Summer’s the season when it’s easiest for the two Fur Girls to try to escape. The boy cats don’t seem to care to leave the confines of our porch, but the girls will head out the door in a flash at every opportunity.
It makes carrying heavy bins of kitty litter into the house a dash of insanity at times. Picture me wobbling up to the door with a 30-pound weight on one arm, trying to get inside without stepping on an anxious, furry escapee in the process. Eat your heart out, Ginger Rogers! Dancing with cats needs more skill than dancing with the stars, if you ask me.
I don’t like to let our cats roam outdoors for more than a few minutes. There are too many wild animals to meet. Marbles once caught a chipmunk. She came running with the scared-to-bits critter in her mouth, looking so proud. I hated to scold her, so I didn’t. She waited at the doorstep for me to open the door, thinking, I suppose, that it would be a really neat toy to have her own chipmunk indoors.
But the chipmunk was dangling by its tail. In her excitement, Marbles had grabbed the chipmunk by whatever she could latch onto with her teeth. In the next second, the chipmunk had wriggled free and dashed to the stone wall and disappeared behind it. Marbles looked forlornly at the skin of the chipmunk’s tail left in her mouth, dropped it, and made a beeline to the wall, hating to relinquish her prize.
I could feel her disappointment, but I felt even worse for the chipmunk. It was in more danger from this domestic cat than it was from any wild animal.
Daisy has been even more daring. She once raced out the door and made a mad dash to the apple tree, and up she went, where she quickly disappeared into the upper branches.
Not good. I had to summon help from The Men. It’s good to have at least one in the household. One to hold the ladder for me, while I hung on for dear life, straddling an apple bough or two. Daisy just blithely ignored me, and jumped over to the roof of the garage, well out of reach.
Retreating to the opposite side of the peak, she basked in the sun. And in the glory of her achievement.
My son, however, outsmarted her, throwing a tennis ball over the peak of the roof. As she watched it arc overhead, she took wing – I mean paw – and scurried over to the opposite side again. And into my arms.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t gloating at that point myself.
What do I need of hunting wild game, whatever the season? At my house, every day I’m chasing cats!