Cool Cat

I am about to confess to something that would make millions of people say, "Yech!" Heck, I even said, "Yech!" myself. So why should I fuss about anyone else's agreeing with my opinion?

In addition to the recently "fixed" Max (who seems just as manly as ever, or at least as interested in warning off other strays from his territory), we are the proud possessors of another kitten, a flame-point Siamese my daughter dubbed Pete.

If you don't know what a flame-point is, don't feel like the Lone Ranger; I didn't either. Picture a white short-haired cat with golden-brown ears and paws and tail. He looks like he's been stuck under a broiler for just a bit and he's crisped at the edges.

Knowing Pete, he'd waltz right into that broiler. He cannot resist an open door. He'll go in my kitchen cabinets, my closets, behind service panels -- if it's a crack that's as wide as his whiskers, he's in there.

Against dark portals, he fairly glows, so it's no big deal to swish him back out of the forbidden opening.

Ah, but it gets complicated when he attempts light-colored doorways.

Like my fridge, for instance.

Yup, that's right. The other night, my better half was watching television, while I was curled up with my laptop. Kate was in bed. All of a sudden, my dh heard Pete meowing.

He'd heard that meow -- that was a, "Get me outta here!" meow. So off he went, opening cabinet doors and closet doors and peeking into every corner he could think Pete might have been.

When all stones (or so he thought) had been turned, with no little broiled-coconut colored kitten stepping out, my dh decided he'd open the fridge.

Out popped Pete, a little chilled, but no worse for the wear.

You'd think a chilled kitten would fear the fridge, but not so. Pete's still intrigued by the big food box. We just know now to keep our feet in continuous motion so we can sweep away any of his attempts to be a cool cat again.