Ok, so last night I go over to D3’s, and open the door and set my bag down. I then go see where he put her food, open one of the cans, and grab a dish and call her. Well, she trots in, and bobs your uncle, I set down the dish, and turn to go back outside and grab her water, grab my bag and call it job done and head home.

I had cats, they’re self-sufficient, and a couple visits a day, food, litter and affection, and they’re good to go, back to sleep, or whatever cats do on their own inside.

I don’t think Sofie was ever a regular house cat, to be honest. D3’s girlfriend, who died this past July, acquired her through, well, through the fact she fell in love with her and decided to do all the things you’re supposed to do with a cat when you fall in love with them – check-up, fix em and shots. Well, Sofie was feral, and I suppose once feral, always feral.

Seriously, so po’d at D3 that night, sayin’ to us to just leave her outside.Pft. Just make sure she has food, he says. Hardly. He isn’t sure how long he’ll be gone, and there was no way I was leaving her outside.

However, Mademoiselle Sofie had other plans and high tails it past me, going like a bat outta hell and is about to run back outside when I grab her up and attempting to get her dishes from the porch, whilst ahold of this squiggling bag of muscle in my other, and she wiggled out of my grasp. For a 17-year-old, she’s in good shape.

Anywho, fine. FINE! As I watch her flouncing off out back somewhere.

Of course, I went back, about 4 hours later, walk around, call from the porch, walk around the garage. Nada. A bit of the soft food I gave her was eaten, and some of the kibbles, but she wouldn’t come out from whatever hidey-hole she’s residing within, nothin, not even a meow and how ya doin’.

It’s not cold cold, but the ground is covered with snow, and it’s chilly at night. And she’s a rotten cat. I worried about her.

So today after work, again, stop by to see if she needs anything and if she’s changed her mind.

Yes to needing stuff, and no to changing her mind. Wouldn’t have anything to do with me when I asked her if she wanted to go in, as I’m standing in the doorway, staring down at her like an idiot, saying’: “do you want to come in”?, again and again.

Nope. No interest whatsoever. Instead, she gives me this look as though I was daft and sauntered off around the back, rather than eating the rest of her soft food like some frickin’ normal cat.

Big ol’ bad humanoid that I am, trying to imprison her within my evil domesticity. She chooses to be with D3, she tolerates his, um, borderline version of domesticity.

Ok, so he just knows the cat. He was not being mean.

Mea Culpa.

Yeah, so fine, maybe I just wanna save the whales, as one of the pairs of dingbat dillies pronounced to one of my co-workers the other day, after some inane conversation. Best intentions, you know. But what about the other stuff, like, does the cat WANT to go in? No. Apparently. She does NOT want to go in.

So how many birds ya think a 17-year-old fart of a feline can nab in a few nights? 4? 3? shitballs. Rotten cat. Although D3 did assure me that Sofie’s expertise, and favoured prey, is in fact mice and rats and such, that she never was a bird cat. Plus, we have something in common, we’re both missing a canine. So her killing skills are degraded. I, on the other hand, have never acquired the taste for that sort of thing.

Well, fine. So, meeting up with a mutual friend later to kvetch over at D3’s, and maybe lure the ratfink in. Wish us luck. Being Christmas Eve and all, maybe she’ll change her mind.

Why she’d care about the birth of Christ, I have no idea, but there has been a nice amount of snow falling over the last hour, so maybe she’ll let us imprison her for a few hours overnight. Humour us.

Frankly, she has more street smarts then I do, having grown up right downtown in the heart of the East Village, cars whizzing down Queens at all hours.

I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’m sure.

Rotten Cat.