Soooo…mom has had the sickies the last few days and that’s why we haven’t been around much.
I finally gave mom this face…
And she said that okay, she would help me do a bloggie post but on one condition.
SHE got to write it! WHAT? Can you believes the nerve?
But then she told me she wanted to write abouts my angel kitteh-sisfur, Annabelle, and well, how could I say no to that?
So here’s my mom!
Annabelle was my heart-cat and the smartest cat I’ve ever known. She went through at least 9 lives and everyone in our family has an Annabelle story. This is my personal favorite.
Annabelle adopted our family when I was in high school, over the strenuous and frequent protests of my stepfather who, at every opportunity, let the family know he did NOT like “damn cats.” Annabelle was fine with this because, as it turns out, she did NOT like “damn stepfathers.”
In fact, Annabelle had a well-defined hierarchy when it came to the humans in the house. Stepdad at the very bottom. My sister K and I at the very top.
Because she was an indoor/outdoor cat, the family would leave the patio door open to allow her easy entry and exit during nice weather. One spring night after I was at college and while my sister was at a high school function, Annabelle came in from outside. As usual, she ignored my parents and made a beeline for my sister’s room which was directly off the living room.
A few seconds later, Annabelle suddenly re-emerged and stared intensely at my parents. When neither of them moved, she began to meow.
Now, this was unusual, as Annabelle was a cat of few words. Both my parents thought it a little odd, but ignored her and continued watching their tv show.
Unsatisfied with this response, Annabelle walked over to my mother and meowed even more loudly. Once again, she was ignored.
At this point, Annabelle strode purposefully to my stepfather, positioned herself squarely in front of him, and meowed yet again with unmistakable urgency and irritation. You have to understand how extraordinary this was. Annabelle never chose to be in the same room with my stepfather, and certainly never stooped to address him directly. THIS got their attention. Perplexed, my stepfather looked at my mother and said, “What the HELL has gotten into that damn cat?”
About this time, something caught his eye. Turning, he saw this coming out of my sister’s room…
Note: Not actual possum.
Now, let me just pause the action for a moment. The thing I always find most remarkable about this story is that, upon encountering a wild animal in “her” room, Annabelle didn’t take refuge in another room. She didn’t escape outside. No. Instead, she made the conscious decision to approach my parents, knowing they were the only ones who could do anything about the intruder. She told them, as plainly as she could, “Excuse me. There is a very large, very hairy, very UGLY beast in my room. And I demand you do something about it at once!”
Was it her fault if they didn’t speak fluent cat?
Anyway, from what I have been told, all hell broke loose at this point. My stepfather leaped from his recliner and quickly pulled on his cowboy boots after realizing that his typical tv-watching apparel of tighty-whiteys and an undershirt would be insufficient for confronting such a dangerous beast. Moving just as quickly, my mother grabbed a broom and handed it to him, which he wielded above his head like a hatchet. Confronted by this alarming spectacle, the possum did the only logical thing a possum could do.
It ran upstairs.
My parents – once they recovered from the surprise of finding that the possum did not actually, you know, play possum – followed quickly behind.
About the time they reached the top of the stairs, they saw the possum disappear into my brother’s room. My brother, who was about 9 at the time, was fast asleep. Creeping into the room, my parents watched in horror as the possum clambered onto the bed and tight-roped its way along the headboard, its tail trailing across my brother’s face. They stood frozen, terrified to wake my brother who, in turn, might startle the animal into some sort of frenzied possum-mauling. Once on the other end of the headboard, the possum ran down the length of the bed, jumped to the floor and out the bedroom door.
The possum rodeo was back on!
Finally, with some effort – and no shortage of cursing – the possum was herded back outside, much to my parents’ and the possum’s relief.
And where was Annabelle during this melee? Stretched out happily on my sister’s bed, satisfied that she had done her part in vanquishing the beast from her kingdom.
From that day on, I think my stepfather developed a kind of grudging respect for the “damn cat,” although he would never admit it. I can assure you, however, that the feeling was NOT mutual. Annabelle never did care much for “damn stepfathers” (or possums) as long as she lived.
