Last night, after binge-watching several episodes of the most excellent Masterpiece Theater’s Victoria (June? Turning into a spinster before our very eyes? What?), I went to the door to call in that blight on my very existence, that gray bastard of a cat, Steely Dan. Often one finds oneself referring to Queen Victoria and a ’70s band/adult toy in one sentence.
And of course, Steely Dan would not come in. That cat does not come in. I didn’t even SEE him anywhere. As you recall, even when he was a teensy kitten
he could not be kept IN, and I kept just…finding him outside, even though I hadn’t LET him outside. Which was alarming. But that also alerted me to a knocked down…grill thing on my roof that had to be put back up and sealed, so, kind of a win. How he found that and figured out it was an escape hatch AT FOUR MONTHS, I do not know.
So now, the only way he’ll come inside is if he comes through the door himself and walks in, like he’s my husband. He’d be one of those husbands with the whole nother family. One of those husbands who although you totally suspect about the whole nother family, he’s still so handsome you’re still glad when he saunters in, white teeth flashing.
I called and I called and I called that gray-ass handsome bitch-ass cat last night. I hate it when he’s out all night. I worry. Occasionally, he’ll fight with the orange cat, although in truth it’s Iris who kicks Orange Cat’s ass the most. She’s really quite kerfuffled re Orange Cat, and I don’t know if it’s politics or race or what has them on edge with each other, but Iris and her half an eye is not a fan of that ginger bastard.
But back to Steely Dan and his prowling all night.
I think of giant pterodactyls swooping down to get him, which is realistic, and cat murderers with round bombs and bags with images of cats with red circles and slashes on them. Anything but the real things, like cars and dogs. The things that really scare me when you have a cat you cannot contain.
“Giant pterodactyls.” As opposed to those teacup pterodactyls they’re selling at those disreputable pet shops.
Anyway, as he always is, that gray animal awaited me at the back door this morning, famished like he’s on the prednisone. He leaped gracefully to his perch atop the fridge to eat his disgusting canned food that he’s a big fan of.
And then? After I was done feeding the normal cats, and giving Edsel his psychopath mood pills and allergy pills and grain-free dog food and WHY GOD with this dog, and after I made my coffee and so on? So, basically, five minutes later?
“Oh, Steely Dan, come ON,” I pleaded. “Please don’t leave again.” I mean, what’s so compelling? Do you think maybe he’s out taking up a collection to get me a new shed? Look at that poor rusted shed. I took the chic away from that shabby thing some time ago.
I tried to lure him back over with the promise of his exciting brother Edsel, but he wasn’t having it for very long. “edz too ssyko.”
I’ve captured the moment where I’m crouched, with the back door open, saying, “Kitty, kitty” as seductively as possible (please see spinster ref., part II, volume VII), with my camera in hand. Please also see “blank stare of cat ennui.”
I don’t know, man. He’s a spirited animal, is what he is. And is he, like, not needful of sleep, ever? I mean, sometimes he’ll come home and flop over and sleep like a mummified cat of Egypt for 20 hours, then demand food and (wait for it) open the door and leave. I’m like Ma Bailey’s Boarding House in It’s a Wonderful Life.
Anyway. I guess this is the hand I’ve been dealt. I’ve got the spirited cat, and when you CROSS THE LINE into three freaking cats, eventually you’re gonna get one that worries you.
Just as I was wrapping this up, I heard a noise.
He’s decided to grace the house with his gray presence.