Last evening, I headed for bed at the usual time (much to the dismay of my step-daughter who is with us for the month). “You guys are sooooo boring”, she retorted, “Can’t we do something fun?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her, that I couldn’t think of one thing, that a 17-year old might consider “fun” on a Friday evening, at 9PM, in the Mount Washington Valley (we had already taken her for ice cream, which is about as fun as it gets).
Instead of retiring with me, the boys remained behind, playing with their “sister.” I listened to her half giggle, half scream as Rascal “dive bombed” her legs. I overhear her say to her dad, “that cat scares me”.
I fell into a deep slumber, which was abruptly interrupted at midnight by Rascal’s distressed “help me” meow. I sleepily tugged on light and must admit that I had a good laugh at his expense. “John will never believe this one”, I thought.
I leave a heavy sweatshirt at the foot of my bed. The weather in the mountains is unpredictable; I like to have something warm nearby, as hot August days can quickly turn to Autumn-like coolness after the sun sets.
This particular night it was a bit warm, no sweatshirt needed. At bedtime, I had flicked on the ceiling fan.
The cats don’t particularly like the fan. Devons enjoy warmth. Jackson spends many hours lounging on the warm cable box, pressing himself against a hot laptop fan or inside a recently used, steamy shower stall; Rascal enjoys relaxing in the sauna, soon after a human exits, while it’s still toasty (he would prefer join us, but Alfred our Vet has advised against cats in the sauna – yes, I called him to inquire – so Rascal sits at the glass door impatiently begging – meow, scratch, scratch, scratch, meow scratch, scratch, scratch).
I digress. Last evening, Rascal, in an attempt to escape from the fan’s coolness, had crawled into the sleeve of the sweatshirt. He had dug himself in so deeply that he was unable to free himself.
Visualize Winnie the Pooh, “stuck” in Rabbit’s hole.
Poor Rascal was intently “digging”, in an attempt to exit through the tiny armhole. He then tried to project himself backwards, feet wildly pumping. Perfect candidate for “America’s Funniest Home Video”. But alas, the camera wasn’t handy and even if it were, I could imagine the judges thinking, “It has to be staged, how could a cat do this to himself?”
I grabbed the sweatshirt in one hand, his behind in the other and pulled to release my plump little boy. Laughing, I kissed his head. So much for “cat proofing” the house; but perhaps a new twist to encourage my husband to pick up his “dangerous” dirty clothing and store it in the hamper instead of on the bedroom floor!!
My Devon Rex Kittens 