“Do you want to quit playback?”
[Yes] – Click
“Do you want to turn off the system?”
[Yes] – Click
“No Signal. Please check the power of the device . . .”
I switch out the PlayStation controller for the TV remote.
Click
Inhaling a deep breath of crisp air, I soak in every O2 molecule as I stare at the black screen, the final confirmation that I am done. Why is it that after a robust workout, the air seems to breathe easier, fully penetrating the millions of alveoli in my lungs?
Today’s en-suite, air-conditioned, anti-couch-potato exercise consisted of a forty-five minute, low-impact, cardio workout from 1987 in all of its day-glo, leg-warmer, spandex glory, courtesy of YouTube, followed by a twenty-five minute Classical Stretch DVD lesson filmed in sunny Jamaica to lengthen and strengthen my muscles.
Collapsing onto the sofa bed – ironically the reward for rousting myself up off the sofa – I revel in a brief moment of relaxation before a sharp meow breaks the silence. Lily. Shortly after 4:30 p.m., while I was still YouTubing away, I banished Her Royal Highness from the media room. Lily had woken up from her long afternoon nap and was intent on terrorizing the poor innocent sofa with her sharp claws. She must be tired of exile.
Sigh. Guess I should let her back in. I drag myself over to the door and open it, only to see a dark, banded tail disappear down the hallway. That is odd. Lily either a) saunters in, jumps on the sofa and rolls herself into a tight ball to keep warm in the frigid 85 degree room or b) sits down and stares at me while I count backwards from ten before shutting the door. In the latter case, if she has not deigned to walk in by the time I get to one, she will wait a minute or two and then let out a series of piercing meows to kindly inform me that she is ready to grace me with her presence.
The one thing Lily never does is meow and dart off. Oh well, cats are a universe unto themselves.
I sit down again and begin scrolling through my email. Junk. Junk. Not junk, but not important. Junk.
“Meow.”
I shake my head in response and continue with my iPad perusing. I am not playing the open the door and see me run game.
“Meow! Meow!! MEOWWWW!!!”
My eyes pop open. That last cry sliced through the door and walls. Something is wrong. Did my other cat, Bruno, get stuck somewhere? Injure himself?
Bruno had joined Lily in exile during the sit-up portion of my workout. He thought me being prone was the perfect time to curl up on my belly. Bruno insists upon a short cuddle a few times a day and expects me to welcome him with open arms, or lap, as the case may be. Unfortunately, sit-ups are never a good time. Ticked off that I was not lying still, Mr. Cranky Paws began zooming back and forth over me, resulting in him being shown the door.
Worried about my cuddle-cat, I bounce up and peer outside the room. This time, I see Lily at my feet, staring up at me. She waits a moment to ensure she has caught my eye, then sprints away. A wall of steam engulfs me as I follow her down the hall. My house seems even hotter and stickier now than it had before I boarded myself in the media room and cranked up the air, as if that were possible.
I scan the area for Bruno and find him sitting in the kitchen. O.k. Everyone is present and accounted for, and nothing seems awry. Bizarre. I retreat back into my air-conditioned oasis, make myself comfortable and find an interesting article on low-key, weekday meals.
Just as I click on the first recipe for Ginger-Lime Chicken, I hear Bruno’s high-pitched cry outside. Having just seen me, he probably realizes that he is on the wrong side of the door. Bruno does not like being left out.
After the second, louder, more urgent yowl, I pry myself off the sofa to let him in. Instead of bursting into the room as he always does, my orange and white pumpkin takes off down the hall.
This is too weird.
Are the cats hungry? Is this their new way of telling me it is dinner time? But this is so unlike them. They always wait until I am in the actual process of preparing my meal to turn up the histrionics. Even if it is supper time, I can take in the laundry, fold it, wash any dishes in the sink and not hear a peep out of them. Now mind you, they are glued to my every move in anticipation of me opening the pantry or the fridge, the telltale sign of food in the offing. At that point, they run in circles, howl and generally act as if they are going to have a coronary if they do not get fed ASAP.
Walking into the kitchen, I turn to the cats food bowls, expecting to see two fluffballs staring longingly into their empty dishes. But the kitties are not there. Instead, both are riveted to the closed kitchen door leading to the side deck.
I suddenly realize why I have been summoned, why it is imperative I open that door.
I walk over, unfasten the top latch and slide back the bottom one before pulling open the door. There, behind the screen is Little Kitty. This darling, beige and grey cat comes by once or twice a day for a bit of cat chow and a social hour, with her staring in and my cats staring out. She recently reappeared after vanishing for nearly a week. I was worried she had been mauled by a dog or hit by a vehicle until she turned up famished a day or two ago.
My cats deposit themselves in front of the screen, no doubt wondering why it nearly took an act of divine intervention to convince their dense owner to leave the cooler box and open the bloody door.
I fill a bowl with food and another with fresh water. But before I head outside, I strew a few morsels of Purina Cat Chow on the floor so my felines can feel like real cats. Food trumping friendship, they spring into action, scampering across the floor, pouncing on each tiny morsel like a bobcat hunting a tasty rodent.
I set the bowls down outside, and Little Kitty immediately begins chowing down. By the time I turn around, my cats, having successfully hunted their nuggets, have resumed their sentry behind the screen door.
The world back to normal, I retreat to my cool enclave and pick up my iPad, but then I pause. Maybe my cats were onto something. I turn off the air conditioner, open the louvered windows and return to my steam bath of a house.
As it turns out, I did receive a summons for dinner after all, not theirs, but mine. Some Ginger-Lime Chicken perhaps?
© 2020 Sandra Y. K. Loder
Originally published August 1, 2020
