The temperature broke during the middle of last week, and the winter malaise of Orange Fury (aka Percy, aka Percival C. Motherfucker, aka Evil Creamsicle) broke with it.
Until winter returned yesterday, he's been scratching and window screens and door frames nonstop.
If I return from work and turn on the TV, the pounding starts. A sustained string of pained meows follows.
Apparently, he forgets that on every trip to the porch, he assumes that skulking, frightened cat pose, with his back rigid and legs bent to allow for an easy retreat.
So long as the mercury crests above 50, he cannot ignore the outdoors.
At 5 p.m., he shouts and pounds on the window glass, scraping his glass in a vain effort to push pop it from the pane.
At four a.m., he pounds on the front door, only pausing to search for any leverage in popping the lock (which luckily sits just out of his reach).
At seven a.m., he turns his impudent rage at me and digs those claws into my legs.
The temperature fell back to normal for early March yesterday, and his pandering stopped.
But I won't forget his prelude for future assaults on the door.
While it has been 40 or below in Nashville most days since October, spring is coming, and the cat's fever will heat up with Nashville.
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