If ever you've wondered how trained our pets have me, know this -- I still check the front porch every night before I go to bed. Reasonable or not, I am absolutely convinced that one of these nights I'm going to peer out that little window and see a large white cat.
Five months ago Powder snuck out in the dark of the night, or at least we think that's what happened. We don't actually know because he just vanished into thin air. After years of taunting us with seeming like he was near death, he deprived us of any sort of finality by just ... leaving. KA-POOF!
And by "finality" I should probably clarify that I mean "a DING DONG THE EVIL CAT IS DEAD PARTY."
What?
I'm not speaking ill of the dead because I'm telling you, that cat is out there somewhere laughing his ass off as he continues to torment me with his ability to live forever and ever and ever and ever. He's the only evil cat we've ever had, and he was the sort of evil that is genius and relentless and sneaky. He spent years opening every door he could find and laughing when I ran into it. He was always turning on faucets because the water we just poured into his water bowl wasn't fresh enough, but he always turned on the hot water so he could chuckle when I managed to burn myself on that stupid running water. Best of all, he was always demonstrating that he was pissed by ... well ... pissing.
Go ahead. Sniff my fireplace. You'll gain an appreciation for just how mad at us he was over the past few years.
I can't even tell you how many things that damn cat peed on over the years. But then he countered that terrible sin by being ... Powder. He was oddly charming when he knew you could see him. He only committed acts of evil when you couldn't prove it was him. He was so good at fooling people into thinking he wasn't totally evil that when he suddenly lost a whole bunch of weight a few years ago, I was seriously worried.
POOR POWDER. HE MUST BE SICK. NOOOOOO!
We prepared Alexis for what we thought was inevitable. There were tears and everything.
But then nothing happened. NOTHING. The little jerk suddenly found himself more mobile that he had been in years (because he had been a fat ass for years and fat asses can't jump on kitchen counters). He was leaping here and there and getting into more things than ever.
Then he would taunt me. He would curl up in an adorable little ball in my closet and hold his damn breath. I'm not kidding. That stupid cat played dead so often that it became a thing. "I'm not falling for it, jerk. You can breathe now," I would say.
And he would hold his breath, not flinching.
So I'd poke him.
I swear his eyes would fly open, he would glare at me, and evil laughter would radiate from his belly.
Over and over and over again, I poked that damn cat half hoping he was dead, and half relieved when he wasn't.
He thanked me by walking out, leaving me with nothing to poke and no way of knowing when he will return to torment me some more.
Game on, you little effer. We replaced you this weekend. BRING IT. I DARE YOU.
Meet ... umm ... she doesn't have a name yet. I've been too busy arming myself for the return of the disgruntled white cat to figure out what her name should be.