August 25th, 2009

Since I have cats not kids, from time to time I’ll be telling you about some of the cats crazier exploits.

As previously reported, Jameson’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top. “Challenged” doesn’t even begin to describe what is wrong with this cat.

However, he is 100% adorable (or he was until last Monday night) even if he is the strangest animal I’ve ever met.

He is not only strange but he is also persistent. Jameson has decided that he wants “outside” which is a no-no in my book. My cats are strictly indoor cats. It is safer for them and me. The last thing I want to do is fight off an invasion of fleas because my cats have been outside slumming with their less cared for brethren.

Of course that means that since I won’t allow it, Jameson has decided that he must go “out” every time I open up the door. And his strategy is to flop down and refuse to move whenever I head near the front door, or the door that leads into my garage. I end up carefully (usually) moving his suddenly deadweight carcass aside with my foot in order to leave the house.

On Monday night I was pre-packing the car. I had a lunch meeting the following day that required handouts and props. Right after work I had a hair appointment and as I surveyed what I was wearing on Tuesday I decided I’d better tuck in an extra shirt for the appointment. I knew that red hair dye would be involved and I didn’t want to chance getting it on my favorite ivory sweater.

On my last trip outside, Jameson made a beeline and before I knew it he had zipped into the garage.

It was after 10:30pm and I was incensed.

I have a tiny (okay, huge) problem with insomnia which results in me lying in bed for hours on end trying to go to sleep. Before you say it: allow me to say that getting up after 30 minutes will not help. If I get up and do “something else” waiting for my body to tell me it is sleepy I will end up staying up all night and then be a basket case for work.

Yes I have tried everything: valerian root, Benadryl, brandy, blue light box, warm milk (disgusting!), chamomile tea, and melatonin: drops, pills, you name it, I’ve tried it.

Ambien? Yes. And that drama would require its own separate rant, so let’s just say I did and it wasn’t for me.

In any case, I have it in my head (right or wrong) that I am more likely to fall asleep during certain times. I have a small window of opportunity between 10:15 and 11pm. Otherwise my next window of opportunity is around 1am. Missing that “departure point” I’ll be on full alert until 3am. So at 10:30pm I am not happy to be chasing down a wayward cat.

Where is the first place he goes? Under my car. Because, you know: I can’t.

But what I can do is get a broom.

I’m yelling up a storm, swiping the broom underneath the car like a whip while he hides from wheel well to wheel well, depending on which side I’m coming at him from.

In hindsight it occurred to me that someone standing outside the garage door would have heard some really crazy things as I’m cursing the cat, and WHOOMPING the broom side to side.

When it appears that the broom is not having the desired effect and all that the two of us are doing is running around in circles, I decide to try a slightly different approach.

Back in the house, I lock up Jameson’s brother, Alex, and then I prop open the door that leads back into the house. I figure I can flush Jameson out and hopefully (if he had a brain) he will run for the safety of the house.

Does that happen? Heck no.

Out from under the car he scrambles, lunging toward the small mountain of boxes where we store stuff we cannot get rid of, yet do not use. Up he goes, more nimble than a Billy goat.

When I surge toward him, his eyes roll up in his head, and he is panting like a racehorse, nostrils flaring. His heart is beating so fast I’m worried he is going to have a stroke. Nonetheless, I drop the broom, which clatters to the ground and scares him further.

Jameson is a white cat. Or he used to be. He is now grey.

“You’d better clean that up, Mister.” I say as I march him into the house. He is horribly grubby: front and back paws, and his entire belly.

He looks at me as if to say, “If you’d used that broom with as much vigor on the garage floor as you did on me, we wouldn’t have this little problem.”

He might have a point. And I spend until 1:15am giving it serious thought.

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