I got home last night (from watching Casino Royale at Grandmaster Flash’s house—Daniel Craig, where have you been all my life?) and when I walked in the door I noticed two things straight away. A magnet on the floor, and Winston Churchill sitting next to it. He looked from me to the magnet and then back at me again, and I knew the gauntlet had been thrown. I walked into the kitchen and discovered that my refrigerator door was open.
My 4 pound cat had somehow opened a door that has NO HANDLES AND IS SUCTIONED SHUT. Or however refrigerator doors work. You know what I mean. Sometimes I have trouble pulling the thing open. I could tell he knew that probably he shouldn’t have done it, but also that he was a little proud of his feat.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, when he was a month old he was spending his days pulling tacks straight out of my walls WITH HIS TINY TINY TEETH. Shortly after that he figured out how to open my bedroom door by jumping up and pulling on the door handle like the velocil raptor in Jurassic Park. I have to lock him out of my bedroom if I don’t want him in there. He is like Robo-Cat. You can see why steering the empire through times of great adversity was no great challenge for him.
So there I was, see-sawing between being annoyed that I had no idea how long the door had been open (a while, judging by the WARMTH of the contents) and a sort of motherly admiration at my baby’s go-getter attitude. He schooled that magnet.
That is when a SPIDER ran across the door of the fridge and Winston Jerkhill redeemed himself. He sprang into action like the boyfriend you’ve always wanted–knocking that spider to the floor and cornering him, then batting him around a bit before delivering the old Lick of Death. It was marvelous. I didn’t have to touch the spider, or try and wrangle him into some sort of cup and deposit him outside, but I also didn’t have to squish anything or suffer the remorse of killing an innocent arachnid. But that spider was gone just the same! And he was not coming back!
And so instead of the stink eye he probably deserved, Winston Churchill got a lovely crab flavored (with tartar controlling ingredients!) snack. Man, he loves the hell out of that stuff. It’s like the cat equivalent of cheese. And tonight I’m going to drag a stick around in front of him for as long as he will chase it, in an effort to use up some of that fridge opening energy.
I hear that worked on the real Winston Churchill too. You just had to soak the stick in bourbon first.