I’ve been a cat lover ever since I can remember. When I was four-years-old we had two cats become pregnant at the same time. Sixteen baby kittens. I was overjoyed.
My father was not.
But who cared what the parental units thought? I had weeks of trying to give equal play time to all kittens before my parents began deceitfully giving them away. Both mamma cats were as happy as could be, and they didn’t care which of the young they nursed—theirs or the other cat’s litter.
When I was in middle school I had a cat named Magnet. We called her Maggie. She was a girl. My next door neighbor had a cat named Kenzie. He was a boy. My neighbor and I decided that we wanted kittens. One evening we tossed both of our cats into a closet and listened to a lot of meowing and hissing take place inside. Nine weeks later we had a litter of kittens. Neither sets of parents the wiser that had been a planned pregnancy.
With all my years of being a cat owner, the one thing I’ve never before done was walk the cat. Growing up, almost all of my animals were outdoor animals. Most of my adult life I’ve lived in apartments and therefore have indoor cats. At the mature age of sixteen, my cat has decided she wants to become a world explorer. Seriously. The fat, lazy house cat lost weight this year after the vet put her on a special diet, and she now believes that she can conquer the world. Lofty expectations for such a small being. When I arrive home each evening, she’s waiting. Eager for that front door to magically open.
Is it so she can greet her human, happy that I’ve returned home? Heck, no. She wants to start her adventures by exploring the hallways. As in outside the front door where the dogs and the cars and every other scary thing to an indoor cat awaits.
For the meantime, I’m allowing her fun… she is sixteen, after all. But in anticipation of the day that she meets the two French Bulldogs who live down the hall, I’ve decided that all her explorations require harness and leash.
She is not amused.
