Chuck in the Garden
We all make assumptions. I can't even track how many I make in a day. Sometimes they're accurate, but when they're not--that's when it gets interesting.
This is one of those stories.
One day, when my cat, Chuck, was still with me, I got home from work and called out to him, as I always did the moment I got home. I looked out my living room window, and there was Chuck, sitting in an empty flower pot that was far too small for his body, causing him to hang out over the edge like a furry marshmallow. I can’t imagine it was comfortable, yet Chuck seemed quite content. I smiled. I loved that cat more than anything.
My after-work routine was always the same. I'd open the door, call out to Chuck, then put down my purse and laptop and head to the bedroom to change clothes. As I entered the room, a white blob caught my attention. It was Chuck. But how did he get from the patio to the bedroom? I had just spotted him outside seconds ago and had walked 20 feet, no more, and here he was on the bed! How could that be?
I was dumbfounded. I walked back to the patio. And there he was, still spilling over the edges of the flowerpot. I walked back to the bedroom, and there he was on the bed. What was happening?
Back in those days, when I left for work, I’d leave the sliding glass door open just enough for Chuck to slide through. I had a bolt installed, so the door could still be locked. I thought it was a pretty good solution—until that day.
When I’d confirmed Chuck’s presence on the patio for a second time, I went outside and picked him up before going back to the bedroom. There was a white cat on my bed, for sure, but it wasn’t Chuck. On closer inspection, I discovered he was older, fatter, and decidedly meaner. I approached this imposter with caution. As I got close enough to pet him, he snarled at me. "Mean Kitty," I said.
This cat had no shame. He must have entered my apartment when Chuck was taking a nap. I couldn't pick him up. He made it clear that I was not to be trusted, which was pretty rich coming from an intruder. Still, I had to find some way to get him out of there.
My bedroom patio was just five feet from the bed. I had an idea.
I opened the bedroom patio door and yelled at the cat to leave. My theory was that Chuck’s presence on the living room patio prevented the trespasser from departing the way he came, so I decided to give him another option.
It didn't work--he was glued to the bed. That's when the doorbell rang.
It was one of my tenants. (We'll call him Dave because, for the life of me, I can't remember his name). So, Dave says he's got a maintenance issue. And I tell Dave I have a feline issue. Can we make a deal? I'll handle the maintenance, but could you maybe do something about this cat?
Dave is big, real big. I'm thinking my petite stature is giving this invader the idea that he doesn't have to listen to me, so Big Dave might scare him onto the bedroom patio where he can climb up over the fence.
I got the first part right, not the second.
Dave asked for a weapon—we chose a broom. He headed for the bed with the broom raised, shouting, "get out of here." The cat got the message. Thank God! He jumped off the bed and headed for the open patio door. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as soon as I saw him jump, but he wasn't moving very fast. That is when I saw, for the first time, how incredibly fat he was.
On the bed, he looked about the size of Chuck, but when he moved, he was slow. That cat couldn't climb a tree--that cat could barely walk. Somebody was giving that cat way too many treats.
And it's not like he didn't try. He was scratching at that fence like there was no tomorrow, but liftoff wasn't happening. Now, what do I do?
Big Dave was out of ideas, but I am not one to give up. I decided the only way that cat was going out was of his own accord—and he was going to need to exit the same way he entered--by crawling under the living room patio fence. There would be no climbing for this fat cat.
So, I opened all the doors, creating a free path to the living room, then I scooped up Chuck, and we went out to the pool to hang for a bit. I took a book and committed to staying there as long as it took for Mean Cat to realize he was alone and there were no obstacles to prevent him from leaving.
After about 30 minutes, I went back inside, and the coast was clear.
A few days later, I ran into a neighbor from the building next door. I told her about Mean Cat. She was familiar with him. He belonged to a woman in her building. I asked if she knew his name. "Cuddles," she said.
How's that for irony?
I no longer have Chuck. It's weird, but he's like a spirit guide now. I dream about him, and he gives me advice. I guess I’m just a crazy cat lady, after all.