Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Quinn, the Outrageously Chickenshit
Isn't he gorgeous?
He's half blind, half deaf and somewhat agoraphobic.
For Quinn, a doorway is a challenge.
The cats are let in and out through one door, and only one. It is always the same door. Quinn approaches it with extreme caution. He sneaks up on it, peering beneath the chest in the hall and around behind the umbrella stand. Two or three steps, belly to the ground, and then his head comes up, and he...well...sticks his neck out. A few more steps, and he can see the sun (or the porch light) shining through.
Suddenly, he's close enough to rush the enemy, shooting through at top speed. He doesn't slow down until he is around the corner and under the massive Oldsmobile that lives in my driveway.
Coming in works a little differently. He hears me calling, and comes down the tree. In all the years we have lived here, he has never figured out that cats climb down trees backwards. He takes a run at it, and, when gravity takes over, he hits the path with a thud. With many glances back over his shoulder, he stalks the doorway. I turn on the hall light so that he can see the opening, and he zooms into the house in a flurry of dead leaves, sliding across the marble tile. He comes to a halt, crouching, glaring back over his shoulder to tell the door that it has once again lost the battle, and he has won.
If I had to go through that every time, I'd use the litter box.
Do they make kitty Valium?