There she goes off the sofa a mighty leap landing thirty feet away in the dining room screeching left into the kitchen another another crazy left down the hall up the stairs doing 60 MPH down again flying over the bannister. Whoa!
Okay - all done. Got that out of her system.
Back to the sofa, up we go, settle down into a perfect circle, head on crossed paws, totally relaxed, not even huffing and puffing.
Okaaay. What was that all about?
She looks at you, still sitting exactly where you were when all of this started, and gives a roll of her eyes, like you're the crazy one.
You, demoralized and guilty, go back to your book, totally incapable of focusing on the story.
Once again, your lovely cat has screwed up your brain, messed with your sensibilities, and proven yet one more time that she, in all ways, is far superior to anything you could ever do or be.
Mitsy was bizarre in more ways than one, using the "unexpected and fantastic" definitions of the word.
She loved birds, not on her plate, but in our backyard. They knew she loved them and so had no fear of her.
As she lay in the sun on the deck, a bird would land on the honeysuckle vine and exchange glances or words with her, laying close by, passing the time of day. At no time did Mitsy exhibit alert behavior, a lifting of the ears, a widening of the eyes, tensing her muscles, all of those things being dead giveaways if she was a normal cat facing a bird within grabbing range.
She stayed relaxed. The bird would even turn its back on her. She closed her eyes.
I marveled at this every time I saw it, because it was beautiful, a goodness in nature.
In the spring, when wacko baby squirrels hit the yard, Mitsy was right in her glory.
It was time to be bizarre.
She turned into one of them when she joined them down on the grass. Of course, they stopped their extreme frolicking to watch her go to town with her version of In Your Face Deranged Spider Dancing.
When she was finished, she waited for their applause, but she only got their stares. Then one or two would venture close to her and touch noses with her.
Maybe they thought she was one awfully goofy big, red squirrel, and too darned old to be acting like a teenager on sugar, because they never let her join them in their squirrel games.
She was a Rudolph in the squirrel world. A misfit.
Butterflies liked Mitsy.
The neighbor's year old cat, a female too, liked Mitsy.
Once Mitsy took the neighbor's cat into our house and gave her a tour. I saw them pause in each room and look at each other, as if they were talking through their minds.
I imagined Mitsy saying, "This is the bed I'm not supposed to be on, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."
"See the fur on the towels in this closet? All mine."
"I watch television here, and sleep on the carpet in front of the fire when it's cold, right there."
"Don't look up, but I prowl at night and I get all the way up to that window. I said don't look up. She's watching. I take the TV to the mantel, then up to the window route because I can see your house from up there."
"Here's my bathroom. Pretty secluded, huh? I won't go if it isn't. I made that clear to her right from the start."
"Yeah, she's okay. Not too bright sometimes, though. She doesn't know I understand her language and can read her mind, so I get away with a lot of crap I shouldn't. If she opens that fridge door, I'm there, yowling like a banshee just to see what tidbit she'll give me. I don't even want it, but I eat it anyway, because I need to stay on top."
She's the boss, alright. At least, she was when she was still alive.
She was a great little friend, that bizarre red furball of mine.
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