Bob didn’t take Easter very seriously. In fact, this was his most energetic pose of the day.
Well, it was if you don’t count the times he was angling to be let out. The run of the house was a thrill for him — as long as it lasted.
Which was about two weeks.
What a great couple of weeks they were, though. He had a ball finding interesting new litter box possibilities in the basement (more on that in a minute), training Simon to treat him with the respect he knows he deserves, and visiting Smooch (and probably Smooch’s food dish) whenever he felt like it — and I had a whole week for my Bob-wounds to heal.
Then he found the kitchen door, got a load of Simon’s easy access to the great outdoors, and all bets for détente were off. Being a night creature, some of his most impressive vocalizations (and they can be ear-shattering) occur around 2:00. That would be AM. I think his outrage over the unfairness of Simon’s free range privilege is poured into his night complaints.
About that alternative litter box thing … I became suspect when I realized I wasn’t cleaning his litter box very often. In fact, it only seemed to need attention every three or four days. When he was confined to this area, LB duty occurred three or four times a day.
We suspect he’s chosen the dry well that receives used washing machine water. Could be worse; there is a sump pump in that well, and once the wash water lands there, it is pumped out to the back yard (we only use organic, fully-biodegradable washing products, of course). That makes it sort of a self-flushing litter box, which is convenient for Bob’s humans.
My next guess would be in the strange little crawl spaces accessible from the basement. I’m sure he’s explored these, looking for an escape route to the great beyond; lacking that treasure, he discovered a lot of dirt — perfect for the business of a cat. Again, it could have been worse.
On Saturday I went down to do a bit of laundry, and there he was, snuggled atop a small mountain of old blankets we use in the garden to protect plants from frost. He was still there several hours later when another sister took a turn at the washing machine. Hunh.
It could have been much worse.
I can’t figure out if Bob was an indoor or an outdoor cat before he adopted us. My general stance is that nothing good can happen to a cat outdoors. Roundworms. Ticks. Coyotes. Raccoons. Cars. Simon. I feel I’ve reached my lifetime roundworm duty limit, and I don’t want to disturb the records. Besides, the songbird population would suffer, and we don’t want that.
But he really, really wants to go out there. He lurks by the kitchen door, waiting for some unsuspecting visitor to open it. And when they do …
Zoom! He’s gone.
But “gone” means about fifty feet. Then he looks around as if he’s at a complete loss as to what to do next. Maybe getting out is the whole challenge; being out is a different, and not so wonderful, ball of string.
I can see that eight months is not nearly long enough to figure out what a cat wants. Or needs. Or thinks he needs. Whatever.
Maybe a year is the magic marker. We’ll see.