Prisoners!
Well, She did it
again.
Mummy absolutely
wreaked havoc at the old homestead this week, incarcerating innocent kits
without their consent yet ultimately denying she was to blame!
You see, Dear Reader,
there is a room at the top of the stairs (not Dad’s study which has full and
ready access via the balcony – Dad and Mummy’s feeble attempt at preventing kit
entrances by installing a door is, at best, laughable).
But I digress…
This alluring space,
known as The Spare Room, is full of nooks and crannies and fun-looking boxes
and general “thingies” - the kind of stuff that simply begs to be explored! Unfortunately,
Mummy has an official (albeit UNposted) rule about this room: to wit, that no
cats are allowed to venture within a 12 mile radius on penalty of death, citing
some mindless chatter about cats destroying Dad’s study and not getting a
chance at this one. I am sure I do not know what she is talking about. I would
point out, however, that the house is, er, not far enough away to meet the
12-mile-radius rule but with the Mumster it would hardly be any good. All must
obey or face her wrath!
The point of this
monologue is to stress how calculating Mummy can be, as in the case of our
unlawful imprisonment just a few nights ago. What happened was this: Mummy is
allowed to enter The Spare Room, no doubt a ruling of her own device. So in she
went those few nights ago, closing the door firmly behind her to ensure we
fuzzikins were left out on the dark landing, only able to listen to the
fantastical sounds of digging and shifting and opening things up (as opposed to
being the makers of such joyful noises). We are confident she enjoys tormenting
us in this fashion.
After much combing
through things and unstacking then restacking boxes, Mummy emerged with an
armful of goodies, some of which I was secretly hoping would be left out for my
later perusal. In the meantime, her arms were a bit overloaded which I, being
the astute observer of motherkind that I am, quickly realized meant that she
could not see goings-on beneath her feet. Furthermore, as she exited the SR,
she gently pulled the door toward her then be-bopped down the stairs, confident
she had once more teased us and left us hanging.
Only some of us were
a bit too clever for her this time. I don’t like to boast but old Gussie can
move pretty stealthily as the situation requires, and this situation DID
require! You see, Mummy, I also noticed, had failed to close the door
completely. And it was with me the work of a moment to dash in and begin
exploring before Mummy could say, “Where are you?” I mean to say, you can’t
expect a cat to ignore the potential of such an environment - it isn’t human
nature!
What is more, Poppet
was apparently of the same mindset. So in we went, with one quick backward
glance to ensure we had eluded notice, then settled in for an hour or so, we
thought, of fun.
After a while, the
two of us grew a bit tired from all our exploring [we managed to unwrap two new
down pillows, shred a roll of paper towels, and topple a stack of boxes, spilling
the contents across the carpet], so we settled in for a quick nap before Mummy
came back to get us. Poppet chose one of the down pillows for his snooze while
I opted for one of the [now-empty] boxes (it always pays to be safe, even in
the Storage Room). I melted into sleep, dreamily thinking of having a nice
crunchy snack in a few minutes….
I woke to the sound
of someone’s tummy growling, probably Poppet’s, then realized it was really
dark. Who turned out the lights, I asked myself. My Self responded with a sense
of panic and chattering teeth. It appeared we had been hoodwinked – no doubt
the old Mumster had discovered our fell deed, came all the way back upstairs,
opened the door softly so as not to disturb our rest, switched off the light,
then slithered back down the stairs to enjoy her evening without us. A bit odd,
I thought, as she normally would have unceremoniously tossed us out on our ears
under the circs. Still, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided she was
trying to teach us a lesson.
After a while of
waiting and listening, I grew a bit apprehensive that this lesson was being
carried a bit too far. After all, I am a quick learner – it had already sunk in
that I was missing out on my midnight snack. This time it was my tummy
growling!
The predicament, of
course, is that I was unable to say anything on the off chance Mummy actually
did not know we were harbored in The Forbidden Place. So it was for me to
settle in and wait.
Mummy had to come
back in this room eventually.
Didn’t she?
I am pretty sure she
does so at least once a week.
Poppet was not so
easily sated. He determined to remove us from this dreadful situation at all
costs. And his determination paid off! After poking around a bit, he discovered
that the door was not even closed all the way, just sort of pushed to (I had to
admit not recalling either of us shutting it…).
This was the best
news ever!
I was truly excited
to realize my worst fears were highly exaggerated and we would be eating tuna
in no short order….
To my mind, it was
merely a matter of reaching a paw under the door (I have done this a bazillion
times when investigating the pantry) and sliding the door open while making our
way to freedom. Only Poppet thought trying to reach for the knob made more
sense - never mind that he does not possess an opposable thumb. So as I slipped
my oversized clod hopper beneath the door, he simultaneously raised up and
reached for the knob….
Do you know what
happens when an overly rotund cat leans heavily on an open door?
No?
I will tell you!
The door closes.
As in shut.
The house was all
quiet. My head hung low as I slinked back to my box; it was going to be a long
night.
Next morning, Poppet
was bright eyed and ready to go with another clever plan: annoy the bajeezies
out of Mummy with his infamous “door scratching” (it is successful downstairs,
rousting her out of bed at any unfashionable hour to quell the incessant
scraping). Here is how it works: Poppet stands against the door and moves his
paws in rapid succession up and down the door panels until that “claws on a
chalkboard” sound can no longer be tolerated. Then appears Mummy with that reproving
tone and Poppet sails to the other end of the house, well out of arms’ reach.
He waited until he
heard the delicious sounds of tuna being dished out in heaping spoonfuls to the
other cats, then he let loose with a raucous scratching that could no doubt be
heard in China.
Nothing at first. He
paused, then resumed the beloved annoying action. Then it came – the first sign
that Mummy was actually paying attention: she yelled at Poppet (for she knew it
was he) to “Stop that infernal racket!” He paused again to refresh then once
more went at it, picking up the pace. By this time it had become apparent that
Mummy was now exploring to rout out the offense, and ultimately made her way up
the stairs after smartly tracking the sound down.
The door burst open,
flinging Poppet backward into a niche behind, where he stayed, crouching in
abject fear as he was certain Mummy was on a death mission (he only has a
couple of lives left, I think). I, on the other paw, oddly had just lowered my
head below the edge of the box at the moment she entered the room (Mummy was
sure I was hiding but actually I had just noticed a small movement in the box
and wanted to ensure it wasn’t a creepy spider or some such creature).
To make a long story
short, we were falsely accused of breaking and entering, then predictably
unceremoniously tossed out on our ears. I tried to explain about the
[potential] spider but she wasn’t having any of it. I glanced at Poppet, fellow
prisoner, and realized he hadn’t an ounce of care.
He appears to be feeling quite smug about the
whole thing.
And Mummy just noticed
the collateral damage in the SR so I think it best to drop the matter and slither
back down the stairs to where dinner awaits!
