makes Springfield special while cheapening the people who live there, making them trivialize small-town punchlines.

I’m from Springfield—third generation. I grew up in Springfield. I played basketball in Springfield with my future son-in-law. I went to Springfield North High School (Go, Panthers!) where I calmly ran cross country and sat in class with kids whose parents were doctors, lawyers, farmers, and line workers. I knew one child who raised pigs and another whose father fenced stolen goods. I watched Robocop in the basement of the current mayor. Or maybe it was A hunter.

I live in Los Angeles now, where I write children’s books. My first novel, The Decline of Hopea love letter to Springfield and its people. Like most love letters, it comes with its share of heartbreak. I won’t pretend that Springfield doesn’t have its problems or struggles. But it’s certainly not the funny, George Miller hellscape that some idiots would have you believe.

Springfield is a Harvester town and a college town. John Mellencamp’s hit song and Bruce Springsteen’s cool song. And sometimes an episode of The Twilight Zone (Rod Serling, in fact, went to college down the road, in Yellow Springs). The city where you go, you can meet someone you know. Results may vary from that.

A city that has seen better days and, perhaps, will see them again. Because it is an endless city.

It is a city of stories.

The last one is my favorite. Because people from Springfield, they can tell the story. They just can. Maybe there’s something in the water. Maybe it’s because there’s nothing else to do (getting a cow out is not fun at once). Whatever the reason, I honestly believe that a boring person from Springfield can tell a story better than most Hollywood paid people.

Ironically, what bothers me the most about all this cat-eating gossip is the way it disrespects the great conversational culture of our area. Because it’s not even a story. At best, the story promises.

They eat cats! 

Continue. . .

But it is. They don’t tell the story; they don’t even try. Because stories connect people. And they never want that to happen.

Therefore, in order to protect the honor of our city, I will fulfill this broken promise. I’m going to tell you an honest to God story about a cat eater in Springfield, Ohio.

I had a history teacher whom I will call Mr. Ambrose. Imagine if someone left Tommy Lee Jones in the sun for 20 years and took over his camp—now you have a good mental picture of Mr. Ambrose. Most days, he would stand behind a large metal platform as he read a stack of note cards that he held in hands that were thick and tough from driving railroad spikes in his youth.

However, today he had something in mind.

“Who here has ever eaten a rabbit?” he asked the class in a voice more gravelly than a Tom Waits album.

Children who live or have relatives in the country shook their heads and nodded. The others shook their heads but did not find the question contemptuous. Some of us trade in confusion Wait, is that legal?

“There are better foods than rabbits,” continued Mr. Ambrose. Then he added, ominously, “as long as it lasts yours a rabbit.”

Our teacher went on to tell us how one of his neighbors used to steal rabbits that he caught, butchered, and hung on the back porch. Mr. Ambrose had an idea that the neighbor was stealing rabbits, but he couldn’t prove it. The neighbor, it seems, enjoyed that almost as much as free bacon.

This made Mr. Ambrose.

That is, until one day Mr. Ambrose found a dead cat in one of his rabbit traps. Now to him, this was the universal moral compass that brought things back north. So, he brought the dead cat home, dissected it, and hung it on the back porch to strangle his neighbor.

Some days later, the neighbor, thinking that he would pull another one from Mr. Ambrose, openly boasted that his wife had just made him the best rabbit stew he had ever tasted.

He then asked if anyone had seen his wife’s cat anywhere.

Mr. Ambrose stopped there, and like an agricultural Aesop, repeated the moral of his story.

“Rabbit is good to eat. Until then yours a rabbit.”

To this day, when I go back to Springfield and meet someone from Mr. Ambrose, there are many chances that if I say, “Good food” than a rabbit. . .” they will reply, “as long as it is.” yours a rabbit.”

Because that’s what any good story does, it connects people.

That Springfield, Ohio. And I want my rabbit back.