Monday, January 03, 2005
There are no cat rocket scientists.
I know, there are people out there whose cats are just the smartest things ever. Your cat can feed itself, rub your back, drop the kids off at school, and write your Christmas thank-you notes for you.

Mine can't. She's soft, she's purry, she's extremely passive and gentle with the kids. But she is - no offense to the construction industry - dumb as a brick.

We have these big, overstuffed couches, and she likes to sit on the back of the couch. Last night, she was up there, and Jacob was watching her. He seems to have just figured out that there's something different about her and the rest of the stuffed animals in the house, so he's been keeping a close eye on her lately. I put him up to my shoulder to burp, and he lunged over, grabbed hold of the cat's tail and back leg, and squealed like a pig. Seriously, it was not an intelligent moment for either of them. ("This is my cat, too stupid to outrun a not-yet-mobile baby, and this is my son, Soo-ey.")

Then this morning, Jacob and I were sitting at the dining room table, one of us writing a syllabus for this spring's class and the other one drooling copiously, blowing raspberries and pooping. (I really need to stop doing that at the table.) We have deck with sliding glass doors right next to the table, and my Brilliant Cat was sitting inside staring at nothing. A huge neighborhood cat (seriously huge, it was like a Maine Coon Cat on steroids) gallumphed onto our deck. I saw it coming, but apparently my cat didn't, because she jumped a foot into the air, bumped her head on the underside of the chair, and proceeded to let out a noise such as I have never heard from a cat before. I firmly believe she was swearing.

She's down in my room nursing her ego now. Poor thing.