And, so, we reach the point in our story where you might start to wonder, "Hmmmmm. How are those new pets
that you arrived home with a mere 7 months ago. They'd be, what now, about 8-9 months old?"
"Ah. Yes," I'd answer. "Mad-kitty is, as far as we can tell, since she was literally born in a barn, about 9 months and Maul-y-dog is about 2 weeks younger."
"And things are going.....?" you'd solicitously inquire.
"Never dull," I'd reply.
"Care to elucidate?"
"Well, ok, since you asked?"
Charles and I have come to the conclusion that Molly is like those white mice in The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
trilogy. You know, Frankie and Benji Mouse, the ones who were actually hyperinteligent, pan-dimensional beings, who ran the planet Earth as a huge experiment? (If you have no bleeping idea what I'm talking about, go read all 5 books of the trilogy and then come back. Now. I'll wait. At least read the first 3 books. You can finish the series after you finish this post.) I suspect that she's been conducting devilishly complex experiments on us using her chew-bones. See, some bones she chews, others, she keeps intact and places in, well, odd places. Like under our pillows. In our (Charles's) slightly ajar dresser drawers
. Under the pile of laundry awaiting to be folded
or in the basket of folded clothes
. In Sara's bed, under her bears and dolls and such
or between the sofa cushions
, etc. You find it, toss it on the ground, and she spirits it off to yet another place. I've not seen her 'hiding' bone in a few days. I suspect it's either in the freezer under the bag o'chicken or on the closet shelf with my sweaters. If it's the latter, I won't see it for months. Actually, if it's the former, I probably won't see it for months, either, as I haven't dug into the freezer in a while, with all the lovely fresh stuff this time of year. She has many words and phrases down, including the invaluable ones of "oooooooooohhhhhh bad dog" and "Leave. The kitty. Alone." as well as its variation "Molly. Don't eat the kitty."
She's also becoming quite athletic, having caught a bird a few days ago. Literally. The bird (something small and brown) was taunting her. Really. The bird was dissing her and flying all over the back of the yard, at mouth height. If the bird got too far ahead, it would stop and taunt her, flying off at the last minute. "Hm," I mused from the deck. "What would she do if she actually caught the bird?" Seconds later, she found out. Yes she did. She caught it entirely in her mouth as it was flying away from her, just not flying fast enough and....oops.
She spat it out at once, clearly bewildered and a bit horrified, I think. It must be horrifying to find an entire bird in your mouth, nearly as horrifying as it would be to be the bird. I dashed to get my sandals (this be thistle country) and hurried over to find the foolish thing, but it was gone. Given the attention Molly was then paying the wiegela bush, 50 feet away from the incident, I'm thinking the bird was hiding in there for a little 'down time'. I called Molly away and that seems to be the end of the incident. The bird has not come back to taunt her further. Dead-dog, Emma, had a similar bird friend, a robin, who would 'play chase', but kept a healthy vertical distance away.
She hasn't yet given up her cave that is the space under our bed. To get in and out she somehow flattens her 70 lb body and scuttles, like a hairy crab. She then chews up magazines and plastic toys that kitty has supplied her with by knocking onto the floor. She has recently started making small moaning noises of the sort you'd expect if you were confined to a tight space of your own choosing. The clearance is only about 8" to get under the bed rails and only about an extra inch once you are under the bed proper. Someday, she's going to get stuck and I will have no choice but to ridicule her and poke at her with rubber bones. Then I will have to dismantle the bed to get her out. That won't be as much fun.
She is also rather fond of garden produce and has become quite adept at picking raspberries off the bushes, much to Sara's outrage.
Madison kitty is back to planning a prison break. After a several month hiatus of not trying to escape to the great outdoors, she's resumed her efforts and has actually managed a foray into the garage and another into the front flower garden. Fortunately, she was too giddy with her success, so she was easily recaptured, but this is concerning. She has taken to haunting the outside doors, drifting just out of your sight or behind the ajar door, waiting to make her move. She also has a disconcerting habit of writhing in ecstasy on the bathmat pretty much every time you use the bathroom off our bedroom. It's uncanny. She just appears, apparently euphoric that you are relieving yourself. Maybe she figures she had a role in our potty training and is demonstrating her praise? She doesn't do it in the other bathroom.
And then, there was the time, a couple of weeks ago, when she went missing for about 10 hours. We scoured the house and called and put out smelly kitty treats and searched the garage and called all over the yard and no kitty. We became seriously concerned and then downright worried and then bordering on frantic (we have hawks and coyotes and other cat-eating creatures, here). We tried to get Molly to help, ("Where's the kitty, Molly? Where's Kitty?") but all she did was tilt her head and then run in circles. I can't tell you how many times I used the bathroom off our bedroom in hopes of getting her to appear. Then, in sheer desperation, Charles began to look through his dresser and found her asleep in his sock drawer.
Yes. She'd gotten herself shut in the sock drawer and just napped all day and evening. I remember shutting all his dresser drawers that morning as I was vacuuming the carpet between the dresser and the bed, because if the dresser drawers are all open (ahem) the vacuum won't fit. So, instead of meowing like any normal creature needing rescue, she slept. Silently. Wish I could say that about her night-time antics. She still likes to play all night long, but, thanks to Leigh-Ann
, she mostly leaves the plants alone. Sadly, she doesn't leave my knees alone and I've been woken more than once with all 18 claws and both jaws full of teeth embedded in my left knee. Damn cat. Too bad she's cute and otherwise affectionate. Make that downright cuddly.
So, there we are. We adore them, they submissively piddle on the carpet and chew up stuff that doesn't belong to them (Maul-y) or wake us painfully (Mad) and make us worry unconscionably (both). Not quite an equal relationship, but it has taught Charles to close his dresser drawers, so that's something.
Aren't you glad you asked?
Labels: The Furry Ones