That Darn Cat

So I have a cat, named Vega. Or rather, my wife has a cat named Vega. We got her together, but now matter how many times I happen to be the one who either feeds her or gives her water, she only seems to have love for Angela. Unless I happen to by typing, in which case she shows love by purring on my wrists so that my chances of acquiring carpel tunnel syndrome triple every ten minutes.

This evening, I was taking two bottles out to the recycling. It was a little warm and I was wearing a t-shirt and boxer briefs, but I would be out for only a moment, so I thought, why bother? I turned off the front porch light (just in case the neighbors would be offended) and opened the door,

Vega took this moment to dash out the front door.

This has happened before. Thankfully, she is also a Scaredy Cat, so usually one car going by on the main road will freak her out enough that she realizes she doesn't like being outside and runs in. Either that, or a brief chase. I took off after her, but this time she quickly dashed back into the darker driveway.

I realized that this might take slightly longer than the usual 90-second chase and therefore pants might be more prudent. I quickly found a pair of shorts and raced outside again. After a few minutes, I saw she appeared at the back door. I went up to open the door for her, but then she abruptly turned.

And subsequently disappeared.

I started freaking out at about the 15-minute mark when I realized that if I couldn't find her, going meticulously through the yard with a (mini) flashlight might also be pointless. I started asking random dog-owners out walking their mutts to please let them loose in the yard to flush out my cat, only to find that all the dogs out walking by me were already used to cats and wouldn't bark. I went through the whole back yard several times with a flashlight, including the sketchy area next to the garage. Where I got my face stuck in a spider web. Uh huh.

Angela knew none of this, being on a red line train. At the 30-minute mark, I finally called her, saying that I can't find Vega anywhere and that I would pick her up when she got to the train station, because by this point I've also called our neighbor Meipo to watch Xan (who is fast asleep) while I stretch further away from the house to look for her. At this point, I'm in a state of mild panic: a feeling of I-hope-she's-OK mixed with stupid-cat-why-did-she-sneak-out to what-the-hell-is-Angela-going-to-do-to-my-testicles-when-she-finds-out-her-cat-is-gone. None of these are pleasant feelings. When I pick Angela up from the train station, I'm tense and near tears.

We arrive home. Angela whistles once and says, "Vega!" Out of nowehere, our cat scampers to the porch and meows once.

On the one hand, I'm so happy that stupid wretch of a cat is OK. But after 45 minutes outside looking for that fucking loser excuse of a cat who didn't even acknowledge that I was looking for her, no matter what I said? I'm telling you: I ain't feeding that damn thing for a week. Maybe some bananas.

This one's for Patty K

I know I haven't blogged in a little while, and I have a great posting about little boys in water that I have to write about. But...

...for her birthday, Angela got a book called Cat Crimes from her Aunt Pat. (Hi, Pat! Angela says she's writing thank you notes this weekend. This posting, however, may be even better, since it proves she's actually reading it!) The book is a short story collection of mystery stories featuring cats, sometimes even with cats as the narrators.

For example, the first two paragraphs of "Horatio Ruminates" by Dorothy P. Hughes, goes as follows. A note: despite the names here (um, unchanged to protect the guilty?), this is not a reality in our house. (I think...)

"Some people don't like cats. Some cats don't like people. We try to like all people. We do try. At least, some of us do. But, after all, how can we like people who don't like us? There's something in the atmosphere that measures like to like. And off-putting to off-putting.
"Some people hate cats. I mean, they it out loud. With special emphasis. 'I hate cats!' Alexander called Xan is one of those. He comes to visit his Aunt -- she is Milady -- and says right out, 'I hate cats.' It is little wonder that I don't like him. Yet I try. Every time he comes, I try. To no avail. I no sooner rub against his ankles than he explodes, 'I hate cats!' And follows this by his usual threatening, 'Scat, Cat!'"