I've said it before, and I'll say it again - my darling puddy isn't one of the leading intellectual lights of the cat community. In fact, at most of the normal and natural kitty skills she fails miserably; I have to rescue her from any place higher than two feet, lift the lace curtains so she can get behind them to look out the window, try unsuccessfully not to laugh when she rolls over and falls off bed or trips up the stairs, and at three in the morning I've been known to squish the damn spider or moth she's been chasing around the bedroom for two hours so she can eat it and I can get some sleep!

Of course, Ivory doesn't know she's dim, so she still has pretensions of being a hunter . . . a severe kink in these pretensions is the fact she rarely goes outside (and has no chance of catching anything but a cold anyway). She has come up with a partial solution to her problem, and to satisfy the hunting instinct that's buried somewhere deep inside, she's taken to watching the birds roosting in the gutterings at either corner of the roof. She's aided in this by the windows that wrap around the front of the house so she can get an unimpeded view of her quarry. Ka thud ka thud ka thud . . Ivory runs along the window sill, leaps over the table, presses little black and pink nose up against the glass to catch sight of her prey. Ka thud ka thud ka plumpf, runs back the other way, settles down on the back of her throne (see the picture Flippy has posted - Ivory's favorite place is actually on the back cushions, not the seat) to glare at the birds in comfort . . drifts off to sleep with their tweet tweet tweets reverberating in her empty little kitty brain.

Now, the windows Ivory stares out of are two stories up, with a sheer drop to the driveway below. The windows are usually open only an inch or two . . but this particular day it was hot, and my drongo sister had opened them as far as they would go, a good foot or so wide . . certainly much wider than the Royal Cat. I was settled on the couch embroidering, Ivory was reclining on her throne. The birds started up their racket at the opposite corner of the house . . Ivory makes her way stealthily (for her) along the window sill. I continue embroidering . . . stitch stitch stitch tweet tweet tweet pat pat . . huh? No kitty paw on the window noises! What's going on?? Look round, gasp in horror! The Princess Ivory Starmoon of the Motley Paw currently has those paws sat on the ledge of the window, her back paws on the sill, her head as far out of the window as it will go, craning towards her quarry for all she's worth.

I hiss in horror "Ivory, get in, bad kitty!!!!" NO response! "Ivory! Get in the window." Her highness stretches out further. I'm seriously perturbed. I throw my embroidery down (shows you how perturbed I am. I never put my embroidery on a surface that hasn't been disinfected at least ten times), hurl myself off the couch towards the window . . . . [drum roll] Disaster strikes! As I rush forward I loudly clank a kitchen chair against the table . . (Skitty being Ivory's middle name) . . . I reach the window just in time to see my beloved, dear, darling precious ball of fluff jump out the window in fright and go rolling off the outside brick ledge. I shriek in horror . . my heart is in my throat . . I sprint to the front door, tear it open, fling myself down the stairs and around the path, all the while envisaging a tiny furry body crippled and mangled . . I make it to the spot under the window in less that two seconds (and since I'm . . mm, how shall we say . . a larger lady? A tad more than rotund? . . going anywhere at more than a walk is a miracle) No cat. Oh FUCK (excuse the profanity . . I never swear either, but this day I did) Oh God, what if she's hurt . . what if she's crawled away to die . . Oh God, please don't let me save her from the SPCA only to die in my care . .

My mother's doing garden work "Mum," I squeak, all I can force out past the lump in my throat. She ignores me. "MUM!! Have you seen the cat??" I can't seem to impress upon her my distress. "Oh yes," she replies casually "She went up the path." I'm ready to kill my mother, I'm having a heart attack, I can't breath . . and she . . she . . she's just not reacting. "MUM" I wail "I threw the cat OUT THE WINDOW! She can't have gone up the path, I just came down that way at light speed." Some inkling of my distress seems to get through to her but I'm still ready to rip something to shreds. I can barely comprehend it . . it runs round in my head . .no cat . .cat out window . . no cat . . I THREW THE CAT OUT THE WINDOW! Oh FUCK. After what seems an age I manage to get through to Mom that I'm about to have hysterics. Finally, a response. We go looking for the cat . . no cat . . we ask my grandfather who was mowing the lawns in the direction the cat supposedly took . . no cat . . well of course not, the lawn mower terrifies her and I'd just bloody well thrown her out the window . . no cat . . enlist my next door neighbour's aid . . he at least understands some of my distress, having just adopted a siberian husky puppy . . small feelings of relief at having another animal lover on board. He searches his garage, his car, his house, even the dog kennel. No cat. I go to the other neighbour, squint through the cat door in her garage window. Can't see the cat. My heart won't stop pounding . . no cat no cat no caaaaat!

Finally, after wandering around the neighbourhood forlornly shaking the cat crunchie bag for two hours I spot said neighbour outside (she was ill and asleep when I was rummaging in her yard). "Have you seen my cat?" I wail, "I threw her out the window and I can't find her!" She checks the garage again . . small black and pink pussy nose pokes out the cat door. My neighbour calls me over . . I almost faint with relief. Still have a problem - the Princess Ivory is still too terrified to come out (and rightly so - a gently reared lady should not be subjected to such trials and tribulations) and the bloody german shepherd patrolling on the other side of the fence line doesn't help matters. I coax her out with the lure of crunchies and frantically feel her all over for broken things while she eats from my hand. I grab her up, clutch her to me and run back inside for all I'm worth (I got a lot of excercise that day). Oh thank you Lord for the life of my kitty . . (I'm not usually religious, but I found God that day). I pour her a big bowl of cat milk to celebrate her safe return, all the while contemplating calling the vet and wondering if I should subject her to that stress as well. She licks the milk up fine . . walks fine . . . curls up and gives me a look of utter disdain fine . . . I decide to keep an eye on the litter box for the next day or so and leave her in peace.

Needless to say, despite her prediliction for joining her fine feathered friends in the air, the Princess Ivory never got another chance to test her flying skills. What thirty years of children and thirty years of hot insect filled summers could not do, one small scruffy tortoiseshell did - my parents finally forked out the two hundred dollars to get safety/insect screens up at the windows. And I? Well, I learned that humans can run at the speed of light.

Copyright © Maryrose Lockerbie