I am a Play–Girl–Kitty. No one is Game-On like I am Game-On.
Take Bad Boy Andy. He is like a Right Wing Conservative Neo-Con. He is much too mature to play, but still dive bombs defenceless mice to their early grave. They are not for consumption. Who knows what you could catch from a field mice? No, the dry and soft label name diet Momma provides, will do just fine, thank you very much (my thoughts exactly). Sometimes I think Andy’s Plan Check Do List includes lofty spreadsheets and Graphs, wherein he sets Goals and constantly manipulates the data so that his Graphs are always on an upward growth pattern. Truth be told, Bad Boy Andy is all about Mind Games not Play Games.
I try to inspire poor, sweet Charlie to play, but she is hopeless. When I get my gallop on, racing around my kitty made coral, she takes off just as fast, seeking cover under Momma’s bed, peeking out to see the calamity headed her way. So I slow it down, join her under the bed, peering out alongside her, our hearts racing in sync, tails twitching, waiting to see our imminent destruction.
Then there is Jakita. She tries, as long as we play by her rules – the ‘my way or the highway.’ I effortlessly hop on the table, bat a pen to the floor (Blame Momma – she so carelessly left it in my path). Before I can hop back down, Jakita grabs it and heads straight to her Doggie Pillow. No, no, Jakita, it’s suppose to be a good old-fashioned hockey game. The pen is the puck. We got to shoot and score Jakita. That is when the growling starts…..it’s mine, mine, mine and since I know where this ends every time, I move back, sit down, watching her chew through the plastic, then blue ink spurts, on her little pink tongue, her whiskers, her chinnie, chin chin. Momma hears her little yip and comes running (of course) and sees Little Jakita has done it again. I cover my Cheshire smirk behind my Calico and White Paw as Momma starts the clean up process with Baby wipes, no less, chiding her a little too gently, for my liking. But hey, that is a Game in itself!
That is why I have come to cherish our Stray, Feral Papa Was A Rolling Stone Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper. When I run, he will chase me. When I leap to catch flies, he soars higher. Sometimes we collide, fall to the ground, shake ourselves off and start all over again. When I go on the prowl, crouch behind bushes, he tags along in tandem. When I tire and go find a seat on the bench to cat nap outside the door, he follows and sleeps under the bench. I mean, that is a partner. Just too bad Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper is so independent because he is a bit unreliable. Days can go by and just when I think I will never so him again, he pops out of the peony bushes, ready for Game On.
Now maybe you know of a solution, a way that I could entice Papa Was A Rolling Stone Clem-Kadiddle-Hopper to grow roots, to unpack his bag, give up his globe-trotting ways.
Momma tried, Momma tried to Raise Him Better – That Leaves No One Left to Blame…. because Momma tried…. (oh, and Wonder Boy too).
