Expect Good Things

Humphrey is the cat from down the street.

 

He lives in the little rent house that used to be a garage and seems to belong to the kids who come every other weekend to stay with their dad. At least that’s what we think. In truth, he spends almost all his time on our front porch. He sleeps a lot and is kind of putting on some weight. Hell:  the boy is getting really paunchy. I admit it. But eating is one of the few things he enjoys. I’ve tried, with no success, to get him to play with me. He’s terrified of balls and strings, of my fingers in the grass. My foot. He’s also terrified of newspaper, brooms (the worst), noises, cars, trucks, shoes, feet. We do not like to think too much about this.

 

I’ve had only marginally more success in getting him to sit in my lap. If I wait until he’s really happy (after a snack) and pick him up and set him carefully on my knees and pet him very slowly and steadily on the back of his neck, he’ll sit there and purr, tensely, for a minute or two before he bolts. Otherwise, he’s always on edge. He’s happy to see us and always ready to be fed, but he’s also always ready to run.

So what I like to do is to surprise him when he’s sleeping.

He’ll be lying in one of the chairs, on the pillow and soft rug we’ve put in the seat, relaxed and limp. I’ll quietly go up and put a tiny piece of cheddar cheese just in front of his nose. His eyes pop open, and I swear it’s just like Santa Claus has come:  Humphrey adores cheddar cheese (and also any other kind of cheese. Also beans. Chips. Bread. Pretty much anything.)

He’ll eat the tiny bit of cheese still in Sleep Mode, lying down, still relaxed. Sometimes his paws will knead, sort of involuntarily. I’ll give him a couple more tiny pieces and then come back in the house while he’s still not really awake.

Just before I leave I tell him, “See? Expect good things.”