I live in a cat neighborhood now. I live among cat people. This is mostly a plus, as the cats themselves are friendly. And I have learned to find comfort in the fact that every time I step out my front door I have at least one set of feline eyes tracking my every movement. Today, however, I was greeted not by glinting eyes but several mounds of cat waste product, none of it readily identifiable as having come from one end of the cat or the other. Really, it looked like polenta to the point that I don’t think I will be able to eat polenta again.
Even more troubling was the sheer amount of mess. Had that much been purged from a wildebeest or other such large, grazing thing, I would have been worried about that animal’s health. Because wildebeests are rare in my neighborhood, however, the source was almost certainly a cat — a sick cat — even if the mathematical nature of volume would seem to indicate that this particular feline lacked bones and internal organs. This leads me to imagine three possible explanations about how this horrible thing happened. For one, it may be that a boneless, organless cat was lurking around my house, oozing about and flowing to whatever part of the property happened to have the lowest elevation. I guess I can’t be angry with Jellycat, because it has clearly led a troubled life and therefore should be permitted to void wherever and whenever it wants. But this possibility is most likely not the case, as Jellycat would probably have been unable to make it up my porch steps.
This brings me to the second possibility, which is less appealing than the Jellycat scenario: One cat may have made several trips to my porch during the night, depositing its waste in increments. I hope this is not the case, because it would seem to indicate that one of the local cats is less friendly than it seems. Not only does it apparently have a grudge against me, but it also has the wherewithal to plan out a revenge that I would find especially unpleasant. This is a cat to be wary of.
But say cats can’t plan that far ahead — and, looking at their little tennis ball-sized heads, I’m inclined to think they can’t. Well, there’s still the third possibility, which is the worst one of the bunch. If it’s not one cat making repeated trips, then it must mean that the neighborhood felines have decided as a group to make my porch their deposit spot. I was not consulted. I wish I had been. I guess I’ll have to object at the next neighborhood cat meeting.
Whatever the case, I do hope I don’t have to hose down the porch tomorrow.
Previous Encyclopedia Drew mysteries: