Calling the Cat

Here in the Eclectic House, we have our own special way of calling our cat. "Call a cat?" you ask. "Can't be done."

Oh, but I beg to differ. 

"Here, kitty kitty," you suggest?

Snap our fingers, you ask?

Make smooching sounds, kissing sounds, or clicking sounds?

All those things might work on some cats, but not ours. When we try that, she just looks at us like my kids look at a plate of brussels sprouts. Mildly amusing, but not too interesting, and with the hope that we'll magically disappear.

Instead, here's what we do.... We screeeeeech!!! We've developed an entire litany of shrieks, howls, screams, yowls, and caterwauls that have the effect of enticing her to us. (Um, sometimes.) The kids see her from across a room and commence a cacophony that makes innocent bystanders temporarily deaf.

If the kids are lucky, she'll slowly start meandering their way, trying to look as if she has an errand to run, which has nothing to do with the humans staring at her screeching at the tops of their discordant voices. When she gets in the same room, she sits down, acting for all the world that she'd forgotten that she'd already returned that overdue library book, so she didn't need to run that errand after all.

If they're really lucky, she'll walk all the way in the room, stand for a while swishing long arcs with her tail, acting as if she'd made it to the library but realized that the overdue book was left sitting on her kitchen table. At which point she'll promptly trot out of the room, belly fat flopping from side to side, presumably to check that the book wasn't left sitting in a pool of spilled milk.

If they're really really lucky, supremely lucky, stupendously lucky, she'll deign to come up to the kids, actually acknowledging their presence, and hunt for the sound, overdue book be damned. She might even permit us to pet her. For a moment.

Over the years, we've had to modify our squalls, as she quickly tires of our shenanigans and forces us to create new sounds previously unknown to mankind (or at least to our little cul de sac). What used to be little squawks and whines have morphed into this huge production of anti-melody. 

Tonight she glances, slowly blinking, front paws primly together as she observes her minions. Her look says, simultaneously, "Yes, I know you feed me, human. No, you do not amuse me. Hmm, I wonder if you're worth my time. If I ignore you now, will you feed me later? If I pay attention to you now, have I demeaned myself? Oh, I think I'll lick this paw."

Ah, cats. Gotta love 'em.

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