Our calico cat went flying down the stairs, barely touching them, with a plastic grocery bag flailing in the wind behind her. The carrying straps of the bag somehow got hooked to her hind leg and one front paw. The rustling noise that she’s trying to escape from grows louder the more she struggles to get away from it.
Almost blinded by her haste to break free, instead of making the turn into the dining room, she plows head first into the front door.
The closed front door. Ouch.
Calico felines are reputed to be the dingbats of the cat world. They have a more than ample curiosity, if you go by our girl’s personality, and it just makes her all the more lovable.
She also has a soft spot for those craft pompoms, especially the 1-inch size. I had just bought some at the store and they were still in my purse, which sat on the bed. As if she could read my mind, she started pawing through the open pockets of my purse in search of the bag of pompoms.
And she found them, alright, flinging the bag at me as if to say, “Open it, human! I want my pompoms!”
She’s a lot smarter than most other cats I’ve known. Except perhaps for our tortoise-shell girl, Daisy. Tortoise-shell marked cats are given a similar broad stroke of the brush personality-wise. Another wrongful judgment if you ask me.
Our friend Ann’s tortie cat was suspected of swiping her watch and hiding it. Ann tired of hunting for it and went out and bought a new watch. This same cat was extremely dexterous, with an extra toe or two on her paws. She finally mastered the little pull chain on the lamp, turning it off.
And on again. Had I been there, I could have hugged this cat right then.
Or possibly unscrewed the light bulb.
We would sometimes let our gerbil run around in the dining room, keeping the cats away from it, of course. There was enough gap below the closet door for it to get under, and it would squeeze under and run around and back out again.
When he was safely back in his habitat, Daisy would climb up and sit on the screened lid. Just waiting and watching.
Of course, the gerbil lasted only a few years more, which was a long life for a gerbil. But now and then, I’ll find Daisy at the closet door, trying to turn the doorknob.
Then she crouches at the door, sniffing at the gap. Waiting.
Does she think the gerbil lives there? I don’t know. But I think she misses him.
And that’s not so crazy, is it?