Mollie musta missed me

Oddly, Mollie was at the door waiting for me when I arrived home tonight. Usually she finds a place to sleep and ignores Helen and me until we find and wake her with a good poke.

Tonight, I kicked off my shoes and started to follow her down the hall toward the kitchen -- listening to her list of grievances as we went:

• where were you and why did you allow it to rain on my house today?
• did you see that mess of leaves out there that came down with the storm?
• where's my cat food?
• why won't the fur on my back left leg sit down correctly?
• figure out how to save defined benefit pension plans today? No? Didn't you do anything constructive? I watched a bug fly by the window upstairs...
• where's my brush and why aren't you operating it yet -- can't you open a catfood packet, get me more water and handle that all at the same time?
• do those crows really have to live around here?
• the phone is ringing, do you want to get that or should I?

(This sounds to the human ear like a combination of high-pitched squeaks and throaty growls. Mollie doesn't seem to have an in-between sound.)

We got her from our neighbor Jo, whose son-in-law rescued Mollie as a very small kitten from a gang of crows trying to peck her to death in a parking garage. In the last year, Mollie has grown from palm-sized puff ball to thundering feline monster. But still afraid of crows.

I like dogs -- as long as they belong to other people. Too much hassle to maintain, more like another child. Cats are self-sufficient. Okay, I'm striving in life to live like my cat. Is this a career goal or what? They monitor their food in-take, manage their own toilet, keep an eye on the house -- Mollie could probably scribble phone messages for me if she had thumbs with which to hold up the pencil.

There's plenty of love and affection, a bit of appreciation too. When you're wearing ode 'd tuna, of course.