In making my daily (2x, 3x, 4x daily) cat-creeping rounds, I stumble across many true treasures. Recently, I ran headlong into Mike.
“Dear Erica Quinn,” Katie wrote, in response to my request to hear more about Mike and to share him with you kind and enthusiastic people, “Please feel free to sample your favorite pictures of Mike’s bath for your blog. He will surely be happy that something good came of such a horrific event.”
His story is thus:
Mike came to live with me and my boyfriend, Ryan, in September, having been born in June, so he knows the outdoors. He will sit on window ledges and look longingly outside at the strays, and sometimes I think he has faint memories of the freedom of his infanthood.
Friday I came home from work and opened a few windows since it had been so warm out. As I opened the kitchen window, Mike threw himself down on the kitchen floor and rolled around attractively, trying to coax me into petting his belly so he could then do his favorite thing: biting hands. I was not tricked. I went upstairs and took a shower.
When I came back down, Mike was gone. I looked at the window and saw the corner of the screen was out a little, and thought, “Oh, we’ll have to fix that soon.” But I didn’t think much of Mike’s absence because he generally hangs out in our basement. He didn’t reappear when Ryan’s sister arrived, but we all assumed he was being unsociable.
We got home around 11:30p, and were greeted by no cat, which is a VERY unusual thing for Mike. Myself, Ryan, and Emma searched the whole house and Mike was gone. I remembered the screen, opened the window, and found that the whole bottom of the screen came out when I pushed on it. Mike had escaped through the kitchen window.
We went outside with a spotlight and searched everywhere. I decided to wait until the morning. We couldn’t see and a spotlight in a populated neighborhood would bring trouble. Ryan decided to give one last look. He saw something move on the Old Lady’s porch next door, and when he turned the light on it, two cats ran. One was orange and ran toward the Old Lady’s house. The other was striped and ran under our porch. Upon identifying Mike, Ryan coaxed him out with soft words and snatched him up when he got close enough.
When Mike came inside he seemed to hardly care he was home, though I’m sure in his heart he was happy. Until we decided he was filthy and might have gotten fleas from the myriad of neighborhood cats and he must be bathed.
That is where the pictures can tell the rest of the story. I hear a picture is worth 1000 words.