George

We have a cat.  He is six years old I discovered yesterday, which blew me away because he still acts like a kitten.

He chases his tail because he really doesn’t seem to understand where that thing came from that follows him around.

He zips across the backyard and shoots about three feet up a tree trunk, clings for a moment looking around, and then drops to the ground so he can careen toward the next one.

See the ears?  How they are sort of standing up, but flattened out at the same time?  That means he is getting ready to head for the tree.

Meet Black Kitty.  He visits us so he can mooch food.  We think he is a stray, but must have the neighborhood wired because when he cut his paw, the lady down the street posted his photo and asked if he belonged to anyone.

Black Kitty would like to be friends with George, but George isn’t so sure.  Notice the superior positioning of George.  He inches away when Black Kitty sidles in, then turns his back and ignores Black Kitty.  Black Kitty army crawls toward George and they repeat the maneuver.

He hides under my area rug.  My NEW area rug.  He pushes and prods it with his paws until he flips the edge high enough to get under.  Then George peeks out because there is no way we can see him in his clever hiding space, until he emerges at warp speed to attack a wayward ankle passing by.

Here he is writing his memoirs.  I can just imagine what he says, “These crazy people I live with don’t understand that this is MY chair and if they insist on sitting in it, I am taking over the computer.”  He knows he has it made.  His own chair in the living room, food and water whenever he wants, a quick jump on the table to signal “Let me out”, and a late night door opener.

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