That Crazy Old Lady Upstairs
We think, perhaps, that Moonie is getting a bit senile. She used to be a good, calm, thoughtful cat. She was always finicky about her food, and she had the world's worst timing (another of her nicknames that I forgot to list, "Bad Timing Cat". ) Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. If we're sitting down for an hour, chatting and relaxing, the minute we stand up to leave the house on an errand, Moonie shows up and want to sit on a lap. If we're working in the kitchen and Moonie walks in, something always happens at that moment to startle her - a can gets dropped or a pan gets clattered, and she runs back up the stairs. She walks into the room to be with us just as Ray is getting up from a nap. Always. Bad timing.
But, like I said, she used to be calm, thoughtful, and finicky. A good cat. Now, Moonie is the "Terminator Cat." At dinner, she wants what is on our plates and no matter how many times we
push her away, she comes back. Just like the Terminator. And it doesn't matter what it is, she wants it.
Spicy chorizo sausage, bread, shrimp, salmon, pork, chicken, turkey, parmesan cheese, cheddar cheese, pepperoni, bacon, eggs. No matter how it's prepared, no matter how highly seasoned, she wants it all and she wants it now.
So, What's for Breakfast?
I think I have mentioned before that Moonie is also going a little deaf. (she can't seem to hear dog tags jingling and has been surprised, on more than one occasion, by the big, blind dog when he trips over her ("The Blind Dog and the Deaf Cat" - sounds like the title of a book). She evaporates to the upstairs while Ray tosses around trying to find the furry thing he tripped over.) The deafness has resulted in Moonie developing an extremely piercing MEOW. She walks into the kitchen and loudly starts demanding. Pacing back and forth, she MEOWs and MEOWs. We pet her, pick her up and stroke her. She wants down. She jumps up on kitchen counters, on top of the refrigerator, tries to walk across the stove (never before has she done this). When we open the refrigerator, she makes a dash for the inside, tries to jump up on a shelf. Odd behavior for our old cat.
Moonie has always been a good hunter. She catches those feathers glued on the end of long, flexible sticks, like nobody's business. She hunts them down upstairs and drags them around, howling, to let everyone know that she caught another "birdie." Gregg troops upstairs to tell her what a good cat she is for catching those annoying stick birdies flying around. Now, with the advent of (what we think is) senility, Moonie catches birdies in the middle of the night, dragging them into our room and wailing like a banshee to let us know that she caught one. The noise is ungodly, deafening, and unnerving. Then she runs down the hall, still shrieking, the stick dragging along the ground behind her. Gregg gets out of bed and brings the old girl back to bed for a pet. She settles in, purring.
While Moonie Tries to Steal Gregg's Breakfast, the Blind Dog Sleeps