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Written by Jimmy Frost
Zoey's first birthday comes and goes in October; at least that's the month I chose to celebrate her being in my life. Last year, we celebrated it by buying her a new kitty bed. Zoey promptly sniffed suspiciously at the bed and then proceeded to jump into an empty shoe-box lying nearby! We then bought as much cat food and cat litter as we could and took the supplies as well as Zoey over to visit Linda, the lady who rescued Zoey. She was happy to see one of her cats, but Zoey didn't share her enthusiasm, I could easily tell that Zoey was upset.
Perhaps Zoey remembered Linda's house, and thought I was abandoning her. Or maybe it was just all the unfamiliar cats that were pressing around her carrier. Whatever the reason, she remained in her carrier throughout the visit refusing to come out.
On the drive home, she ignored me, until I bribed her with her favorite treat, freeze-dried- shrimp. I refer to this treat as "kitty-crack" since Zoey will surrender all her pride and dignity just to score some. I suppose every cat has its price.
Zoey has grown into a beautiful cat. She is clearly mine. We have bonded, and I am not ashamed to say I'm partial to her. As Zoey has aged, there are some things that she won't do anymore with the same fervor she displayed when she was a kitten; like chasing bugs that get into the cab of the truck. Normally she would run up and down the walls to chase prey but lately she waits for the prey to get within easy reach, one swipe of her paw, and the prey is history. She doesn't pounce on the covers when I'm in bed anymore unless I move my hand near enough for her to grab on. I miss too, the gentle tugging at my elbow as I'm driving along at night. A sign that she wants me to throw her toy mouse on the top bunk where she can chase after it.
Zoey is a little over a year old, and she still retains some kitten traits. Instead of bringing the mice to my seat; she waits for night time. When I settle down for my mandatory ten-hour break, just as I'm about to doze-off, I'll hear something knock against the plastic lining of the truck's bulkhead. Before my mind can register the noise, "THWOP!" One of the toy mice hits me in my face. Now I am fully awake.
This preemptive strike is followed by an inquisitive "meow" from overhead. Turning on the light reveals Zoey looking down from the top bunk at me with a mixture of pride and mischief. She then throws a questioning look at me as if to say, "Well, are you going to throw it back?" If I don't, she growls her frustration that I am unwilling to play.
"Sure, Zoey, I'll play along," I say, and toss the mouse back to her. I hear the jingle of her tags and then the knock of the mouse hitting the bulkhead and that signifies another round. Zoey could literally do this all night. If I tire of the game and respond by throwing the mouse on the floor, she'll dive after it; bat it around until the mouse becomes lodged under something. Then she zips back to the top bunk where she has the rest of her "stash" and before you know it, another mouse will find its way onto my skull.
I understand that this time of night, Zoey's prey drive is in high gear. One particular toy mouse has a vibrating mechanism inside and the string has long ago been chewed. But it's still a pretty popular item with her. May God help my head when it gets in the way and breaks this mouse's apparent suicide attempt.
Persistence is Zoey's middle name. We have reached the point in the past, when all her toy mice are lying on the floor and I rule them "out of bounds!" But apparently, Zoey doesn't read the same rulebook as I do, and she will bring them all back to the top bunk for yet another round of smash the human in the skull. I know she does this because I've seen her through my night-vision monocular. And to think my wife actually told me I wasted my money by buying a night-vision monocular!
This is typical Zoey, immersed in the inky green and black world of her covert activity. She owns the night. The toy mouse in her mouth, she climbs back up to the top bunk to launch another round upon what she thinks is an unsuspecting victim.
I can't get mad at her, I've given thought to stowing all of her toys when I go to bed, but I've reasoned that Zoey won't be around forever. Twelve, sixteen or perhaps eighteen years if I am lucky, and then one day, she will be gone, and so will all the endearing things she loves to do.
So I'll take the hits in the head because after all, what's the harm? Occasionally when the urge of kitten playfulness revisits her, and she's becomes once again the kitten who grabbed my heart. I'll play along with her. It's my special gift to her, for she is only a kitten once, but she will be a treasure forever!
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