If anyone had told me a year ago I would have a cat in my house, I would have gladly examined their commitment papers.
I am simply not a cat person. We had cats when I was growing up. So, I know their ways. But I never thought I would end up in a cat box as an adult.
My good friend Cor Greive moved back to California at the end of last month. He sold his home to my land lady before he left, and she is doing a bit of remodeling.
And that is where the cat comes in. Cor left his cat, Lety, with the house. Cats and remodeling are not a natural mix.
But there was a natural solution. The upper unit (or upper room, as I call it this religious season) in my duplex is not being rented right now. So, in went the cat. And on went my cat tamer outfit.
My land lady takes care of the cat's major needs. My role is as Royal Jailer.
I have always wanted to appear in one of those period pieces where I do not even know the names of clothing items. "Hand me that round thing that ties to this thingamajig."
Each day I climb the stairs to the royal prisoner's apartment. Lety, Queen of Cats. To bring her the latest news of her exile. And to avoid being won over by her charms -- to grant her full release.
Lety was raised as a house cat. And she quickly acclimated to her new surroundings. But she has watched carefully as I came and went through the door.
Today I decided to let her see more. We spent about two hours wandering through the garden. She had to smell almost everything. As curious as a -- well, you know. (Too many clichés and this essay will capsize.)
Just as the Scottish Queen seduced her jailers, Lety has won me over to her catness. But she was more than willing to return to the safety of her apartments after our walk.
This little tryst is about to end. Lety's house is almost complete. Maybe later this week. And she will then return to her home.
And life here will return to normal. I can then start dreaming of a true pet.
Perhaps -- a chicken.
