MALEAH STRINGER: Letting the cat out the door

May 08, 2008 05:35 pm

— I think this M’s Cat Room project is God’s little test for me — perhaps to see how long it takes me to go completely crazy. It wouldn’t surprise me if those feline shelter babies are conspiring to make me look like a lunatic while lounging on fluffy beds in a catnip haze.
For instance, I left the window open — no more than two inches — so they could get some fresh air. I knew I couldn’t open it all the way — they’d just go through the screen, as Lucy did before I understood her escape capabilities. Two inches — their heads are bigger than two inches, and they are made out of bone. Skulls do not normally safely collapse at feline whim. Or at least I didn’t think so. Now I’m not so sure.
One night before I went to bed, I checked on the sunroom babies. Only the larger cats were where they were supposed to be. I looked at that tiny window opening. I thought about the size of their heads. I guess it’s kinda like having a baby.
Of course, most of the escapees didn’t do well with freedom and were sitting on the other side of the window, crying and wondering how to get back in.
Anyway, I took a head count on how many were still inside, grabbed a flashlight and stormed into my backyard. In the cold. I quickly raced back in and got a jacket and a hat. Everything just happened to be black. I looked like a cat burglar. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)
I swung my flashlight back and forth like a searchlight across the yard catching all the gleaming little cats’ eyes taking my measure. All but three came running to me when I sweetly called “kitty, kitty, kitty.” These were the “good kitties.” I got those little escapees in the sunroom and went back out to capture the others.
Good luck. I needed a net, daylight and maybe three more people. I also might mention it had started to rain.
I think the three holdouts made a plan while I was rounding up their buddies. I’d get close enough to almost grab Emmie, and then Lucy would cut and run while Izzie would pop up a few feet away. They soon tired of this game, so they decided to broaden the playing field. They let me chase them to the fence, where all three disappeared under a small dip into the neighbor’s yard.
I ran back through the house, to the other animals’ keen enjoyment, and out the front door, leaving it open so the greyhounds could watch the show. Lucy was waiting for me on the front porch. I made a dive for her and missed. Stretched out on the ground, I caught sight of three feline hind quarters as they disappeared around the corner of my house. I swear I could hear them laughing.
So, there I am, skulking around my neighbor’s house at 11 p.m., ducking under windows with the beam of my flashlight bouncing around, talking to myself. The thought crossed my mind that somebody might call the police, thinking I was an intruder.  
I flashed my light beam and saw a flash of white — it was Izzie, or at least her butt. She'd tried to follow Lucy and Emmie back into my yard. She was stuck halfway under the fence. She’s gained a little weight since Katrina. Before she could squeeze through, I plucked her up.
One down, two to go.
I saw Lucy running around the perimeter of my privacy fence. Meanwhile, Emmie, a little gray and white girl, scampered around like she’d had way too much freedom and catnip. Just as I got close enough to grab her, she ducked under the fence again. It occurred to me that this could go on for a very long time, and that I would not catch them unless they let me.
Regardless, I don’t know if I was just tired, frustrated or scared, but I sat down in the yard and started crying.
And, one by one, here they came. Little Emmie rubbed her head on mine as if to say she was sorry — she was just having fun. I nabbed her and made a try for slick Lucy. I missed. She wasn’t sorry. Lucy and I eyed each other. I said, OK, you can stay out in the rain. I’m going to bed.
By the time, I got Emmie to the sunroom, Lucy was squeezing herself back into the house through the window. The rain had picked up — she hates to get wet. She shook off the offensive rain, then stalked over to a warm bed, as if the whole miserable night had been my fault.
Maleah Stringer, president of the Animal Protection League, is an animal massage therapist specializing in esoteric healing. She can be reached at maleahstringer@aol.com.

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