When I’m not stressing about examinations or stumbling through a caffeine-powered night shift (or sleeping), I enjoy hanging out with my
character trip-hazard of a cat.
She’s a Maine-Coon style beastie I acquired about three years ago from a nice lady who stated that said cat was “trying to kill her mother.” Since this sounded quite extraordinary, of course I had to adopt her. (Turns out the prior owner’s elderly mother had quite a lot of vision deficits – couple that challenge with a cat that insists on following your every move and enjoys being at your feet – and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.)
Her hobbies include coughing up hairballs, hunting for spiders in closets and cupboards, sleeping, chasing squirrels, and planking.
But she has another life, it seems. She becomes quite antsy in the morning if she isn’t allowed out, ostensibly to perform cat activities such as hunting and, well, eliminating in the neighbor’s barkdust garden. However, she also apparently has quite the social life. I’ve seen her zigzag across the neighborhood from house to house, where she waits patiently at patio doors until unsuspecting neighbors (her “regulars”) let her in for treats and company.
She’s vanished overnight, only to be found locked in a neighbor’s car (thank goodness it wasn’t August). Additionally, she’s acquired a new bowl, given to her by her neighbors across the street (her favorite friends) when they put their home on the market and moved out. Once, she accompanied the girl-child on a walk to a nearby grade school, and didn’t come home because she got too tuckered out to walk back (cats are sprinters, not marathoners). When she was gone overnight, we put out the alert to all the neighbors to watch for her. We located her the next day – crouching in the ivy median in the middle of the street near the school, patiently waiting for her hoomans to get a clue and come get her. Bless the neighbors – after that incident, we went through a week of various folks showing up at our door with her, proudly proclaiming “Hey, I found your cat!”
But this evening was a first! She came home with a small lump taped to her flea collar. A quick snip of the ol’ trauma shears (yeah, I know, they’re so fun to use! – and not just for cutting those annoying non-IV gowns off patients admitted to our floor from the ER!) revealed a ziplock bag containing a note:
Oh for heaven’s sake, I thought – what flippin’ now???
- Maine Coon Cats (catster.com)