Somebody recently asked me what kind of cat Samantha is. “A darn cat,” I replied.
Which I think is true of most cats, at least the ones we’ve had…or the ones that have had us.
This one leaped — or fell — out of an open window two days ago. And we saw her since and finally caught her a night or two ago.
Dolores almost caught her earlier in the day, but then she, Dolores, slipped in the mud had to let go to keep from breaking her — Dolores,’ not the cat’s — neck. Samantha took off, ran down a steep path into the woods where she hid.
I don’t know why Samantha decided she had to run away from Dolores. Dolores loves her and spoils her. I tolerate her. And only spoil her once in awhile.
Yesterday I put a kind of cloth carrier out where Samantha was last seen by Dolores, and Dolores put some kitty goodies in it. I thought I’d sneak out every so often and see if she had been there. But the first time I tried that, another couple (of people, that is) was sitting on the two chairs I had put out there … the problem with an apartment. In our own house, A. she would not have had to jump out the window but would be free to roam our property and B. somebody else would not be sitting in the chairs I had left by the cloth kitty carrier.
I tried to be polite when I found them sitting there. By polite, I mean I didn’t say anything.
It was the woman of the pair, who asked me what kind of cat Samantha is.
“Just a cat,” I replied. I should have replied, “A missing cat, and where you’re sitting you will have scared her if she tried to get at our goodies.”
We finally caught her. She would come out of the thick wooded hillside onto a grassy area, where it seemed possible to catch her. Samantha would then walk along about five feet in front of one of us, and stay that distance so we couldn’t catch her.
But she got up on a raised wooden garden placed there for tenants, about three feet high. She stood with her back to me, while I quietly came up from behind and grabbed her around her middle. She didn’t fight, and I picked her up and huddled her close to my heavy jacket. She might have been cold — or something — because she stayed quietly against my jacket.
I quickly and quietly walked to a door and we went in with her not moving. She didn’t move all the way back to our apartment, but once inside she scrambled out of my arms, as she could have done anywhere along the trip, and dashed to her food dish in the kitchen.
We were so happy to have her back that we decided not to go to church or out to breakfast the next morning — a Sunday.
We had a cat who got shot and other cats, who ended with a variety of horrible situations. And now this.
No more cats.
Sure glad I was able to catch Samantha and bring her home. Her behavior changed in the apartment, either lethargic or just tired, she moved very slow.
We all were exhausted. We slept in, had our Sunday morning breakfast at home as opposed to going out as usual for that breakfast, and after breakfast continued our lives.
Samantha fell asleep on a cushion by a window and didn’t move for a long time. She snuggles with us and is as loving as ever. As if none of this adventure occurred.
Darn cat.
No more cats.
We love her and apparently she loves us.
Darn cat.
Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@roadrunner.com.
