Well, add another item to the lengthening list of bizarre things my cats will eat.

Since I got that fuzzy throw, Stormy seems to be attached to me. Now, instead of either a 2 second, "Hi Mom! Bye Mom!" or the struggle of a lifetime as "Mean 'ol mommy captures kitty and makes him purr against his will," I now have a loving blankie fungus, who has to be persuaded to leave with a crowbar.

I was stretched out on my bed tonight, watching something on Animal Planet. Stormy hopped up immediately after Chet had fed the cats. A good scritching later, and Stormy had purred what was left of his brains out and fallen asleep on the throw. I think he was half watching TV, though, because there was a bit showing lemurs jumping from tree to tree, and he just about got whiplash, watching those critters fly around. I think I even heard a death squeak or two.

At about 10 o'clock, I heard a bang in the kitchen, and Chet, my little brother, cussing about something. He came into my room, and asked if I knew what had happened to the cinnamon rolls he had baked tonight. We had one last canister of the Pillsbury rolls left, and apparently, the siren song of those rolls was just too much for my little brother. Since I can't sneak out of my room past his recliner without being noticed, he knew it wasn't me; I had not left my room in several hours. I asked him when he made the rolls, and he said about fifteen or twenty minutes ago.

That left the cats as suspects. We have three cats, but one was already out of the running. Sunday the Hutt is known as "daddy's little angel," but that is because she is too fat to hop up on the counters and cause the havoc the boys do. Stormcloud (AKA Stormy, AKA The Moscow Marauder) was vouched for, because he had been in my room for the better part of two hours. But Chet had not seen Suspect Number Three, Camas Houdini Meadows (AKA Houdini, AKA The Blonde Bomber) for a few hours, and eliminated HIM as a suspect as well.

Scratching his head, muttering about poltergeists, and getting the place exorcised, Chet left my room and went back to his TV show in the living room.

Fifteen minutes later, I heard more cussing, and then Chet returned to my room, with a profoundly innocent-looking Houdini under his arm. The cat would be a natural for an Oscar, if there were a category for Best Performance by a Guilty Kitty Caught In The Act. He said he had his suspect, and I said, "What gave him away, cinnamon breath?"

Chet had been only half absorbed by a rerun of one his favorite shows, and had not really been paying attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he explained, he saw this little blonde blur doing something rather odd near his computer desk. He looked over, giving this his full attention, and saw Houdini dragging something under the desk. He went over to investigate, and found the remains of the cinnamon rolls.

There have been numerous, published scientific studies since this night that have had Chet and me both howling with laughter to the point of tears running down our faces, and days of sore ribs. Cats, you see, are supposed to be unable to taste sweets, and as a result, do not LIKE sweets. Obviously, either cats are pulling a fast one on the scientific community, or Stormy and Houdini are mutants. Chet had gotten up out of his chair and grabbed Houdini, and looked at the remains of the rolls. Houdini had chewed the tops off the rolls, the frosted part, and was trying to conceal the rest of them.

I sat there, laughing myself silly, asking where the rolls had been when they were stolen. Chet had placed them on top of the stove to cool, then frosted them, and left them there for the frosting to solidify. He had come back, anticipating a fresh cinnamon roll and found the pan empty.

When he started growling ominously about skinning Houdini, I was less than sympathetic, telling him he KNEW better than to leave edibles out when two fur covered garbage cans were loose.

Copyright © Lynda-Marie Hauptman
December 11, 2003