Cats live here

We are a family with cats. There is the alpha female Po and the demon male Scruffy.

(It’s important to point out that Po’s full name is Pollo del Fuego – roughly translated as ‘Chicken of the Fire.’ She is a calico Manx. Scruffy is black and fluffy, and we’re not sure what he is.)

Po was rescued from the local Humane Society with threats of dire consequences should we fail to be good cat parents. We went though an onerous adoption process overseen by a militant German woman who made us sign a contract promising to NEVER allow her to roam outdoors. She was to be a strictly inside cat.

For months our son worried that woman would suddenly appear at our front door to confiscate Po, even though we had followed the dictates of Frau Feline.

A few years later, while out with friends, our son found Scruffy abandoned in the woods. A mere handful of black fur, once we brought him into our home, he found his way into our hearts. He too became a pampered inside cat.

There are days when I can only imagine that Scruffy is flashing back to his early feral days, and will free-run throughout the house. Literally bouncing off the furniture and walls. Po is more laid back and spends the majority of her day sleeping.

Sharing our home with our cats is Hershey, a middle-aged Chocolate Lab. Being a dog, and not capable of unsheathing razor-sharp talons to climb trees or wooden fences to escape our enclosed backyard, she is allowed outside. I’m curious if there isn’t a small level of envy for her freedom. That both cats are perhaps longing to take that perilous step outdoors, heeding the call to return to the wild.

Yet, even when the door to freedom is left ajar, when mere seconds is all it would take to break the bonds of house confinement, they won’t even test a paw over that threshold.

So, there they sit. Noses pressed to the window, watching as the world goes on without them. I’m left wondering if the Mean Girl squirrels and bully lizards see them looking out and make fun of them for their soft beds, silver water bowls and crunchy pre-fab kibble. Do they get taunted for their cushy housecat ways? The wild things feeling superior for their wild ways, knowing the glass is always cleaner on the other side.

My challenge went to femme faux pas at rettorically speaking: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” ~ George Santayana

Major Bedhead challenged me with: “The glass is always cleaner.”

Interested in joining the Challenge? Stop by Indie Ink for details.