The case of the abstracted Kitty

Kitty came to live in my apartment on February 11th. You saw her once, briefly,  enigmatically looking at us from the "outhouse", and perhaps a small sneer curling her left cheek as she considered her next move. 

I petted her and spoke nicely. Her fur was surprisingly stiff and bristly. I said Good Bye, and left for a bit. When I came back, I found Kitty had abstracted herself. I've dealt with cats for seventy years, or more. I was not concerned. 

Her food bowl was full, as was her water bowl. I began looking for her. I even used my flashlight for behinds. I checked "unders" to the best of my ability. At weeks shy of my eightieth birthday, I dare not get down to the floor to check the absolute "under", to the wall. I convinced myself she was not under any chest or cupboard, behind any book case, or on top.

That left only the bedroom. I checked as far under the bed as I possibly could, then gave up the affair. I got up the next morning and found she had ingested a substantial meal. Excellent! Obviously she would not starve on my watch. And her little snores in the middle of the night from her redundant pharyngeal membranes, drifting up from under the bed, were oddly comforting.

As the day went on and she did not appear to say Thank You, or give any sign of gratitude, I began to reconsider. By bedtime I'd decided to make food available only when I was in the apartment, and to buy treats the next time I sent a shopper to Heinan's. I also ordered feather toys, which were delivered yesterday.

And so the week went on. Water was drunk. Food was eaten. I never saw her, but I did see the the occasional kibble dropped on the carpet, and definitely gone in the morning. The litter box showed she was not going hungry.

Kitty is the source of great discussion among the residents, and considerable research. I am applauded for doing everything right. I am nothing but instinct, and my mother and grandmother telling me, "When they are hungry, they will eat."

I went through her paperwork one more time, and saw the overlooked paper from her trip to the veterinary clinic when she was found. Her age was assigned as five years, probably based on her teeth being intact.

Last night I got up for the bathroom trip. I came out of the bedroom and turned left to walk to the bathroom. At the same time Kitty came down the hall from the bathroom and turned right, to go who knows where.

We met, ten feet apart. I backed into a chair, sat down and began talking kitty. She didn't move. I reached the microwave, opened it and extracted a handful of kibble, which I left in a neat pile on the carpet. Kitty took advantage of the change in the action to scoot into the living room and melt into the furniture.

I went to the bathroom, then back to bed. satisfied we will meet again.