A Puddin' Tale or is it Tail?

If laughter is good for the soul, then my soul is in good shape after Puddin’s recent adventure.  Puddin’ is our one-year old kitty, the youngster of the household.  We waited six months after our 22-year old cat went to kitty heaven, before we adopted Puddin’.  As you can well imagine, we had grown accustomed to our elderly cat, who spent most of her time under the wood burning stove in the winter or in a sun spot in warmer seasons.  Moving quickly had not been in her repertoire for many years, and she had long since given up any attempt to jump on counters, tabletops or windowsills. Puddin’, on the other hand, is a small ball of energy who expects to go anywhere she pleases—kitchen counters, dining room table and chairs, bookshelves, file drawers, you name it.

My husband and I were watching TV when I heard thundering footsteps overhead.  I was momentarily stunned, thinking, “Puddin’ is too small to make all that noise; the dogs are here with us; they don’t move that fast anyway; what can be going on up there?”

Suddenly, Puddin’ came racing down the stairs dragging a paper shopping bag behind her. The best I could tell as she did figure eights around the downstairs was that one of the handles was caught around her little body. She frenetically cycled through the dining room, kitchen and living room, with us laughing and trying to catch her all the while.  I’ve never seen her move that quickly for so long.

Finally, she ran through the four-inch opening under the coffee table and came to an abrupt stop.  When I got down on my hands and knees to help her, I discovered the bag had gotten caught on the edge of the coffee table and come off.  I was envisioning having to gingerly pull her and the bag out without choking her, and I had to wonder if she was smart enough to know the bag couldn’t make it through the opening.

Meanwhile, we were still laughing hysterically, though I was a tad worried she might have hurt herself.  She stayed in that spot for an hour, until I heard a faint meow and went to check on her.  It was such a soft meow, I was afraid she might have sprained a paw or something worse.  It turned out she was just talking in her sleep, perhaps dreaming of being chased by a big brown DSW shoe store bag.  I pulled her out, checked her out and let her go back to sleep in my lap. 

When we headed upstairs for the night, I was anticipating seeing a path of destruction from the bag adventure.  When I saw a shirt in the guest room doorway, I realized she’d found the bag by the bookcase where I had planned to load it with books to take to the library sale.  From there, she had run by the ironing board and dislodged the shirt but, thankfully, not the iron.  I consider myself fortunate that she didn’t try to jump on my desk or our dressers in her attempt to lose her shadow. There’s no telling what I would have found in that case.

If you don’t care for cats, you may be wondering why we found this entertaining and not disturbing, or why we’d be more than willing to clean up any mess she made and go on loving her. More than likely, you’d agree with this quote:

There is, incidentally, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person.

So be it; color me insane.