Reflections - The Tease

Rills

With the bathroom door open, a shish-shish-shish floated to the great room. The shower silenced, the curtain swished open, and my husband’s foot thudded onto the bathmat. “Ha-ha.” His laughter started on a high pitch and cascaded lower. “Ha-ha-ha.”

I called from the great room. “What?”

With gray hair spiking wildly, Spence’s head poked through the doorway. “You’ve got to see Rills.”

Rills jogged out of the bathroom.

“Oh, too late.” Spence toweled an arm.

“What!”

“It was the funniest thing.”

“WHAT!”

Spence ducked back into the bathroom. “You’ll know when you see it.”

“I’ll forget before he does whatever again.” I stomped to the bathroom doorway. “Did he lick the shower stall?”

“No.”

“Walk across the shower curtain pole?”

Spence hung the towel. “That’s a good one, but no.”

“Teeter on the toilet seat and pee?”

Spence pulled on jeans. “I’m not going to tell you.”

And Spence kept mum about his favorite cat’s behavior.

Rills is Spence’s favorite cat because Rills picked Spence for favored person. This cat claws up Spence’s jeans and sweatshirt to perch on his shoulders. The cat pesters Spence while he’s cooking until he offers Rills food. And, when Spence reclines on the sofa, the cat fights off his brothers to gain the prime sleeping spot between Spence’s knees. Spence calls Rills a prankster.

Since I don’t tolerate any of those pranks, I’m fine with Rills’s choice. I accept his secondary attention—playing hard to get when I want a morning cuddle, nibbling my fingers while I’m in yoga relaxation pose, and climbing into my lap to touch noses if Spence stays out harvesting firewood too long.

I characterize Rills as a gazinta—the name my mom called me when I got into things she preferred I’d left alone. Rills knocks over storage containers on the lazy Susan, crawls inside grocery bags in search of fresh meat, and leaps into the kitchen sink to chomp on potato peels.

I kept my eyes on the gazinta.

Gazinta Rills

Nine days later, I hadn’t forgotten Spence’s laughter. I wrung out clothes presoaking in the utility sink and tossed them into the washing machine in the corner of the bathroom.

Spence came in with a dirty sweatshirt.

“Has Rills repeated his funny behavior?”

“No.” Spence dropped the sweatshirt. “Maybe it was a one-off. He can’t do it today anyway.”

Aha! Laundry day was a clue. “Did Rills jump into the hamper?” I’d seen his brother Gilbert do that while I sorted laundry once, but I’d already emptied the hamper and closed the top. “Did Rills crawl under the bathmat?” A pile of clothes covered it. “Did he hide inside the washing machine?” I leave the door ajar to mitigate the not-so-fresh front loader smell.

Spence didn’t answer any of my questions.

That evening he and Rills lounged on the sofa together. Spence elbowed the cat. “You want to go to the bathroom and show Janet?”

Rills yawned and placed one front paw on top of the other.

“Could he do it in another room?”

Spence shook his head.

That gave me two clues—in the bathroom but not on laundry day. I ruled out playing hide and seek between the shower curtain and liner. We’d witnessed that many times. Rills had thumped against the shower stall chasing his tail. He’d also jumped to the top of the linen closet and stared down at me brushing my teeth.

Determined to solve the mystery, I cranked up my imagination. Leap to the top of the linen closet, leap across to the dryer stacked atop the washing machine, and leap into the laundry baskets nestled inside each other up there? His head peeking out of the baskets would be funny, and, laundry day, the baskets are full of clothes on the floor. Or, with the detergent and non-chlorine bleach jugs balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink on laundry day, Rills couldn’t jump to the sink. Maybe he stood on his hind legs and pawed at his reflection in the medicine chest mirror. 

The next morning my curiosity peaked. I decided to test my guesses. Scooping Rills off the sofa, I carried him to the bathroom, set him on the floor, and used my teacher-voice. “Do something funny, Rills.”

He blinked.

Spence ambled in. “What are you doing with my buddy?”

“Trying to get him to do something funny.” I lifted Rills to the edge of the bathroom sink so he could stand on his back feet. “Are big enough to reach the mirror?”

Rills kicked his hind legs in the air, but he could have reached the mirror with his front paws.

Spence grabbed his buddy and dumped him into the utility sink. “There. Only last time he jumped in by himself.”

Rills circled the square tub, rubbed his whiskers against the faucet, then sat and stared at Spence.

Spence guffawed.

Maybe I missed something. Jumping three feet up and a foot down to a spot Rills couldn’t see seemed brave to me—unless he’d scouted the tub from the top of the linen closet.

Spence changed to a deep belly laugh.

Rills pulled back his ears.

And Rills could have leapt into the utility sink on laundry day while Spence’s firewood harvesting clothes presoaked. The surprised cat would have paddled in muddy, wood-chip-speckled water before jetting out of the bathroom.

Spence let loose a string of heeheehees.

Rills hadn’t done anything funny, but Spence had. I chuckled at his infectious laughter.

Tired of tolerating the humans, Rills put his paws on the edge of the utility sink and vaulted to the floor. He held his tail high, curled its tip, and trotted away.

Rills in Utility Sink