literature

Kitty Rescue

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     My family has a soft spot for cute, fuzzy animals. This, along with a slight lack of self-preservation instinct, led us to our current menagerie of one aging hundred pound Newfoundland, four cats, and enough stray hair to plug up the Amazon River. The cats, which were adopted in pairs two years apart, have their own social interactions so complex that a dedicated cultural anthropologist could choose them as the subject for a dissertation. The oldest of the three male cats is a Himalayan by the name of Feodor. Feodor, while a kind and well meaning animal, can sometimes be a bit slow on the uptake. This isn’t to say that he’s stupid, but he does have times when his attention span can only be likened to that of a hummingbird with ADHD that had just downed three espressos and a line of crack. This particular mood can best be initiated with a simple mirror by reflecting sunlight onto a wall. Indeed, most cats might initially take chase after the illusionary intruder, but they would quickly lose interest after swatting at nothing and, certainly, after losing sight of their foe. Feodor, on the other hand, continues his hunt well into the night, meowing his confused, high-pitched displeasure in five-second intervals for the entirety thereof. Despite his occasional slide into borderline insanity, he is an affectionate kitty whom we love dearly. It is thus only natural that we sometimes go out of our way to save him from himself.
     Last Wednesday (14-11-07), I was having a quiet dinner in my campus apartment when I received a call from my mom, who was laughing so hysterically that it took a few minutes to understand what she was saying. Apparently, she had been cleaning around the house after the construction workers that had been repairing the cracking drywall in certain rooms. Those workers, planning to return the next day to continue the job, had left their tools in the family room. Among these tools was a twenty foot ladder that they had propped up against the two-story living room wall next to the upstairs walkway. As my mom was clearing up some of the plaster dust, she heard an odd scratching sound. Looking around, she eventually discovered the cause. Feodor, like some sort of feline Edmund Hillary, had climbed the twenty foot ladder and realized that he could not climb back down. Jumping was also out of the question, as the hardwood floor was not particularly receptive to landings, especially at terminal velocity. He thus stood there scratching at his little metal prison and mewling despondently. My quick thinking mother took a large plastic storage bin in which we usually store whatever it is that is meant to be stored in large plastic storage bins, emptied it, and held it out to Feodor from the nearby walkway. Feodor gratefully got into the bin and was pulled to safety. Just as my mom had put the storage bin back into its native closet habitat, she again heard the same odd scratching sound. It turns out that Feodor, having just been saved from certain death, had immediately rushed downstairs and climbed the ladder again. It was at this point that my mother had broken down in manic laughter and decided to call me. Afterwards, she repeated the trick with the storage bin and wrapped the ladder in plastic so that Feodor would not repeat this game ad nauseam.
     A good laugh was had by all and the incident was practically forgotten until around two AM on Saturday. I had gotten up in the wee hours of the morning for the nominal reason and heard an odd scratching sound. Sure enough, Feodor had once again climbed the ladder and gotten stuck. Momentarily wrestling with the idea of leaving him to pay for his stupidity and going back to bed, I eventually decided that I had to get him down. This time, however, the ladder was propped against the wall opposite the walkway, and there was no easy way to reach the suicidal cat. I was going to have to climb the ladder. Pulling on some pants so as not to flash any insomniac neighbors through the bay window halfway up the wall on which the ladder was propped, I made my way downstairs. As an afterthought, I woke and warned my parents, since I had no desire to be mistaken for an intruder half-way up the ladder. If this sounds like an odd idea, you’ve obviously never had shoes thrown at you while going to get a midnight drink.
     At the top of the ladder, I realized that I had no real way of holding Feodor, who is a large and fluffy kitty, and climbing down at the same time. At this point I gave in to my fatalistic side, draped the cat on my shoulder, and half climbed, half slid back down to the floor. To his credit, Feodor seemed to understand that he was being rescued and did not dig his sharp little claws into my bare back, possibly even realizing that his life would be forfeit at the first attempt. I got him down and immediately wrapped the ladder up. By the time I got upstairs, however, Feodor had found the smaller stepladder, made his nonchalant way to the top step, and began the familiar discouraged wailing. Ruing my good-for-nothing conscience, I once again took the idiot down from his perch and smothered the ladder in plastic, fighting the urge to do the same to the cat. After so much excitement, I threw myself back in bed and fell promptly asleep. Suffice it to say, we now make sure to safety-proof anything that can potentially facilitate feline stupidity.
This is a true story. Any resemblance to real life is purely intentional.
© 2007 - 2024 Iavas
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