SPAZ CRUSH

I'm pretty sure Spaz has a crush on me. All week she has been sleeping with my shirts, holding my hand, and making goo-goo eyes at me.

ME AND SPAZ KILL A BUG

My cat Spaz is one smart cookie.
Last night she called me into the laundry area. She started crying, and I was worried she got tied up in something, like the curtains again.
So I checked on her. She was standing on the washing machine, crying, looking up at the ceiling. She was after a lightning bug. When she saw me, she started hunching up the way she does when she wants to jump up on my shoulders. I turned my back and she got on. Perched on my shoulder, she reached up and swatted at the bug. It crawled across the wall. We followed. Spaz urged me forward, biting my earlobe whenever the bug looked like it might get away. We spent fifteen minutes crashing that bug through the house. Spaz finally nailed it, but not before she shredded my shoulders with her claws.

Next time, I'm wearing a shirt.

SPAZ HAS GONE CRACKERS

Shara, over at My Deal of the Day,
suggested that I submit this photo of Spaz to Stuff on My Cat.

I did. Thanks, Shara.

I've had some strange animals live with me through the years, but Spaz is in a class of her own. She slaps me awake every morning when she's ready for breakfast. At the end of the night, as I go about the house shutting of the lights, Spaz grabs a quick drink, makes a trip to the litter box, and makes a mad dash for the bedroom to secure her side of the bed. I'm use to the left side but have grown weary arguing with her.

When we have a spat, Spaz shakes her head violently, screaming like a rabbit caught in the talons of a barn owl. She'll stomp off, only to return when she's hungry again.

One morning I found her stuck in a large vase with her tail and hind legs stretched toward the ceiling. She never made a sound. I think she was embarrassed.

Another time, when I was repairing the flush mechanism on the toilet, she dove into the open tank. I found her clutching the rim, eyes wide, soaked from the neck down.

Maybe I should have flushed.

SPAZ THINKS SHE'S A PARROT

Lately, Spaz has been jumping on my shoulder. She stays perched there, like a parrot, as I walk about the house. If I start moving too fast, she puts a hind foot on either shoulder and hugs my forehead, resting her chin on the top of my head.

Spaz spends her morning hours sitting on the window sill chirping at the other birds feeding in the yard. When they chirp back, she gets excited and preens herself.

Any day now I expect to find an egg in her litter box.

I'VE BEEN SPAZZED

Spaz added a pet door to my shower curtain.

She's also stealing my clothes. This morning, after showering, I couldn't find my socks, shirt, or underwear. I'd laid them on the bed with a clean pair of pants. The dockers were still there, but the rest had vanished. My first thought was aliens. Interstellar not illegal. Maybe they tried to beam me up, missed, and got my duds instead. Then Spaz strutted into the room and I knew she'd stolen them. You see, she's a thief. A regular cat burglar.

It took five minutes to find the first sock. It was under the sink. Twenty minutes later I had the other one, it was in the closet, behind a box of old photographs. I'm still looking for my underwear.

SPAZ

This is my cat Spaz. If the eyes are windows to the soul then I'm in trouble. She's resting peacefully now, wrapped around her favorite plant, the one with the baby's breath. An hour ago she had a cat fit. Tomorrow I'll have to re-hang the drapes, comb cat fur off the cactus, and sift garlic bulbs from her litter box. Spaz buries garlic in her Fresh Step. I think She's trying to tell me something.

Spaz is an incorrigible thief. A year or so after she moved in I noticed things were disappearing. Small things. Mundane items you don't notice at first, like cellophane from cigarette packs, soda caps, used napkins. Then one day I couldn't find the salt shaker. I was worried. I have a brain tumor and I thought I might be suffering from blackouts. Then I couldn't find a pack of Trojans. I was terrified. Not because of the tumor. I had a friend coming over. A special friend. But I digress.

Spaz followed me as I tore through the house. I searched under couch cushions. I rifled dresser drawers. I checked the freezer and found three cans of Lima beans and a bar of Ivory soap. Brain tumor. When I looked under the bed I discovered two paper towels draped over a small hillock. I pulled back the towels and found cellophane, match books, dryer lint, ink pens, soda caps, a salt shaker, and a tattered pack of Trojans.

When I looked up, Spaz was gone.