Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Fall

Guest Blog by Emma and Her Human Ghost Writer

      Managing Janet is a chore. She's been in a tizzy over writing a story about “her other cat,” meaning me, and she whines to Spence, “Emma behaves like a cat. She isn't quirky like George. George thinks he's a dog.”

      What's she expect? At least she got “quirky” right.

      Whatever. I try to sooth her. When she bangs up the spiral stairs, I follow. She crinkles paper and dangles ribbons. I give an assuring merrow, let her pet me, and knead the afghan on the loft bed.

      George whacks the dangling ribbon, and Janet sets a white box on its side. “Doesn't that look like fun, Emma?”

      As if.

      George dives in head first and twitches his butt. No way that fat ass will fit. Maybe he does want to be a dog. I take a nap.

      Janet calms down a little, but I stay alert. I cue her to fill the food bowl and squeal when I'm resting on the floor cause she forgets to watch where she's walking. I give her extra attention like singing a chorus of merrows to help her talk on the phone. I even rush to the bathroom so she can pet me every time she sits on the toilet. That should be enough.

      It isn't.

      As I amble toward the food bowl, she grabs me, wraps me in a red blanket, and whisks me outside. “Look at the pretty Christmas tree, Emma.”

      Berrrrrrow. I could have seen the white lights from beside the warm wood stove. Where's her imagination? But I look. Best to satisfy her craziness and get back inside.

      She carries me to the deck. “Look at the snow, Emma.”

      She looks. I check what's happening inside the glass doors. Spence is hitting his computer without me curled next to him. George eats out of my side of the bowl. “Merrow. Merrow.” Doesn't she understand I want to go in?

      Apparently not. She hugs me tight, hauls me across the porch, and heads down the steps.

      “Merrow. Merrow.” I squirm and try to jump out of her arms.

      She squeezes me and keeps moving away from the house.

      I glance around to get my bearings. Snow flakes melt on my head.

      “Look at the snow on the tree, Emma.”

      Doesn't she feel the snow? But I look. I even sniff a branch.

      Still not satisfied, she sticks my paw in the snow.

      Sheesh. I withdraw into the blanket and wait for her episode to pass. She stops at tree after tree. No birds. No squirrels. No food. What's so fascinating? Finally, she heads for the porch. I let her carry me to the top step then make my move. I wiggle my front paws out of the blanket.

      She squeezes harder and opens the gate.

      I wiggle my back legs out of the blanket and twist so I'm paw-down.

      She squashes my middle and opens the door. Finally, she sets me down.  

      As I race for the blue bedroom, I hear Spence ask, “How did Emma do outside?”

     Yawn. I need a nap.