So you prefer blogs about cats?

No politics, you readers are telling me. Keep your thoughts about the presidential candidates to yourself. No serious business, even if delivered with wry humor. Bring on the cats or anything four footed. Even winged.

Sigh, okay. Yesterday Bijou didn’t drop up at all and I began to worry. He worries me all the time, because where pussycats are concerned — little ones especially — their permanence can be wiped out in an eye blink. I should know. So, at 11 a.m. I dropped what I was doing and went out to find the little imp. I called and called, then walked down to the corner of the fence, where I found him. He flopped down and wiggled, and I understood: he was asking not to make him come inside, the weather was too fine and he was having such a good time doing — what? tracking gophers? spying on the neighbors?

I told him sternly, No dice, come inside this minute, and he got up and came with me — sort of, making the trip as prolonged and indirect as he could, zigzagging, swinging around the lemon tree — until he came to the steps to the deck. There, he disappeared from view. I waited, torn between laughter and exasperation. He reappeared under a shrub and faced the steps and finally ran up them into the house.

There wasn’t anything I needed him for at 11 a.m. He knew it, as did I. But I felt compelled to find and keep him for a few minutes for my own peace of mind.

The peace of mind was again compromised at 6 p.m. while I watched the evening news and listened for his explosive entrance through the cat door. At 6:30 I planned to go outside to call. But he did come in before then and immediately I latched the door after him. Bijou jumped up to the dining table for his supper — his favorite whitefish and sardine combination — I have to keep Loaner’s and Bijou’s meals separate and don’t care if cats aren’t supposed to eat their meals on my dining table. I gave up the conventions long, long ago.

Having eaten, Bijou went to go out and found his exit locked and came back to me with a squeaky complaint. Too bad, I told him. I would know where he was, at least for the night. Ah, the night, when he parks on my feet and I cannot stretch my legs at all. Often Loaner occupies my left side, her leg slung over my wrist as we both purr.

It astonishes me that so many humans have no experience with pussycats at all.

If you want to read “Meow’s Way” or “Meow’s Way Redux” you will find these stories at all the usual online retail places.


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