One of the adventures of having a cat is the chance to oberve a small furry creature and speculate about the details of its rich inner life. Our orange fluff-ball Abby is a perfect example. In the six months or so that she's lived with Catherine and I, we've discovered a fascinating variety of things that freak the hell out of her. I present them here, in no particular order:

1. Closed Doors

   This one is pretty standard. A closed door is a slap in the whiskered face, an assault on the all-important principle that cats rightly deserve the use of any soft or fluffy thing. By closing doors, obviously, we are depriving Abby of precious sniffable, battable, and lay-on-able items. She will bump her face against the door and give us peevish looks for hours.

2. Outside

   Abby is all about pawing at the kitchen door when she's stuck inside. After all, there's obviously a fascinating world of smells and string and meat outside to conquer. She is, after all, an old-school farm cat. The other day we felt bad for her and opened the door and let her out. Then closed the door. Over the course of the next eight to ten seconds, the increasing levels of terror were visible. She dropped to a low hunker on our porch. Meowled piteously. And then -- in the yard next door -- dogs started barking. That was it. Full-on panic and existential angst. After laughing, I opened the door and she shot inside. She spend the next few hours huddled under the bed, battling her inner demons.

3. Vacuum Cleaners

   A peek inside Abby's mind: "Doobeedoo, I'm just sniffing the houseplants and rolling around on the floor, don't mind me, I'm ju--OH SWEET JESUS VACUUM IT'S GOING TO KILL ME MUST RUN, YOU'VE TRAINED FOR THIS DON'T FORGET THE ESCAPE ROUTE--" Rinse, repeat. Maybe her parents were killed by a runaway hoover? There's gotta be something to explain this.

4. My Mother-In-Law

   This is especially baffling, considering the fact that Catherine's mother raised Abby and took care of her for years. Within months of moving from the farm to our apartment, though, Abby demonstrated her goldfish-like emotional memory. Now, when my Mother-in-law arrives to visit, Abby freezes, stares, and bolts. Cue a long afternoon of hiding under the bed!

5. Sitting On My Head

   Cats like sitting on things, right? They like sitting on warm things especially, yes? You'd think that wearing a cat as a fashionable hat would work fine, but no. Not at all. I have learned my lesson.

6. The Doorbell

   It's not a particular offensive or scary doorbell, you know? It's not like we have audio of growling pit bulls, or a Kid606 song playing. Just a run of the mill 'Ding-Dong!' But oh, my. Someone rings that bell and it is immediate red alert panic murderer in the house teleport under the bed and hide for six hours time. Someday, she's going to have to get over this. Her food bowl is in the kitchen, and she might need to get to it while the doorbell is still lurking.

7. Supplies Running Low

   A peek inside Abby's mind: "Dum-de-dum... I'm just eating my kibble... Munch munch mu... er..." Pause now for a furtive look. "Uh... Uhoh. I'm out of food now. I wonder if they know. Hey... Guys? GUYS? I'm out of food, you know." Another pause. "Guys? No, seriously, what if I'm hungry again in an hour? GUYS? OH MY GOD THEY'RE UPSTAIRS AND THEY CAN'T HEAR ME WE'RE ALL GOING TO STARVE SWEET JESUS I'M TOO PRETTY TO DIE--" Rinse. Repeat.

8. The Basement

   This seems to be a cross between Outside, and Closed Doors. Whenever we open the basement door, Abby trots over and stares cautiously down the stairs. It's a steep staircase, to be sure, but that hasn't bothered her before. Here, though, she just staaaares intensely. Reaches a paw out to touch the first step... then darts back. Rinse, repeat. She really, truly, desperately wants to go into the basement but it wigs her out. I think she need another cat to dare her.

9. Accidentally Wrapping Herself Up In A Few Meters Of Yarn

   I guess this one goes without saying, but it never fails to amuse me. She'll dive in and attack a pile of yarn, roll around in it, and get tangled up. She stands, walks away, and realizes that OH MY GOD IT'S FIGHTING BACK. And so begins the epic battle...

10. Ceiling Lights

    I guess I'm partially to blame for this one. One day, I decided Abby needed a change of pace. So I picked her up and held her high above my head and carried her around the house, giving her a flying tour. She seemed to think this was pretty cool, peering all over and studying her surroundings with kitty-fascination. "Everything looks so tiny!" and stuff like that. Things she had only ever glimpsed from afar were suddenly within sniffing distance! Unfortunately, that included a large ceiling lamp. As she passed it, she batted at it. It swung away, and that cruel mistress Physics swung it right back. Into Abby's nose. The scratches and scars on my arms and shoulders healed up nicely, but to this day Abby can't walk into a room without staring, paranoid, at the ceiling light. She knows it's going to jump her. She just knows.

After the wedding, Catherine moved into my (our!) apartment and we set about reshuffling the layout and decor to suit a married couple and their foofy cat. Part of the reshuffling has involved moving both of our computers to a second bedroom and establishing a makeshift "work/writing/gaming room."

This is fine and good and working out well until we find a house to move into once the lease runs out. The only hitch is, well... the goldfinch.

There is, you see, a tiny yellow bird that flies, every day, to the window in our workroom. He clings to the screen and pecks desperately at the glass, ratta-tatta-tatta style, like a tiny confused woodpecker. Or... glasspecker? Something like that. Every morning, every afternoon -- he's there, desperately tapping out his SOS to the universe. [[Abby]], our fluffy orange cat, has been adjusting well to apartment life and has now taken to sitting beneath the windowsill, staring intently up at the goldfinch's usual spot. When he arrives (tappatappatappa!) she stares -- really, really stares -- and mouths idly, drooling perhaps, or fantasizing about broiled or roasted goldfinch. The bird, obvlivious, taps on.

One of these days, I think I'm going to find Abby with a glass cutter and a bottle of catsup.

UPDATE: Catherine has decided to name the goldfinch Henry. I approve.