I read this today. It had me in stitches.
Do you have any funny stories about your or other’s cats?
I read this today. It had me in stitches.
Do you have any funny stories about your or other’s cats?
I am not a cat person.
Never have been. Never will be.
Cat dander makes my eyes water, itch and swell. I know better than to touch one because I’ll undoubtedly feel the inexplicable need to rub my eyes and the process of itch/water/swell then begins and doesn’t end until I let a warm shower flush out my eyes for several minutes.
That being said… my best friend owned a Maine Coon.
His full name was General Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard. He was known as “Beau”.
The cat, that is.
My friend’s name is Mike.
Mike loved Beau.
Inexplicably, Beau loved ME. Beau seemed to treat Mike with a bit of disdain.
“GRIZZ is here!!! Pet me Grizz… pleeee-eeeeease” he always seemed to say whenever I came over. He’d do the lazy-figure-eight through my legs. He’d hop up onto the sofa and walk across my lap, swishing his ever-so-fluffy tail near my face.
I held my breath and turned away.
I didn’t pet him.
“Oh, that’s just the way Maine Coons are.” Mike would say, choking back his emotions. “Finicky and aloof.”
The time came when I’d need spend several weeks in my buddy Mike’s house.
Beau was thrilled.
Beau, part deux.
(sorry, hit SUBMIT too early in the previous post)
Beau was thrilled.
I’d often find him curled asleep in my open suitcase.
He spent a good amount of time sniffing ALL of my toiletries.
He stole my hairbrush (I let him keep it!).
Then, one day, I found the reason why he’d been so thrilled with me.
Mike and I heard the most unusual sounds coming from my bedroom one day.
Certainly, THOSE sounds couldn’t be emanating from his beloved Beau-puss.
We rushed in to find Beau furiously humping the heel of my boot.
His claws were firmly holding my boot in place, toe down - heel up. His bared teeth furiously bit at the back of my boot. While his hauches were unmercifully banging the bejeesus out of my brogan.
We found ourselves at a loss for words except for rushing at the scene yelling “HEY! HEY! HEY!”.
Beau, obviously disconcerted at having his perversion discovered, ran off, unfulfilled (THANK GOD!!) and hid under my bed for a full day before reappearing.
I gave those boots a thorough buffing (for those wanting to make a joke here, please don’t. It’s too easy and would demean us all!) and stored them in the trunk of my car.
From that day on, I only wore my Chuck Taylors in Mike’s house.
And since then, Beau treated me with the same level of disdain that he held for everyone else.
I can’t access AFG’s link because my proxy server thinks there’s “mature” subject matter there. But your story is hilarious, Grizz.
I apologize for dumping on your thread, but you found that funny? It read to me as a very sad story of a cat suffering from FIV. There were a few amusing bits, but I found it more heartbreaking than anything (poor little feller).
Now, to answer your request for more stories – you know those small-sized tissue boxes? Not the standard, elongated ones…the ones I mean are rather cube-shaped. Well, when I had a recent cold, I was going through a box of those a day.
One day, one of these boxes fell on the floor. Naturally, our Boo decided he had to investigate. That’s when we all discovered that while these boxes will allow for easy entry of a cat’s head, easy removal is not part of the deal. He stood up, box firmy in place over his head, and proceeded to go stark raving bonkers. Apparently he figured the best way to escape this thing lodged over his noggin was to try and outrun it.
<WHAM!> into the dining room table.
<THUD!> into the side of the sofa.
<BONK!> into the television.
I was really torn…this was one of the funniest sights I’d seen in ages, but there was also the real danger that one of my beloved cats was going to blindly take a header down the stars.
At this point, he was pinballing himself between the sofa, the love seat, and a few end tables. I had made an ineffective grab for the box when he was by the television, so I was now near the stairs, across the living room from him. Suddenly, he makes a beeline for the staircase, with me in the way. <Yoink!>, and I grab the box off his head at the last second. Well, maybe a bit past the last second…here’s how I think the final moments went from his point-of-view:
Ican’tsee!Ican’tsee!Runrunrun!Ican’tsee!Ican’tsee!Runrunrun!<Yoink!>Hey! I can see! AHHH!! I can see I’m about to go flying down the staircase! AHHHH!! Hardwood floors! Can’t stop! <BONK!> Ow! <BONK!> Oof! <BONK!> Mrrrowww!
For some strange reason, my wife has decided to only buy the large tissue boxes anymore.
Yeah? Well, it made me cry. It’s okay. I’m like that.
I’ll tell you a story about my cats’ Big Adventure.
One day a few years ago, my cats, Poopy and Pants (Og rest his soul—and no, he didn’t die as a result of this incident) escaped. Now, tell me how two cats can open a basement window and let themselves out, and there’s a bright, shiny fifty-cent piece in it for you. Anyway, they somehow managed to pull the inside window in, and then push the inside window out in order to escape. I came home after work to find the house unusually quiet.
After realizing something was wrong, I searched the entire house. Sometimes the sneaky little buggers get locked in the spare bedroom by accident. Not this time. After searching the house, I decided to search outside. There was no sign of them in our yard, either. I called my husband in a panic.
When my husband got home, we took a walk around the neighborhood, calling the cats’ names. No luck. So we decided to take a drive and see if we could find them. While we were driving, I told my husband that I knew Poopy would come back, because he can barely survive 10 minutes without his people. Pants, I feared, was too stupid to come home and would likely end up “sleeping” on the road.
We had just given up on finding them and were headed back home, when I spotted an animal running across the street toward our house. “That’s Poopy!” I exclaimed. We hopped out of the car, and sure enough, it was him. Happy to have at least one of our boys in our possession again, we brought him home. When we got there, my husband decided he’d better fix the window right away so Poopy couldn’t escape again. He walked downstairs to find … Pants! While we’d been out searching, he had come home and entered via the same window he’d escaped through. He stood there with a look that said, “What? I’ve been here all along!” Except he smelled like garbage can, so we knew he hadn’t. Both cats got baths as punishment.
FIV is an actual disease?? I thought the guy was joking…eg. I thought it was a take on HIV. I didn’t know it was for real.
Feline Immunodeficiency Virus is most definitely real…it’s basically cat AIDS. Very nasty thing for a furball to have.
You not knowing it was a real disease does make your OP make more sense, though.
Geez. No, I totally had no idea. I love cats, but I’m allergic so I can’t have one. I know people with cats, but never one that had FIV. So I thought the guy had plopped a made-up disease in the story.
I hope nobody thinks I’m an asshole now, I didn’t know the kitty was really sick!
That’s okay; just because the cat was sick doesn’t make its running around with a bag on its head any less funny. My step-sister’s cat, Tika, had a degenerative neurological disease that gradually broke down the signals between its brain and its body. At first, when she was a kitten and would do things like try to jump on the sofa and miss, or miss her footing running 'round a corner and fall over, it was hilarious. By the end, when she had to be carried everywhere, it was really sad. In the long intermediate period – after we found out she was sick, but she was still getting around okay – the fact that she was sick didn’t mean that her clumsiness wasn’t funny, it was just kind of sad at the same time.
And now my funny story: as a kitten, Tika was a ferocious helion. She would attack any body part within range, which meant that she spent most of her time on the floor and not in laps. Want to pet her? Good luck! As soon as that hand got within range, it was fair game for little Tika-teeth.
I spend a lot of time with my step-sister and her boyfriend, to the extent that I have my own toothbrush at their house. When I stay overnight, I sleep on the futon in their office. For her first month or so, Tika was rather like a newborn; she wouldn’t let her parents sleep through the night. When we went to bed, she was still busy being ferocious. Unfortunately, the futon was very easy for her to climb on to. She especially liked to wait until I’d turned the light off and couldn’t see her. Then, she’d leap onto the futon and ATTACK MY FACE! So until she started sleeping through the night, I would go to bed with the covers over my face so that my eyes wouldn’t be gouged out by the adorable little ball of fluff.
Several years ago, my family moved. The next summer some people from the town we’d lived in previously, Mr. and Mrs. Neigh Bor and family spent the night at our new house before heading on to their next destination.
My mother had thought things through. My dad would be going to work the next day, so she and Dad would sleep on the hide-a-bed downstairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Bor could sleep in the master bedroom.
Well, she forgot to ask the cat. When bedtime came, cat was curled up on the bed in the master bedroom. Mr. Bor got into bed. The cat stood up. Mrs. Bor got into bed, the cat hissed. Mr. Bor went to the door and opened it. (His cats would have taken the hint and left.)
Not ours. No, she got off the bed and moved toward the door, but it was clear who she thought should be leaving- and it wasn’t the cat.
Mr. Bor went down the hall to my brother’s room and called his name. Son Bor answered the door. (Son Bor and my brother have similar sounding names. They assumed that the person at the door wanted to speak to his son.) Brother was asked to remove cat from master bedroom.
Brother did so, and took a hissing cat downstairs and set her on top of her scratching post- next to the hide-a-bed with mom and Dad in it.
Everyone went to sleep.
The next day, another set of friends dropped by for lunch, before the Bors and the others left. They were told that we had a nice house, but if Mom offered you her bed-- don’t take her up on it.
“Why? What’s wrong with the bed?”
“Nothing, except for the cat.”
Incidently, the cat’s name was Cuddles.
20 years ago we had a small black-and-white spayed female cat named Sugar. (I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this board that she liked to retrieve a sponge-rubber cheese wedge.)
In one day she leaped up at a hole in the wall–too small for a pencil to go through. She was apparently trying to pull the hole off the wall. Later that day, my cousin was sitting on a couch with one arm hanging over the end of the couch. Little Sugar leaped up and attacked the arm!
The big fluffy black-and-white car Archie, we had in the Sixties, once lay contentedly in the middle of the T-intersection of side streets, near our house. Cars just went around him! He once got our attention by leaping sideays against an outside door to make enough noise for us to hear and let him in.
I want a big fluffy car now!
No wonder he like to lay in intersections.
When I was in college, one of our two cats acquired FIV, but the other did not. The vet’s guesses were that either the two cats did not spend enough time with each other, or that the second cat was simply immune. Having spent far too many nights treating the skin sores of the cat with FIV, I would NOT wish it on another cat by any means.
Soon after DH and I got together (and before we were officially “married”), we acquired a cat at a garage sale. Both of us wanted a cat, and there was nothing in our lease about owning a cat, so when we saw the “Cat Available” sign at a yard sale, we couldn’t resist. The current owner interviewed us, then gave us the cat when no one else that day expressed any interest in taking the cat.
A few weeks later, DH and I were sleeping soundly in our bed, in the middle of the night. I woke up to the sound of the cat running quickly through the bedroom, and turned on the bedside light in time to see a mouse charging across our pillows, with the cat in hot pursuit. As far as we could determine, the cat had found the mouse in the living room of the college-student, cheap-rent apartment we lived in, and chased it through the kitchen into our bedroom. The mouse could find no place to hide from the cat, so it ran up the side of the bed, across the pillows, then down into a pile of books under my bedside table. After some debate between DH and me, we shut the cat into the bathroom (the only room with a real door), turned out the lights, and let the mouse find its way to a more secluded area of the apartment.
A couple of weeks later, DH and I went to spend a weekend at his parents’ house, which was only a few hours away. We did this fairly regularly, since they were a very close escape, and we left plenty of food and water for the cat to make it for two days without us. When we got home, I walked into the bedroom to put our clothes away, and stepped on something hard and pointy with my bare foot. It turned out to be a mouse skull, in the middle of the bedroom floor. As near as we could tell, the cat actually caught the mouse while we were gone, and ate every part of it but the skull.
We now own two much younger cats, whom we acquired after having to put the older cat to sleep about a year ago. (She lived for nearly 20 years!) They are absolutely FUN to have, especially since they aren’t related to each other at all. (One is a stray that we took in when we couldn’t find its owners. The other is a Humane Society refugee that we adopted a week or so after taking in the stray.)
We had to have the stray male neutered VERY soon after taking in the spayed female, since he tended to try to “mate” with her, and she obviously did not appreciate the attention. Even with neutering, though, he tends to be a little too physical toward the female. We think that he probably grew up in a litter of cats who loved to play with each other, and express affection toward each other, while we know that she grew up as a single cat in a family who really didn’t appreciate her (or cats in general).
In the year since we acquired these cats, however, both of them have truly learned to respect the other, and they get along with each other about as well as our 13yo daughter and 10yo son get along–meaning that they try to avoid each other, but that they can get along if they really have to.
Yesterday, though, was VERY funny. I am on vacation this week, so I’ve been spending time alone with the cats at home. Both of them have decided that toy fur mice (with rabbit fur on the outside) are the BEST toys they’ve ever seen. The female (Minou) insists that she must have at least three mice available to her at any given time, even when most of them are hiding under sofas, ottomans, or other pieces of furniture. The male (Paka) just wants to have people around who will throw toys for him to chase, but if that isn’t an option, he’s quite happy to chase Minou instead.
Yesterday, I found a toy mouse for Minou to play with, after a couple of hours of searching for toy mice. She was ecstatic, and very devoted to/enthralled with the mouse that I found for her, especially when it decided to “hide” inside a folded newspaper. She was so focussed on the toy mouse that she was completely unaware of Paka sneaking up on her. Paka finally reached the breaking point, and charged. In doing so, he made a loud noise as he ran across a piece of paper on the floor, and the loud noise startled Minou. Minou jumped straight up off all four paws as only a cat can do, at precisely the same moment that Paka would have tackled her if she hadn’t jumped. The result was that Paka ran under Minou, and Minou landed on top of Paka. Watching the two of them try to figure out what happened was nearly as funny as watching it happen in the first place.
Other than that, the funniest thing I can think of is that Minou is a very poor judge of what a “stable surface” is. She constantly rolls or walks off the edges of beds, chairs, and tables. Just this morning, she was walking on a folded cardboard box that was only partially on the sofa she was on, and very predicably, she walked far enough out on the surface that it could no longer support her, and it fell.
Paka has his moments, too, though. He is a “fetcher” and understands that if he brings the right kind of toy to one of his Humans, the Human will throw it and he can chase it. (His favorite toys are plastic jacks and one specific toy mouse.) However, he LOVES the family room door, which is set low enough that it makes the carpet shag move whenever the door is open or shut, or just moved across the carpet. He has almost had his paw shut in the door more than once as he tried to “catch” the moving carpet fibers when we close the door.
When I was a travel nurse, I always had a cat traveling companion or two. One was Bartlett. He was part siamese and part dog. His name came from the quotation marks around his eyes. “OO” He loved to ride in the car. His favorite travel game was chasing trucks. I drove, at the time, an MR2 packed, like a suitcase. The only place not filled was the drivers’ seat and the passenger’s seat, from the windshield level, up.
I would put his folded carrier on whatever filled the seat, so he had a place from which to see the road and navigate for us.
Now, as you’ve probably guessed the space from windshield to rear window in an MR2 is about 3 feet, at most. Bartlett would stand, watching out the back window, waiting for the right truck, he liked them BIG. He would spot one coming up to overtake and pass me. He’d turn toward the front and crouch, waiting for the moment. As the truck roared by, he would dash(?) 3 steps, usually running into the windshield, after the truck. He never caught a single one.
But alas, Bartlett was too friendly. We were house sitting for a friend, when he somehow escaped the house. I scoured the neighborhood for several days, until a woman stopped me and asked what color he was. As I told her, a look came over her face, and I knew, I’d lost my friend.
She said he had come into her yard one day about dusk. She had been outside when he arrived, and they spoke briefly, with quick introductions.
As it got a bit darker she went inside, and he stayed in her garden, exploring.
She had had a frequent visitor prior to Bartlett’s arrival.
A huge mother racoon, stopped by each day after dinner, looking for scraps. Not thinking, she put the scraps out as usual. Mrs raccoon waddled up to her usual lunch counter, only to be greeted by friendly ol’ Bartlett.
The woman started to cry, and couldn’t go on. She didn’t really need to.
Before she could get the door open, the raccoon had done the deed, and Bartlett was no more.
I still miss him.
Instead of mourning, overlong, I went to the local animal shelter to find a kitty to remove the stone from my heart.
I walked into the kitten room, and a short, skinny arm reached out of one cage, to pull me over. The half pound of fur that had my shirtsleeve firmly in hand was purring like my MR2. And thus was born a new friendship.
I handed to lady the finished paperwork, ready to take my new ball of gray lint home, but, no? Their policy was to neuter every cat before it could leave the shelter, WTF?!? He wasn’t quite 6 weeks (yes, that was WEEKS old!!) She said, come back tomorrow. I left, thinking, the Vet will straighten it out.
Back the next day, and was handed a very sleepy bundle of hair. Yes, they had removed his manhood, before he even knew what manhood meant. He healed, but he never really got over it.
This was a dignified gent. His name was Forbes. He was a silver tabby, with a tux shirt.
He was a pillow, with legs.
He was the most mellow cat I’ve ever encountered, partly from the early surgery, and partly his own personality.
By this time, I’d come to my senses and traded the MR2 for a small, van-like thing, a Mitsubishi Expo Sport.
Forbes took to his job as car cat/navigator like a duck to water.
We loaded up and set off for our next assignment. That would have been Austin TX.
Getting there, meant passing through Dallas, and, as luck would have it, during rush hour.
It was hot, it was unfamiliar, it was slow. Forbes was oblivious to my frustrations. He was tending to his own duties.
Just as I was about to boil over, I looked in my rear view mirror. Forbes was chasing a fly on the back window. He was standing on his hind legs, using one front paw on the window edge for balance, in the lurching traffic. His other paw was engaged in the rapid fly hunt. Watching him, my vision expanded for a moment, to take in the passenger in the car behind me. She was laughing and waving. As Forbes pattered all over the window for the fly, the woman thought he was waving at her!
A few years later, Forbes moved to Las Vegas without me. He’d taken up with a big blonde, who promised him bright lights. Last I heard he was in Gamblers Anonymous, having squandered his new companion’s life savings. They had plans to move to the wilds of Montana, to overcome his addiction.
My cat, Elvis likes to watch the comings and goings of my neighbors. Occasionally he’ll be sitting in front of the front door quietly for a few minutes. Sure enough, I’ll hear my neighbors approach. That’s when he jumps straight up in the air (no running start, looks like a little jumping bean) in order to be eye-level with the peep-hole. Then he falls back down and walks away, his curiosity satisfied.
He also has a habit of falling off the kitchen counter. Not jumping, but falling. Clumsiest cat I’ve ever seen.
Many decades ago my family had a wonderful calico cat named Missy (which was short for ‘Miscellaneous’, in reference to her coat of many colors.) Missy was an outdoor kitty, since my mom and dad thought that pets belonged outside. Unfortunately, even when she was stoked full of Little Friskies, Missy still liked to hunt wildlife, and nearly every day she brought home the corpses of birds, squirrels, and an occasional toad. In order to make her predatory sprees less effective, we equipped her collar with a bell so that the prey would hear her coming. Soon thereafter, Missy appeared on the doormat with her latest victim: a stuffed plush toy parrot that she had filched from a neighbor’s child.
Leela was a proud and dignified Siamese cat named after a character from “Dr. Who,” “Leela the Huntress.” Like Missy, Leela the Killer Meezer loved to stalk things. However, since Leela lived indoors, she usually couldn’t find much of anything to stalk except moths and dustbunnies. One day we were startled to see Leela racing through the house frantically, as if she were either pursuing something or being pursued. On closer examination, we saw that, stuck to the tip of her tail, there was a small piece of Scotch tape affixed to a scrap of white paper (probably something left over from the tax preparation that we’d been doing earlier in the day.) Leela apparently noticed that this odd white thing was following her everywhere, and she was running in a panic, as fast as she could, to escape it. This went on for about ten minutes; the tape and paper finally fell off, and Leela spent the rest of the day hiding under the bed. In later years, when she became fat and lethargic, we would sometimes speculate that one way to perk her up would be to tape a piece of paper to her tail. Aerobic exercise is usually a good thing, but it’s so hard to work up the motivation.
At one time, in addition to cats, we had a large collection of rodents. Mice, hamsters, gerbils, and rats occupied a spare bedroom of our home, in dozens of cages. Every now and then there would be an escape; usually the escapee was never seen again, and was presumed dead. Once a cute little mouse gnawed through the screen lid of his cage and disappeared. He was among the missing for over a week, and we might never have located him if it hadn’t been for Leela. We noticed that she was staring under the couch with an obsessive intensity. I got a flashlight, shone it under the couch, and saw two tiny, bright eyes staring back at me. The mousie was thin, but otherwise OK. Much to Leela’s disappointment, the little critter was returned to his cage, not handed over to her. Leela did get a finder’s fee of Fancy Feast.
This is a story that became funny only in retrospect. We adopted a big old gray cat who had been abandoned when some neighbors moved away. We called him Graypet (a feeble pun on the name of a soda, “Grapette.”) Since he was an outside cat, and disinclined to be otherwise, we allowed him to do as he pleased in the yard. One day my husband left the house in a big hurry, jumped in the car, and sped off. As he drove down the expressway, other drivers kept gesturing to him, but he didn’t understand what the gestures meant until he reached his destination. He parked at a Sears store, got out of the car, and saw poor Graypet clinging to the roof of the car desperately (at least there was a luggage rack.) My husband safely returned Graypet home (inside the car this time,) and the silly old thing (meaning the cat, not the husband) continued to sun himself on the roof of the car for years thereafter, having learned nothing from his wild ride.
My husband operates his business from our home, and for several years he had employees coming and going, using a company vehicle that we parked on a drive in back of the house. One day an employee came into the house for a drink of water. He said, casually, “There’s a big cat in the company car.” I went out back, and, sure enough, there was. A large, handsome bull’s-eye tabby was sitting in the front seat of the car, looking as if he owned the world. He had jumped in through a partially-opened car window, and he didn’t seem interested in leaving. We lured him out of the car and into the house with an offer of Starkist tuna (this would probably work with just about anything you find in your car, unless it’s a strict vegetarian.) The cat made himself right at home, seeming very content with the living situation, and even getting along with the other cats. We put him back outside, thinking he must have a place to go, but he would not leave. That was twelve years ago. He’s still here. We named him Elvis Pussley, in honor of his fine vibrato-enhanced caterwauling, which could wake the dead and cause them to throw old shoes.
We had a sweet (but wacky) little guy named Skunkie Doodle for seventeen years. He was named for the incredible stench of his poop when he was a kitten; coupled with the fact that he was black and white, with a fluffy tail, the skunk reference was inevitable. One year on my husband’s birthday I carefully wrapped a birthday gift and hid it in a grocery sack so that hubby wouldn’t discover it. Hubby didn’t get to see it, since Skunkie saw it first. I heard rustling, crackling sounds, and when I came into the room Skunkie was sitting there surrounded by the wrapping paper and ribbon, looking more guilty than any cat I’ve ever seen. Fortunately I had a camera handy. Here is the evidence:
A Christmas visit to my parents some years ago involved one of those mall bags with rope handles in which Mom & Dad’s presents were delivered. One of their kitties dicided to investigate the empty bag interior, and for whatever reason became spooked. She exited the bag but hooked a rope handle around her neck and was now running at full throttle with the evil nasty bag in hot pursuit. :eek:
I’m trying to corner the kitty and not have my 80 something Father hurt himself in an effort to rescue the kitty, while both of us are trying hard not to laugh our butts off at the crazed cat.
This reminds me of something that happened to our cat that eventually developed FIV.
We were moving to Galveston TX from Winston-Salem NC. The cat in question (who was barely more an a year old at the time) escaped from her harness at the hotel one morning en route to the new house, and she hid in the chassis of our Ford station wagon. We knew she was there because her tail was hanging down under the car. She absolutely refused to be bribed out of her hiding place, and the last resort was for my super-skinny 6yo brother to crawl under the car and pull her out.
He was successful, but the cat apparently took a liking to climbing into the car frame. A few weeks after we moved, my parents took the car to a service station for an oil change, etc. My mother got a call a couple of hours later, asking if we owned a black-and-white cat. It turns out that when the guy at the garage opened the hood, he found a cat staring at him. They kept the cat at the garage until we could pick it up with the car that afternoon.
I have a 15 yo orange/white tabby named Minou! I’ve never met anyone else who has even heard the name, much less given it to their cat. She was named after the title character of a children’s book that we had checked out from the library the same week we adopted her from the pet shelter. She’s been the best cat we’ve ever owned (been owned by).
[sub] Does this make us cousins? [/sub]
As for funny stories -
She used to hang out in the attic during the summer - in Texas! She learned to climb the ladder nailed to the garage wall and jump through the open entrance. Watching her get down from there was an amazing sight - like a feline Cirque du Soleil. One time our next door neighbor left his garage ladder down and she climbed up in his attic. He closed it up while she was there. He thought he had gone nuts because he couldn’t figure out where the yowling was coming from.
On another occasion, I stopped at home for lunch before going on a service call. This was January, it had snowed a few days earlier, and it was a crisp (28 °F) sunny day. I drove to the service call, about 20 miles away, in my usual 70+ mph fashion. As soon as I got out of the truck and opened the crossbox in the bed of the truck to get my tools, a very frightened, disoriented and fairly pissed off Minou comes bolting out from underneath. She got to ride home in the front seat, but she didn’t hang out in the back of my truck much after that.
She’s still with us, but starting to get a bit deaf and senile. She still prefers to live in the garage most of the time, unless it’s really cold. And after 8-1/2 years, she still doesn’t like our “new” cat (Taz).