It’s time for the 2nd installment of Meet My Cats. Today I’d like to introduce you to Janet, our calico. She is about 18 months old, a rambunctious squawker who looks sort of delicate but is really pretty tough. We call Janet our bag lady because if there’s a bag somewhere, no matter what kind or how small, she’s in it.
Although she’s only a couple of months older than the “babies” Jack and Chrissie, she likes to fuss over them from time to time like a mother hen. Or cat, I guess. She likes to stand on the sidelines and referee when Jack and Chrissy are sparring. I can almost picture her with a whistle around her neck calling a time-out. Sometimes she forgets her place and just jumps right in to the action. Other times, if it’s kind of a boring match, she accidentally nods off and misses the last few rounds.
Out of all the cats, Janet makes the most use of the various toys and other kitty amenities around the house. The leopard crinkle tunnel that our friend gave us as a cat-warming gift is very popular, and sometimes you just notice it moving around the room seemingly on its own. But you always find Janet in there, wriggling around like a worm.
Janet’s very favorite toy is the weasel. It’s one of those weasels that used to be attached to a ball many years ago, and now is just a sad raggedy little thing that’s been ripped apart by generations of cats. Frequently we hear Janet screaming bloody murder; caterwauling for her life. The first few times she did that we went running to her, thinking for sure she was hurt or being attacked by something (maybe even a raccoon). But now when we hear that particularly piercing sound we know that Janet will appear moments later carrying the weasel in her mouth, ready to play. It’s her very special “I have a weasel” sound.
Janet also had the rather unique experience of being petted by my mom. My mom typically loves our cats from afar, but at some point while we were sitting around the kitchen table talking one day, Janet huddled up right in front of my mom. I was holding my breath because my mom has a very solid belief that cats do not belong on kitchen tables. Like very, very, very solid. But Janet worked her little charms, and soon mom was absentmindedly petting her, and sort of styling her fur. She made a nice little Mohawk on Janet’s head and was no doubt getting ready to take her for a mani-pedi when Janet wisely slipped away.
Unlike Helen, Janet is not a serious contemplative type cat. She strikes me as sort of a smart ass, and if she could talk I think she would be very sarcastic, which I admire so much. Sometimes I think she’s rolling her eyes at me, but I’m sure that’s just my imagination.