Once upon a time, when my children were young, we got a kitten. I hadn’t really planned to get one, at least not right then, but by my estimation, it was all Jenny’s fault.
You see, the kids had a babysitter named Jenny, and Jenny lived on a farm. The farm had cats, the cats had kittens, and the rest, as someone always keeps saying, is history.
At first, this little orange fluff ball was named McGriff. A while later, he was called Gruber, and I think he went through a Mookie phase. Mid-80s Toronto Blue Jays fans will understand this. In the end, the poor confused cat was christened Fuzz Buzz — although not literally, that I know of — and he finally had a name that stuck.
We lived in the country during Fuzz Buzz’s formative years, so he grew up as an outdoor cat. Then, when he was about four years old, we moved to town. I was worried he might get lost in the new neighbourhood, so I told the kids that he would have to stay indoors for a couple of weeks. I hoped that he’d somehow orient himself before going out on his own.
The only problem was, we moved in the summer, and Fuzz Buzz longed to be outdoors. During the day, he sat in the front window and looked outside, but at night he parked himself on our bedroom windowsill, between the curtains and the screen of the open window, and meowed. Most nights, I only had to chase him away once or twice, and then all would be well, but one night he kept returning to the windowsill, singing his plaintive song until I couldn’t take it anymore. Completely frustrated, I sat up in bed and hurled a pillow at the curtain. That brought silence, and I fell asleep, satisfied that I’d taught Fuzz Buzz a good lesson.
The next morning when I opened the curtain, I found, to my horror, that the screen was gone. A quick check confirmed that the cat was gone too. I felt awful. But then, despite the fact that the kids were heartbroken, I started to laugh.
For just one moment, try to imagine being Fuzz Buzz, sitting on the windowsill, safe behind the curtains. Without the briefest warning, you get a solid whack on the back. Can’t you just picture kitty’s green eyes, wide with surprise, when he’s hurled into the darkness beyond the screen, a long A-h-h-h-h-h-h written in the speech bubble above his head? When he finally hit the ground, it’s no wonder he took off. I would have too.
Despite the unorthodox release, however, I’m happy to say that the story ends well. Three days after his surprise launch, Fuzz Buzz came home. Although he never spoke of where he’d been while he was gone, I think he worked through the trauma and decided to forgive us.
From then on, Fuzz Buzz was allowed to be an outdoor cat, and as far as I know, he always stayed close to home.
My cat wants to know what I’m laughing at. 🙂
Tell him/her “Nothing”. Like how women answer when their men ask what’s wrong.
Way too funny!!! Now I don’t know which story makes me laugh more. Your Mom in the tree or this one!! Thanks for another great read.
Thanks, Lynn. I’ll have to tell my Mom that she’s up for a humour award — right along with Fuzz Buzz!
Thank heaven – cat-astrophe averted. Loved your hilariously told tale (or should that be tail?) and could totally relate. We once had a cat called Bollocks (named by my then-teenage children) but I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit this to the staff at the vet’s, bollocks being slang for men’s ahem, equipment in the UK, so I told them his name was Spasm. No wonder he always looked confused when I took him for a checkup. When my mother heard what we were calling him, she was also slightly aghast. “I hope he doesn’t go outside,” she said. “I think I’d feel a bit uncomfortable standing at the back door yelling “Bollocks” everytime I wanted him to come in for food.”
Thanks, Kate. Whenever I remember that story I think of the look that must have been on the cat’s face and laugh all over again. And I have to say, Spasm, Bollocks … both really great names, but perhaps one should stick to Spasm here in “America”!