Unfortunately, I can't share the amusing tale of my cat's fridge fetish, not after the latest stunt.
I go home for lunch one or two times a week, and today I debated working straight through. Instead, I decided to run home and clear my head for a few minutes.
I even said to myself, "The cat has been pretty well-behaved lately." Of course, on Friday I pondered that Charlton Heston must be in really bad shape, since he'd not made a public appearance in about five years. We all know how that turned.
As I rounded the corner onto Delaware Avenue, there was no further need to clear my mind - it only had room for one thought.
The bedroom window screen, sitting a mere seven feet off the ground, was dented and twisted. The damage came from inside the house. The pushed-out screens on Arbor Village Drive suddenly rushed back to me.
I strode up to the porch, reasoning that the orange and white nuisance might not have escaped.
Before my key reached the door, I heard the panicked meow usually reserved for car rides or trips to the vet. From beneath a porch chair crawled a dirt-clad kitten with hunched, wary posture.
It took little coaxing to get him back inside .... where as soon as the door closed, the panicked meow turned into a looser, "Please Please Give Me What I Want" meow. He tasted the outdoors again - the dirt discoloring his white paws betrayed the length of his visit in the yard - and wasn't ready to give it up.
Here's hoping that next time this damned monster breaks free, he spares both of us by galloping right back into his life as a stray.
He doesn't know that on average, outdoor cats live one-third as long as indoor cats (five years versus 15).
I only know that his very presence is shortening mine.
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