ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, January 22, 1996 TAG: 9601220090
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-7 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Monty S. Leitch
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
THE CAT has cabin fever.
Which is pretty goofy, considering he hasn't been inside any more lately than he ever is.
The Man of the House contends that, even under normal circumstances, cats sleep an average 22 out of every 24 hours. "You," he says, looking at the cat of this house, "sleep even more than that."
It's probably true. I've never timed it, so I don't know. Some of those hours, I'm sleeping, too.
What I do know is that last night, when I wanted very much to be sleeping, too, the cat was most assuredly not sleeping, and he was letting it be known that he wanted me not to sleep, as well.
"Meow, meow, meow," he insisted, in a very loud voice. Which I took to mean, "Come on, get up. Play with me! Give me milk!"
He was restless, frisky, full of spit and vinegar. His little cat feet sounded more like the hooves of thundering herds.
Thundering herds moving very, very quickly from one room to another.
From the bedroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bedroom. (This route involves a flight of hollow, wooden steps.)
Many thumps. Many bangs. At last, a bump in the night that sent me downstairs to investigate. It turned out to be the flashlights, forcibly removed from their place on the windowsill.
(This, by the way, is the most mysterious symptom of Wilbur's cabin fever: his terrible desire to look out the windows. He sits for hours, staring through the Venetian blinds at an outdoor landscape that, even under the best of circumstances, he seldom visits. What could he possibly be thinking? "Oh, let me out, let me out! Oh, just for a moment, to be out there in that glorious wilderness, with the birds and the squirrels and the little dry leaves blowing around in the breezes. The breezes! Wait a minute.
"Breezes? That means `wind,' doesn't it? That means `cold.' Think I'll lie on the couch for a while after all.")
Last night, after I'd replaced the flashlights on the windowsill, I said, in a very firm voice, "You may not have any more milk today."
Then I went back to bed.
So, he came and began toying with the quilt. Attacking, first, the edges that hang over. Then leaping onto the bed and attacking my feet under the quilt. Finally, when that had no effect, attacking my hair.
Now, this business with my hair is one of his regular teases. It can be offered affectionately; last night, there was definite malice.
So I flung him from my bed, then threw a pillow at him for good measure.
Thunder, thunder, thunder, down the steps again.
But two minutes later I hear his footsteps. Then, "Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow!"
Finally, I did what I should have done at the very beginning: I shut the bedroom door.
This morning, the cat is looking completely blameless. Innocent. Well-rested. Sometimes, when asked why I have a cat, I say, "To explain odd noises in the house." If you have a cat, when you're home alone in the dark, you can justify any creak or squeak or unusual thump by saying, "Oh, that's just the cat." Then, you can relax. Go back to sleep. Whatever.
However, as is ever the case in life, this reassurance has its trade-offs.
"Wilbur!" I found myself screaming last night, "Go to sleep!"
Which had no effect on the cat at all, and woke me up completely.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
LENGTH: Medium: 70 linesby CNB