wanted the best cat story. I don't even know which cat to start with.
My sweet Georgie was full of mischief, which included being lost for several days when he wandered out of our non-functioning screen door and was locked out by my roommate. Several days of teary searching and heartbreak, and I'd given him up as coyote snacks when my neighbor called me from the complex next door. She'd found Georgie in their laundry room (which was outside). She took him home and I went to fetch him from her apartment where I found him underneath her end table. I knelt down and he immediately crawled out, onto my half-crouch of a lap, as if to say, "So about that outside thing..."
This was far more traumatic than his other escape attempts which usually involved him going directly under the house where he had to be fished out by my roommate who was able to wriggle through the grate and grab the cat and haul him back out.
Marlowe - who is just as co-dependent but way more high strung, on the other hand, crafted his great escape attempt when he was a little less than a year. He'd been slowly but steadily growing a tiny hole in my bedroom window screen into a larger hole, and one night before we went to bed, I noticed that the whole looked big enough to put a small cat head through. I commented on it, and M. replied that a whole cat couldn't fit through that hole. Just to be safe, I duct-taped it up and we went to bed.
I woke up early, about 6 a.m. and realized that Marlowe (usually crashed on top of me one he fell asleep at about 5:30) was nowhere to be seen. I looked over, and realized that the duct tape was gone and that the cat head shaped hole was not an entire cat shape rip. I started to shriek and ran through the apartment, throwing open the front door just in time to see a black streak go past, round the corner over the 5 foot high chain link fence, and up the second part of the fence.
Apparently, the big bad world had been a little to much for tiny Mo who was trying to get back in after his great big escape. I grabbed him, hauled him back inside, and then went back to investigate the damage. He'd clearly gotten out, and then couldn't get back in because the differential in height from outside was so much greater. He could jump up to the level of his exit hole but he lacked the trajectory to go through the hole. Plus, the screen was nailed in so he couldn't push it out. He had, however, pulled the opposite window screen off (that window was closed and locked) with such verocity that it was bent in half from his efforts.
He repeated this trick a few months ago in the new apartment when he sliced a hole in the screen door in the living room, and we awoke to find him sitting outside our bedroom door, like "Hi guys. I get that you don't want me coming through the apartment. I made a new route."
Most Mo stories involve the things he eats (cat litter, pennies, bok choy, popcorn, french fries, kale), or climbs (everything), or rolls off of (everything else. He's like living with all of the three stooges at once). He is a font of entertainment.
The little cat, Brand X, is a font of entertainment in a different way. Like when she tore a big fancy box from Anthropologie to tiny bits over the course of a night's sleep (although to be fair, there wasn't much sleeping) and then when she'd reduced the box's size by half, dragged it over to her waterdish, where she drowns all of her favorite things - the stuffed mice, the stuffed fishes, my hair ties, my bras and socks, the curtains...
She also got on the counter last night (a no-no) and when I saw her up there, rolling on it with the most dazzling of nipped out intention, she grabbed the edge of the holiday ribbon that was up there, and zipped down off the counter, through the dining room and to the bedroom. However, the ball of ribbon stayed on the counter, and just unspooled so it was like Theseus and the freaking minotaur through our house.
Cats. cats cats cats.
Also, they both tried to eat the Christmas tree, and Mo ate several ornaments, including an angel my great grandmother had made. We found the crocheted body, and the halo, and her hair in another room, but still haven't found the cloth head.
One final cat anecdote - since they don't live in the same room, we often put Mo in the office so the little cat can romp with the peoples. When this happens, she selects whichever toy he's most fond of out of his toy bed (she has an unerring instinct for this) and carts it off to the bedroom like a great big "fuck you monster." This was never funnier than when she stole a giant birdy on a stick that was four times her size, but she is merciless about her choices.