Comedy, like cats and movements, is territorial.

This comes to mind upon hearing the announcement that CBS has cancelled not just Stephen Colbert, but the Late Show itself.

Here in Fullerton, at the close of jacaranda season, petals have fallen, sunlight slides across the sidewalk—and like clockwork, the cats come and go… until they don’t.

Letterman once said Late Night was a season, not a job. You show up, rake the leaves, and hope someone laughs before the frost sets in. You notice it one morning: the absence. A porch that once had eyes—green, reflective, indifferent—is now just a porch. Empty plastic bowl tipped over. No signs of struggle. No fur. No blood. Just nothing. Just time doing what it does.

They’re gone, the old kings. The ones who kept order with a hiss and a sideways glance. The ones who carved out invisible borders with urine, arrogance, and the kind of earned violence no kitten could fake. Maybe they were cancelled. Maybe hit by a car. Maybe taken in by someone new (Dave—Netflix is on line 1). Maybe they simply crawled under a desk and didn’t come back.

Gone.

When something leaves, dies, relocates, or just fades, something else follows: a vacuum. And nature—like politics—abhors a vacuum. So here comes the new. The young ones. The influencers. Unmarked ears. NIL. Paws too clean. They strut where others slunk. They howl at 3 a.m. like revolutionaries who’ve never seen a real winter. The alley behind the red stucco triplex becomes Havana, 1959.

The ginger with the torn ear who used to own that entire block? Not a sight—though some say he started a podcast.

Cats don’t leave notes. Neither do the dead. But their absence can turn the neighborhood feral. Or worse—the coyotes move in. They change the air. They’re not neighbors. Not even visitors. When they come, the cats don’t scatter. They vanish. No slow fade.

You wake up one day, and the porch is quiet. And it occurs to you: no one made a joke about last night’s disaster. The town crier, who used to meow at 11:35 nightly—half complaint, half benediction—doesn’t make a sound. The bowl stays full. The porch light stays on. But the rules have changed. You learn not to call out. You learn, in the most American way possible, that some arrivals are really endings. Not because there wasn’t one. But because there was no one left to say it.

So, for the cause, still believe. And I will leave the bowl out anyway, even if it’s just for some young cat with a Twitch affiliate code and no real scars.

And to Stephen — Dave also said: “Every exit is an entrance somewhere else, but it’s hell in the hallway. Stay strong.”

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