I adopted Hannah, now 12 years old, when she was just a wee bit who fit in my hands and had a curlicue in her tail. I already had an adult cat, Choji, and so he and I were – and I still am – responsible for raising her. I give him his due credit; I shoulder any blame.
I’m not so sure how that experiment is going.
After 12 years, you would think I’d have a better idea.
This story is a perfect example.
Hannah has a “cat door” through which she can enter the utility room. There she tends to what she, very lady-like, might call taking care of her necessities.
One weekend morning, I loaded the dryer with some clothes, turned it on, and went to take a shower. Nothing like a calm, warm shower.
Without warning came the most horrific sound I had ever heard.
If you have ever been within earshot of a fox crying, there you have it.
Or maybe a military A-10 Thunderbolt – famously known as a “Warthog” or “Hog” – firing its 50mm rounds overhead. Enemy lines famously haul ass at the sound of a Warthog’s whirring cannon.
“OH F___,” I thought in an instant, Hannah is in the dryer.
Completely naked, never so quickly have I covered the distance between two points than I did at that moment. Have you ever fried your cat?
I threw open the utility door and immediately slammed the dryer’s stop button. My heart rate was about 310.
And then I saw her. On top of the dryer.
There sat Hannah, as calm as a tortoise munching on greens, grooming her paws.
This is a cat who knew precisely what she had done.
She looked at me—mission accomplished—jumped from down from the dryer, and walked away, her voice no doubt a bit hoarse.
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That's hilarious.
SHE was the noise. She was screaming to mess with me. And she knew exactly what she was doing. I should add a clause about her voice being hoarse. :)
Cats are gonna cat!