Really - have some dignity!

No, despite what you may believe, that cat laying under the wheelbarrow full of weeds has not gone to that great mouse hunting ground in the sky. She's sleeping.

Noel (the People say she was named that because Santa brought her) is bossy, fussy and often crochety. Despite my attempts to correct her, she believes that MY house and MY yard belong to her, simply because it connects to the house and yard of her People next door.

Her red-haired Person calls her the matriarch of the neighborhood, even she's never had kitten one. And her Person expects the rest of us felines to kowtow to Noel.

Yeah, right.  Personally, I think the world belongs to the young  and adventurous, which would be moi.

My person Cat doesn't understand that either. The other week, I decided since the night was much cooler than the day to take advantage and get a little air. I do tire so of being confined behind doors. Sitting in windows lets me feel a little breeze, but on occasion, I appreciate the feel of grass beneath my feet and the wind in my fur.

Cat has trained well. She knows to leave the back door open a little ways so I can get in when I'm ready to eat or it's time to sleep. And yes, I heard her calling my name and threatening to shut the door, but really. You can't always believe People, you know. Like saying "we're going for a little ride" when in reality, you're being hauled to visit the blasted vet.

BUT SHE DID IT!

That's right, she closed the door and trapped me outside. In the night. With Noel and those other cats that descend upon MY yard.

Fortunately, her Person friend staying with her let me in, told me how much she missed me and told Cat I was back. You'd think if Cat had been so concerned, she'd have gotten her lazy self out of bed and come down to feed me. But no, she simply turned over and went back to sleep.

Although I suppose she can be excused. I saw Cat hauling books out to the car and realized that she's been working hard introducing her new book "Bittersweet" to the People who read. It really is a wonderful story, despite it's lack of a cat anywhere in its pages.


I've advised her that the best books in the world have cats in them, but she's been snippy with me since my 36 hours spent outside. And I fear if I push her too hard, she'll put a cat in all right -- one just like Noel.

I'm telling on her

It's Cat here -- Tabby is sleeping, and I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you what she's been up to. I know she won't.

Tabby is a house cat. She joined the family of me and Maggie, my oversized Sheltie, not quite four years ago. She has established a routine that consists in great part of yelling for food and then yelling at Maggie and me at random.

On occasion, she has decided to take a walk on the wild side and escape out the door when I'm fool enough to give her three inches to slide through. I've started leaving the side door open a foot or so, enough to give her room to come in and not enough for Maggie to get out. Her normal time from escape to sauntering back in is somewhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on the weather and if there are neighborhood cats out there.

Last Monday, she made one of her famous escapes. I left the door open ... but no Tabby.
I left it open when I went to bed, but she was still missing on Tuesday morning.

I expected her to be at the door scolding me when I got home from work Tuesday, but again, there was no mad meow. I began to worry.

By the time I climbed in bed Tuesday, I figured she was gone. My daughter, attempting to reassure me, insisted Tabby would come home when she got hungry. Still, I had this sinking feeling that poor Tabby had tangled with a car or gotten beaten up by the tom cat that prowls the neighborhood and I'd never see her again.

I was wrong. She showed up this morning, demanding to be let in and chowing down as if she'd never been fed before. She made a circuit of the house, ensuring that her favorite places hadn't been touched. She sat on the newel post for a minute, then jumped into the window overlooking the driveway and checked out my desk, where she likes to sleep by the keyboard. Satisfied that her haunts were intact, she climbed onto a basket of laundry in my bedroom and curled up to sleep.

And she's still sleeping. I suspect that wherever she was and whatever she did, it wore her out. I'm hoping, too, that the animal control officer doesn't show up tonight with a warrant for her arrest for graffiti on the vet clinic's wall or an order to lock her up for disorderly conduct while high on catnip.

Or if he does, I can bribe him with a copy of Bittersweet, my new historical romantic suspense from Turquoise Morning Press.