Nicole feels

I wanna be Zorro.

Not the debonair dude in the black mask and cape. The little kitty who has taken up residence in our hearts and home over the past few weeks.

Now, tell me if this is not the life:

Wake up. Play with immobile body parts of whatever human I was snoozing with.

Look for kitten chow. Yum, kitten chow.

Play with anything and everything that isn�t nailed to the floor and is small enough to bat with my paws or pick up in my mouth.

Flop into kittie-bed and sleep.

Get up. Eat. Play.

Sleep.

Get up. Eat. Play.

Sleep.

Get up. Eat. Play.

Sleep.

Ad infinitum.

So life has been a tad on the stressful side lately. My life could be compared to thong undies on a humid summer day after sitting in rush hour traffic on a vinyl seat.

Um, yeah. How�s that for some imagery?

And you wonder why I want to be an 11-week old cat?

Speaking of cats, just before we left for MD last Wednesday, we couldn�t find Bella. That would be the 6-year-old tabby who has been a bit miffed as of late with the introduction of hyper-active, sleep-intensive, turbo-kitty.

You see, to show her displeasure in the introduction of yet another young �un ("oh, man, oh, man, haven�t I taught them anything yet?"), she has decided that kitten chow is much more appetizing than her food and that Zorro�s cat box, which sits under the table where I tend to sit with my laptop, is just the place for her to dump a load.

So, we had sort of sent her to her room so to speak. She was banished to the family room, where right next door sits her food and water and cat box.

Now, before you feel all sorry for her and stuff, this is the activity center of the house. This is where the TV, toys, kid�s computer, etc. rest. So, it wasn�t like solitary confinement or anything like that.

So, fast forward to Wednesday. I get a call about 1 PM that my grandmother has passed. We start packing and getting everything in order so we are ready to leave about 6ish. As we are about to close up the house, I innocently ask�

�Where�s Bella?�

About a half an hour later, with much shaking of her favorite cat treat container, searching, and re-searching, and re-re-searching every nook and cranny in the house, over hill and dale of our back yard, side yard, and the field behind our house, still no tabby.

We have no choice but to leave with reassurance from our neighbor that she will be on the lookout for the wayward one.

I obsess about the little princess all the way from Missouri through Ohio. How did she get out? Was it my fault? Did she spy a shot at freedom from the torture of turbo-kitty invading her space and made a break for it? How could I have missed her 15+ lb frame ambling out the door? What if she jumped in the chest freezer when I took out the chicken? (oh, man�..)

High strung? Moi?

Heh.

We got a call the next afternoon. Our neighbor had found our little escape artist.

She was meowing behind our closed bedroom door.

I tell you, we looked everywhere in that room. How she managed to hide her booda-butt from us is beyond me, not to mention resisting the cat treat lure. Seriously, this cat has some poundage to throw around.

Have you ever been so happy someone is okay that you want to throttle them?

No, we aren�t whooped. Not one bit.