The other night, Gary and I were minding our own business, relaxing innocently in the living room, when suddenly a manic blur of black and white fur exploded into the room, zoomed to the far wall, ricocheted, and rocketed back into the hallway. I glanced over at Gary, who just rolled his eyes with disgust. My cat, Sylvester, was acting up…again.
Sylvester performed this circuit, ripping from one end of the house to the other, several times, wildly chasing something we couldn’t see (and something that more than likely didn’t even exist). Rosie, our other cat, lifted his head from his comfy spot on a blanket, watched Sylvester with a stupefied, “what-the-hell-is-he-doing?” look, then seemed to shake his head and curl back up, wondering why we had never made him an only cat.
One afternoon, Gary and I were standing outside talking to a neighbor when she suddenly made a strange face and asked, “What is that cat doing?”
I knew before I even turned around that “that cat” was Sylvester. Sure enough, there he was, standing on his hind feet in the bedroom window, front paws stretched as high above his head as he could get them, his furry belly plastered to the glass. He was likely chasing something, probably a bug outside the window, but for all practical purposes, it sure looked like a shameless pervert cat exposing himself joyously to the world.
I often find myself thinking, “Sylvester, please stop embarrassing me.” That was only one instance. He just keeps finding new and interesting ways to manifest his feline insanity.
Gary adamantly denies Sylvester as his cat, so by default, he is mine. We’ve joked about what specifically causes Sylvester’s loony spells, such as being smacked around too hard by Tweetie as a kitten, or hitting his head one too many times when he chases a toy on the kitchen tile and slides full-speed and head-first into the wall. Whatever the issue is, Sylvester is, for better or worse, definitely one of a kind. That is good…because more than one Sylvester would make me crazy.