Vitamin Wild

My cat, Lucy, is truly not bright. There are no euphamisms for what, to me, seems a complete lack in common feline sense. For instance:

1. She meekly allows herself to be handled in the most ungraceful of ways by my three clumsy children.

2. She eats scraps from the table that even a dog might avoid.

3. Her reflexes are so slow that simply avoiding getting herself stepped on is a near impossibility.

But there is one crowning folly - one that, until yesterday, has seemed the greatest of them all. Lucy, in all her adolescent glory, simply cannot get the idea into her head that she does not belong outside. Due, in large part, to her not-brightness (and due, in another large part, to our desire to avoid 'kitty funeral' at our house), we have chosen to give her the honorary title of Indoor Cat.

She, however, does not view see this as an honor. On multiple occasions, various Lucy body parts have been slammed, jammed, and pinched in our quickly-closing front door. Once safely trapped inside, she yowls like a drunk yodeler until we return - and then only stops long enough to attempt a death-wish dart through our legs to her imagined freedom.

It's pathetic. It's dangerous. And it's gotten downright annoying. I had felt for some time that her persistence would pay off, and been dreading the day when we'd have to tell the kids, "We found Lucy's collar last night ... but not Lucy."

Well, yesterday, that day finally came. All night, the house remained eerily quiet. Twice, I heard something bumping at the window and rushed to see what it was. But when I opened the door, no Lucy-cat stood at my threshold. I knew finding her in the dark would be useless, and so I went to bed with a prayer and a hope that she would survive the long night.

The next morning, I heard her. I'd just padded out to begin breakfast as usual when a familiar miaow reached my ears. And there she was, standing on two legs and peering through the frosted glass at our front door. She looked ... not pathetic ... but saucy! That cat! She strutted in, obviously glad to see me, but not falling all over herself with relief, either.

I had to laugh: That Lucy! Even she, the most intellectually challenged of cats, still knew where she belonged! The night had called to her, begged her to step out, and her instincts wouldn't let her rest until she'd complied! I rewarded her safe return with a few tidbits of cheese (which she gladly accepted), but I could tell by her strut that no edible bribery would prevent her from seeking another escape. Wildness has been bred into her, after all. She's not just a cat - she's a lion in miniature. And the sooner I understand (perhaps even tolerate) this fact, the less I'll obsess about my feline's safety. Is she equipped for the night, the outdoors, and the danger? Absolutely not. But is she wired for it, al the same? She'd bet her life on it - in fact, she's probably scheming about how to risk it again even now.

I think I could learn a little from my wayward kitty, don't you? Why avoid those things that attract me so insistently? Why fear them? Perhaps I may not be the best suited to deal with the difficulties they bring, but I may be the best suited to appreciate them. And so, though the danger of their pursuit may cost me my life (or at least a part of a limb), perhaps the bigger danger lies in losing my heart if I don't at least try. Certain things pull me - certain things call.

And even if it might seem unquenchably foolish to attempt them ... like Lucy, I believe I am created for more than just safety. And so, the next time the night's dark, I'll watch my cat's eyes ... and maybe together we'll venture out into the exhilerating unknown. Will we come back in the morning? Who knows! As Lucy could tell you, and I soon hope to learn, that's the best part of the adventure!