Actually, her name is Lola, because—you guessed it—whatever she wants, she gets. She is a snow-white little long-haired American Short-hair, which means she’s just a regular white cat, with a blotch of grey on her forehead between her ears. But she has a very very thick coat, which she usually keeps quite clean, in the typical manner of cats. Which means that she licks off all the grime in her fur, and swallows it, ew. It doesn’t seem to do her any harm. (A lot of her fur comes off with the grime, which she skillfully converts into hairballs, and regurgitates.)
She was, in fact, a rescue, all the way from Danville. My wife just wanted a white cat, and looked up white cats on Google, located one in Danville, and the result was Lollipop. She had just been spayed (the cat, of course), and was looking just a little mistrustful, and resentful, and misanthropic, and resisted getting tossed in the cat-carrier, but we brought her to Lycoming County, where we live, and turned her loose in our home.
For a while, she hid under the furniture, but eventually she made peace with us, and ate the food, and went out the back door, and absorbed the neighborhood into her territory, as cats will do. We already had a cat, Bigfoot, beloved of Lycoming math students. But Lols did not let anything like seniority get in her way. Within a few weeks, we observed Lols fearlessly approaching Bigfoot, and insist on performing some sort of grooming operation on him, which he did not care for. There was a brief argument, but in the end, it was Bigfoot who retreated under the furniture in defeat, not Lols.
But here’s the fun part! One day, Lols (that’s Lola, or Lollipop; I hope I’m not confusing anybody with this free proliferation of given names. I used to teach back in the days when it was not quite a felony to rename someone with a name different from the original label the student was given by its mother, or whoever. Today, of course, it is not PC) was standing at the back door, indicating that she wanted egress. Then, as I wended my unhurried way to the door, she quickly turned to the scratching post, which stood just near the door, and reached up to give herself a really good stretch, and quickly turned back to the door, signalling that the exit visa was still desired.
So I let her out, with a cheery taunt, closed the door, and returned to whatever I was doing.
The next time she was inside the house, and wanted to go out, again she remembered at the last second that a stretch would be nice, reached up the scratching post to stretch, and was at the door in time to be let out.
About the third time, she was waiting to be let out, and I made it almost all the way to the door, and then she looked at me, and did a token show of stretching at the scratching post! It was just as if she was miming “See? I'm doing the scratching thing!!”
What is going through the crazy mixed-up brain of this cat? It seemed very much as if she had begun to think that just standing at the door was not sufficient to indicate to me that she wanted out. She had learned superstition somehow.
At night, I’m comfortable in my recliner right near the back door, and Lols marches up, gets up on the coffee-table, then on the arm of the sofa, then on the end table, onto the arm of my recliner, and then puts a tentative paw on my stomach. Then another paw. Then she walks up to my chest, and peers into my eyes.
At this time, if she rubs noses with me, I know she wants to be petted, and that starts a quite fun series of activities, which involves her purring at me with an almost inaudible purr. It’s almost like a white purr, standing in front of a snowbank. But most times, she does not rub noses; she just walks across, and sits on the former piano-stool that is on the other side of my chair.
“OK, what are you wanting? Show me.” That phrase OK, ... show me causes her to leap to the ground, and lead me to either (A) the empty water bowl, or even the full water bowl, into which the dogs have slobbered, making it unusable by Her Highness; or (B) the empty bowl of kibbles, or the full bowl of kibbles which has been out too long; or (C) the door. Any of these things are a problem, which apparently only I can solve. If it is the door, the scratching post is apparently optional at this time, unlike earlier in the day. (I guess she’s High Church in the mornings, and becomes a Methodist in the evenings.)
It used to be that Lols would not permit me to pick her up; she would kick and scratch like fury, until I put her down. But the years have mellowed her; she still kicks like crazy, but only for a few seconds, and with her claws in. If she figures I’m merely transporting her to a place that she approves of, she quiets down, while keeping a wary eye on where we’re going.
Our stairs are enclosed. At any time, if Lola sees the door to the stairs open and unattended, she would zip upstairs like lightning, and hide. She loves to hide upstairs, until we’ve stopped looking for her, and then make herself comfortable on one of the beds and promptly go to sleep. Daytime is sleeping time. (Or time to go outside, if Arch happens to be around.) Daybreak and Sunset is time for bullying Bigfoot! She leaps on him from in hiding, very much like Clouseau’s Chinese butler (Kato).
Her latest trick is when Fred, my stepson, decides to do a jigsaw puzzle. She has to get on the puzzle, and push the pieces around, quite gently, and it looks as if she wants to help. Fred starts making a sound like the siren of an ambulance, and we’re expected to come and apprehend the furball and distract her for a while. Occasionally, she’s allowed to get on the table, as long as she doesn’t touch the pieces. (Fred and his mother are plumb crazy about jigsaw puzzles.)
More about Lols later; I’m sure most families with pets has a Lola they could tell their own stories about!
Arch
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