Mole-Kitty

You've probably heard me talk about my cat, Doolittle. He's the second cat I've ever owned... er, i mean, cohabitated with, because no one really owns a cat, do they? Dogs have owners; cats have support staff.

My first cat, Luci, was a beautiful tortie I adopted through PetSmart. She was only about six months old, playful and energetic and a total shock to me, a lifelong dog person.

She had to go everywhere -- climb everywhere -- and stick her nose in everything. I finally understood why they say, "Curiosity killed the cat." She made me laugh as much as she exasperated me. If I painted, Luci would chase the brush. If I got on the computer, Luci would try to catch the cursor. If I wore earrings that dangled, she seemed sure that they were play toys for her amusement. (Having a cat's claw stuck in your earrings is NOT fun. I don't recommend it.)

I named her Luci because I liked the idea of coming home each day and calling, "Lu-ci! I'm home!" in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. (And more often than not: "Luci, you got some 'splaing to do!"... and yes, the disparity in the spelling was deliberate.)

Luci simply could not be kept in the house -- every time I opened the door, I felt like a bush league hockey goalie competing with Wayne Grestsky.

Once a cat gets out, well, you can pretty much give up on ever catching them. I mean, dogs will lead you on a chase, but you can outsmart them eventually. Cats can climb trees and leap tall fences with a single bound. They are... Super Kitty!

I chased Luci around the neighborhood time and time again. Finally one day, winded and out of patience, I just said "Fine, stay out if you want!"

For several months, Luci would go out -- never intentionally, as I really did not want her outdoors -- and come back after an hour or so.

Then one day, she didn't. I was devastated, searched for her everywhere, by car and on foot. Posted signs. Went to the pounds and shelters. Knocked on my neighbors doors.

I hope that because she was such a friendly cat, someone took her in and simply kept her. But that's the story of my first cat.

I wasn't sure I was ready for another, but a friend of mine, whose home has become a sort of feline Mecca for strays, asked me to take Doolittle in. He'd been hanging out in her back yard for months, and she was afraid that the coming winter would be the end of him.

So, I took Doolittle home with me. He was already a big, fat cat, and living with me has not changed that. I have no idea how old he is, but he's definitely a ways from kittenhood. He earned his name honestly, by doing very little. He's not quite as entertaining as Luci was, but he will let me paint in peace.

When I first got him, Doolittle had a serious problem with bare ankles. He couldn't resist pouncing on them. Legs with socks and pants and shoes didn't interest him. Only bare flesh sang to him with a siren's song. Doolittle wrapped both front legs around the aforementioned ankle and sank little cat fangs into the lower calf. Even at five in the morning, making a groggy trip to the bathroom, I would find myself dragging a fifteen pound cat across the floor. He was like a Ninja kitty, streaking out of the shadows and latching onto my ankle.

He's gotten a lot better about this. I think that a few months of my screams and curses finally got it through his pea-sized brain that I didn't enjoy the game as much as he did. He will still pounce once in a while, but more gently. He hardly ever draws blood anymore.

Doolittle will occasionally get past me out into the big, bad world. But he always goes to the same bushes by the front door, and sits there meowing miserably as if already regretting his dash for freedom. Of course, he will retreat further into the bushes when I try to retrieve him, eventually leading me through the neighbor's rose bushes. But I always manage to drag him out, usually with a final howl of outrage at being pried out of a rose bush. I don't know why he's whining; I'm the one bleeding.

But today we played one of Doo's favorite games. Mole-kitty. Whenever I change the bed sheets, Doo gets on the bed and stubbornly refuses to move. So I just throw the sheets over him and go about making up the bed.

He will sit there for several moments, just this large lump under the sheets. Then he moves from one side to the other; from the top to the bottom. Finally, after about five minutes, he will poke his head out and jump to freedom.

So, for your consideration... photos of Doolittle playing Mole-Kitty.