Twelve years ago, the Landlord left one morning to help her sister socialize a litter of kittens. I thought this was a futile activity. Kittens grow into cats and aren’t willing to accept any kind of Ization from other creatures, especially humans. Surprisingly, the process went well.
After returning home that day, she mentioned this “cute” white kitty. I knew from my vast experience with women to immediately prepare myself for a new addition into the already large menagerie in Irmo.
Quigley, the greatest dog to ever sniff posteriors, worried me. I assumed he’d think this new resident was his personal edible toy. That concern was confirmed when he first met the darling fur bundle and began to salivate and quiver with excitement. When my protests were denied, I demanded we name the newcomer Sushi, to symbolize what I expected to happen the first time we were distracted.
Instead, a long weekend to Folly Beach did the trick. We took Sushi along but left Quigley behind. Upon our return, the World’s Greatest Dog had done a 180. I’m still not sure what transpired, but he accepted Sushi as part of the gang—for the rest of his life.
That little furball is now approaching Old and showing it. On nice days, she takes her food on the outside bar ensemble. She has always jumped from the deck to a waiting barstool without effort and then onto the table for her meal.
Lately she has begun to balk at that leap. I understand. I’ve begun to balk at all sorts of tasks I once did without thought. But Sushi makes her choice mostly on attitude. Of course, cats make most choices based on attitude.
She has offered a pitiful meow and sad eyes for months now instead of attempting the leap, so I’ve been hefting her considerable mass to the barstool. One recent morning, she became impatient for her food and jumped to the barstool. Still not satisfied with my promptness, she stared a moment and then jumped down, and I swear, smirked—and hasn’t attempted that same feat again.
I was immediately reminded of Abby, my longtime cat partner who lived to be 21. Abby survived three different MIA events, one that lasted several weeks, before returning home. She hated riding in cars immensely yet moved across state lines three times. During the last, I was sure she had died twice, only to hear a really meek meow as I looked for a proper burial site. She also handled a divorce better than two adults and three children did.
Abby lived a long and prosperous life, spending many evenings curled in my lap as we watched late night TV from an otherwise vacant room. In her early years, she learned to step on the clock radio power button, which triggered the alarm. She knew this would wake up anyone still snoozing when she was hungry.
No one ever believed that story and I’m sure no one who knows Sushi will believe she jumped onto the barstool at this point in her life—including the Landlord. Maybe their evil cunning was why Egyptians worshipped them.
Most cats still remember that.
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