Who Let the Cat Out? (woof, woof, woof-woof!)
I never know what the heck my cat is thinking, except when she’s thinking about food. But that’s only about 22 hours of every day.
A couple of days before Halloween, her stomach was apparently full enough that she thought a road trip would be great fun, because she lit out – completely unauthorized and without permission – into the great outdoors. She must’ve darted out of the house while we brought our pumpkins inside to be carved. Maybe the sight of No. 3, 4 and 5 sons wielding wicked sharp knives was just too petrifying.
I’m sure as she trotted out the door, she fancied herself a macha, top-o’-the-food-chain critter, even though the only thing she ever kills is my appetite, when she jumps on the kitchen counter to paw and lick my turkey sandwiches. I also lose my desire for lunch when she woofs up hers; she’s a serial puker, thanks to her addiction to gnawing crunchy, indigestible items, especially giftwrap bows and ribbons.
Maybe she scooted out the door because she expected the turkey-sandwich hunting to be just as easy as indoors. She couldn’t know any better, I guess, because she is not the outdoorsy type. Meaning, she NEVER goes outside. EVER. Even if her cell phone is fully charged.
We like keeping her strictly a housecat. We don’t want her gallivanting about town with her girlfriends, getting into rumbles and coming home all gashed and scraped. (A cat I previously lived with did that all the time. I called him Mr. Bill, because every morning he’d straggle home with a tattered ear or bloody lip [do cats have lips?], probably inflicted by the tomcat down the street, Mr. Sluggo.)
When we realized she was gone, we first assumed she was snoozing in a closet, a favorite habit of hers. When the closets turned up empty, we checked less likely nooks and crannies, even those that she’s waaaay to fat to squeeze into.
Reflexively, as we looked for her, we hollered her name, even though she hardly ever heeds it. I’m convinced that (a) she doesn’t know her name. After all, she’s only had it for 8 years now, and it’s pretty complicated : “Zoe” (two syllables, long “e”). Or (b) she darn well knows her name but isn’t about to by-gosh humiliate herself by running toward us every time she hears it. That would be so, (shudder), dog-like.
Basically she only responds to the sound of food rattling in her dish. In fact, the kids searched for her with her bowl in hand, shaking it like a maraca.
My wife began fearing the cat had keeled over, kaput, in some won’t-find-her-until-she-starts-to-smell space. I didn’t give up her ghost so fast, and organized a comprehensive outdoor search mission. My duty was to tour the neighborhood every hour hollering “KITTY, KITTY, KITTY” in that high-pitched voice she likes. (Although I learned the neighbors don’t.) The kids volunteered for the job of staying home and watching for a “Zoe Missing!” report on the Disney Channel.
The night before Halloween, with her AWOL for 24 hours, I delivered to neighborhood mailboxes a fact sheet bearing her picture and our contact information, many watermarked with the kids’ tears.
But by Halloween afternoon, nobody had contacted us, and even I started wondering if we’d ever see her again. Then a new and insanely optimistic thought struck me: Even though she has absolutely no animal instincts, is herniatingly overweight and out-of-shape, and is unlikely to capture any food other than a wild turkey sandwich, maybe, just maybe, she’d be found in some far distant place, sort of like “The Incredible Journey”!
Wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly what happened! Well, the journey was “Incredible” by her standards. She was found, a couple of hours before trick-or-treating began, cowering beneath some tarp-covered patio furniture; and she was two full doors down from our house!
Back in our house (okay, okay, HER house), she purred up a storm. Or maybe it was just her stomach growling, because she ate like a horse. Then, to show that she’d forgiven us for letting her wander away, and for taking so by-gosh long to find her, and that she was ready to reclaim her role as Queen of the House, she made a gesture we’ll always remember: she puked all over a freshly made turkey sandwich.
# # #
TakefiveT5@yahoo.com
A couple of days before Halloween, her stomach was apparently full enough that she thought a road trip would be great fun, because she lit out – completely unauthorized and without permission – into the great outdoors. She must’ve darted out of the house while we brought our pumpkins inside to be carved. Maybe the sight of No. 3, 4 and 5 sons wielding wicked sharp knives was just too petrifying.
I’m sure as she trotted out the door, she fancied herself a macha, top-o’-the-food-chain critter, even though the only thing she ever kills is my appetite, when she jumps on the kitchen counter to paw and lick my turkey sandwiches. I also lose my desire for lunch when she woofs up hers; she’s a serial puker, thanks to her addiction to gnawing crunchy, indigestible items, especially giftwrap bows and ribbons.
Maybe she scooted out the door because she expected the turkey-sandwich hunting to be just as easy as indoors. She couldn’t know any better, I guess, because she is not the outdoorsy type. Meaning, she NEVER goes outside. EVER. Even if her cell phone is fully charged.
We like keeping her strictly a housecat. We don’t want her gallivanting about town with her girlfriends, getting into rumbles and coming home all gashed and scraped. (A cat I previously lived with did that all the time. I called him Mr. Bill, because every morning he’d straggle home with a tattered ear or bloody lip [do cats have lips?], probably inflicted by the tomcat down the street, Mr. Sluggo.)
When we realized she was gone, we first assumed she was snoozing in a closet, a favorite habit of hers. When the closets turned up empty, we checked less likely nooks and crannies, even those that she’s waaaay to fat to squeeze into.
Reflexively, as we looked for her, we hollered her name, even though she hardly ever heeds it. I’m convinced that (a) she doesn’t know her name. After all, she’s only had it for 8 years now, and it’s pretty complicated : “Zoe” (two syllables, long “e”). Or (b) she darn well knows her name but isn’t about to by-gosh humiliate herself by running toward us every time she hears it. That would be so, (shudder), dog-like.
Basically she only responds to the sound of food rattling in her dish. In fact, the kids searched for her with her bowl in hand, shaking it like a maraca.
My wife began fearing the cat had keeled over, kaput, in some won’t-find-her-until-she-starts-to-smell space. I didn’t give up her ghost so fast, and organized a comprehensive outdoor search mission. My duty was to tour the neighborhood every hour hollering “KITTY, KITTY, KITTY” in that high-pitched voice she likes. (Although I learned the neighbors don’t.) The kids volunteered for the job of staying home and watching for a “Zoe Missing!” report on the Disney Channel.
The night before Halloween, with her AWOL for 24 hours, I delivered to neighborhood mailboxes a fact sheet bearing her picture and our contact information, many watermarked with the kids’ tears.
But by Halloween afternoon, nobody had contacted us, and even I started wondering if we’d ever see her again. Then a new and insanely optimistic thought struck me: Even though she has absolutely no animal instincts, is herniatingly overweight and out-of-shape, and is unlikely to capture any food other than a wild turkey sandwich, maybe, just maybe, she’d be found in some far distant place, sort of like “The Incredible Journey”!
Wouldn’t you know, that’s exactly what happened! Well, the journey was “Incredible” by her standards. She was found, a couple of hours before trick-or-treating began, cowering beneath some tarp-covered patio furniture; and she was two full doors down from our house!
Back in our house (okay, okay, HER house), she purred up a storm. Or maybe it was just her stomach growling, because she ate like a horse. Then, to show that she’d forgiven us for letting her wander away, and for taking so by-gosh long to find her, and that she was ready to reclaim her role as Queen of the House, she made a gesture we’ll always remember: she puked all over a freshly made turkey sandwich.
# # #
TakefiveT5@yahoo.com
posted by Don Stuart at 3:15 PM
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