The winds of change are a-blowin' over at the Kautz house. Somebody (no names mentioned) has decided that our yard, full of lovely perennials, shady hostas, birdies-a-plenty, and a yummy fish-filled pond, is just not good enough for a certain stripey kitty. Nope. The minute his not-so-pink paws hit the patio, homeboy heads for the fence and the new neighbors yard. Ugh.
I'm not sure when this started, but Hobbes has had enough of us and our tiny perimeters. Instead of our safe, little yard, he would much rather dig around in 8 foot high weeds and brambles. He sits in Weeds-R-Us rather than nap under the leaves of a hosta garden. He comes home, his tail loaded with burrs and his paws muddied from neglected backyards. Sigh. He's a beer-guzzling bum in an upscale Manhattan lounge when he's at home. There, he's a pig knee-deep in slop.
Immune to gentle name calls and a sweet "Where's the kitty?"--Hobbes has been suddenly rendered deaf to our calls. He will sit, literally 10 feet from us, just on the other side of a rickety fence, completely ignoring the fact that we request his stripey self on our side of the property line. Control is the issue, I guess. Isn't it always about control?
Night after night, we pace the yard, calling for him to come home. We can't just hop over the fence and grab him--there were a few police officers a year or so back, that told us we couldn't cross the property line. Okay, so that weirdo neighbor has since moved, and even though we weren't in Greta Garbo's yard, she was convinced we had nightly parties there and called the police on us--over and over again. So, with that on record over at the Weirdville Police Station, I don't want to give them any credence to their visits in the past--I'm not going anywhere past my fence.
So, there he sits--just out of reach. And there we sit--helpless 10 feet away. I swear that cat is smiling.
Joe met his limit last night, threatening to lock him out. Yeah, like Fred Flintstone, Joe metaphorically put the cat out for the night. And then Em went all nuts with worry, Col hopped the border and grabbed his stripey hiney.
"You're IN!" Joe was yelling. "You are in FOREVER!" he was pointing in Hobbes's face. And then he turned to us, "DO NOT let him out, EVER!" Joe was putting his foot down big time. And we all kinda just looked at Joe like "yeah, whatever" and went to bed.
Morning came and Hobbes started the MeowFest that was his rebellion to the new house arrest. Twenty minutes of loud meowing and Joe shushing was too much for me at that early hour and we had to let him out. But he went out with rules: Hobbes is coming in, like it or not, by 7:30. Before darkness. Before we all yell and call for the knucklehead. Before we are all fighting over whether or not he'll be camping out for the night. We will have our secret weapon, Col the Fence Jumper Extraordinaire, on hand for our heavy artillery.
So, the battle has yet to be started. He lingers in tall grass over in enemy territory as I type, but I'm planning the strategy. I'll start with a few sweet calls, perhaps a shake of the cat treat bag to entice him to the fence, and then.....whammo! Col jumps in and grabs his butt. Sounds good, eh?? Yeah, I just hope he doesn't employ his anti-grab-me shield and foil the whole darn plan.