While three of our cats are quite content with some dry food and a tummy rub, my three-legged kitten has designs on me becoming my mother. Bougie (aka The Bouge) is a clever little monster, capable of rendering men into minions with a single squeak. She was also a top-shelf hunter back in California; despite three legs and a bell on her collar, she would frequently bring in squirrels, rats, and birds that were bigger than her and stare intently at me as if I was expected to dress the thing and serve it with roasted potatoes. My apologies to the greater Sacramento zoology, but it doesn't speak well for the gene pool when a three-legged bell-wearing kitten can best you.
Oregon has been hard on The Bouge. As our studio apartment lacks a pet door and the Lane County animal control policies are barbaric, Ben and I are reluctant to let her outdoors off of her (extremely degrading) leash and harness. When she isn't peeing on the bathroom floor in defiance or wrapping herself around my neck as I try to study, she stares out of our one and only window, longingly growling at the birds and squirrels that strut by.
Recently I discovered that I have an excess of bread crumbs in the pantry. I left a few crumb piles on the back patio, partially to watch the wildlife come nearer but mostly to screw with the cats. It worked, and it worked brilliantly. The whole cat family had their whiskers pressed to the window, barking and clacking as stellar jays and squirrels amassed. They were shy at first until they became certain of the window's thickness, and then flaunted their security with a full swagger. The Bouge was, in a word, pissed.
If she had a thought bubble right now, it would involve a white wine butter sauce.
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