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| Our little Ava |
You've met Ava. She's the intellectually challenged cat we took in a number of years ago. I took pity on Ava late one night and fed her. The next day, she was back with a dozen suitcases, a rollaway bed and a list of rules. My advice to you: Never feed a stray cat.
Life with Ava requires:
- Only petting her while she's eating.
- Never picking her up.
- Refraining from taking photographs of her. It bores her.
- Never asking her to do long division.
- Absolutely never sneaking up on her while she's sleeping. She hates that (although it's rather amusing to watch her spin up in the air while hissing and clawing).
So I took the little diva in and tried to convince Mr. G. that she was our other cat, Frankie. He didn't buy it.
Ava is incredibly attached to me. She comes in and visits when that big mean guy is on the road. She waits for me in the driveway every night and runs up to my car. Otherwise, she naps in the garden on the wooden bench that the neighbors so generously gave her (well, really, us).
After Frankie died, I worried that Ava was lonely. I mentioned to Mr. G. that Ava loves when you talk to her. She meows and preens. Really, she's quite the little conversationalist. Mainly pop culture. Ava's not much of an intellect. Mr. G. rolled his eyes. The next morning, I heard him ask Ava how her day was going. Then he told her to eat all her breakfast so she could get a treat.
One day, it occurred to me that I should have a plan for Ava in case I die unexpectedly. I'm not expecting to die unexpectedly. But you never know. What I mean to say is my death would be unexpected. I'm pretty sure Mr. G. and Bailey would live on my life insurance payout, and life would go on. But Mr. G.'s never taken to Ava despite talking to her in the mornings.
Me: You know if I die that you have to take care of Ava.
Mr. G.: What if I move?
Me: Then you have to take her with you.
Mr. G.: Michelle, she's a stray cat. The next homeowner will feed her.
Me (indignantly): Ava is our cat. We love Ava. She depends on us. You couldn't just abandon her.
Mr. G.: Whatever.
So, obviously, Mr. G. needs to go first. Not that I'm planning anything. I read Agatha Christie just for fun.
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| Beware bad boy cats |
Lately, a strange cat has been coming into the yard. I should explain here that Ava is feral. I'd love for her to move into the house, but she's too wild. She only comes in if we leave the door open, and then she stalks about, sniffing everything before heading back outside, where it's safe. The strange cat has trouble written all over him. He's not welcome. He's the overage bad boy with a van of the cat world. I don't watch Ava catching anything fatal by associating with other cats. She's completely in agreement with me.
The other night, I was in bed reading when I heard snarling right outside the window. I leapt out of bed, but Glenn was ahead of me. Sure enough, the bad boy cat was in our back yard. Glenn, wearing boxer shorts, took off after the cat. Mr. G. came back 20 minutes later, completely out of breath. He explained that he chased the cat down the street, around the block and out of the neighborhood. "That's the last we'll see of him," he predicted. So maybe, just maybe, Mr. G. is more attached to Ava than I thought. Or he just really doesn't like bad ass cats.
