The Cat as Benevolent Protector

It's Sunday. The required porch-to-garden processional took place on schedule yesterday, leash and Swan Lake interpretation 'n all. Laser tag has been played twice since daybreak. Tuna sacrifices have been offered. Dry food and fresh water has been installed with the proper ceremonies and prayers.

All should be right in the world.

By The Cat's standards, all is not right. All is decidedly not right. The Cat is in restless mode, pacing, glaring, grumping, yelling, and expressing her displeasure at the top of her kitty lungs. We, her slaves, do our best to discern the source of this displeasure, while doing our best to interpret the commands into human-readable form. Something akin to reading a novel written in 8-bit binary. Try it some time.

The Royal Household Coder dutifully traipses behind The Cat as she paces angrily from one corner of the house to the next, attempting to discern stopping patterns, glaring patterns, tonal patterns, circling patterns. (Of course we check for physical and health-related concerns first, when she or any other cat throws a tantrum like this.)

Bees communicate with their fellow bees through intricate dances. the hive is thisaway. red flowers are thataway. set course for meadow 97844.B sector 9, bearing 102 for peanut-butter on whole wheat. maintain heading 095 at angels 4. enjoyed reading latest dean koontz novel.

Ants send messages via patterns and trails of scent that lead to a food source. Last week, long migration paths resemble miles of the Oregon Trail stretch from a tiny crevice near the base of the swamp cooler to the sugar canister. Near the dishwasher, a few thousand had spelled out -UR OUT OF CASCADE- as the rest of the infantry paced by.

Cats are not bees. The Cat's humans (the Royal Handyman and I) are not ants. The diatribe could mean anything from 'gimme more tuna' to 'the room temperature has fallen below 72 degrees Fahrenheit' to 'a major earthquake just struck Honshu on the other side of the world.'

The Royal Procurement Officer shrugs and goes back to his recliner, and we both try to zen out a bit while The Cat decides what it is she really wants. The Cat leaps up to the raised perch atop her favorite scratching post and perch assuming her Snoopy as Eagle/Vulture atop doghouse pose and glaring at the front door, emitting a random pattern of yelps, grunts and guttural howls that can shatter glass.

A few minutes later, a sudden THWOK, then silence. The Cat sits high on the perch, content and triumphant, her vanquished foe beneath one paw, a small moth which had until then managed to fly its stealthy surveillance just out of sight of our human eyes... but not The Cats. We've been saved from attack by our owner's feline vigilance!

The Cat accepts our gratitude and effusive thanks with regal bearing and aplomb. Once again she has protected her minions and we may rest safely beneath her benevolent watchfulness.