We have a new cat. The two eldest kids have named her Rain. She’s adapted quickly to her new home, finding her favorite spots to sleep and hang out – on the sofa, on my desk, on my keyboard and in my trashcan, and under the covers of my four-year-old son’s bed with him giggling loudly.
Rain has a shiny silver coat with black, gray and white streaks. So it’s an apt name.
What isn’t apt, maybe, is that she’s a cat. She’s more like a dog. She tries to tag along when I take the true dog out for a walk on the streets of the big city. She follows us around inside the apartment, sits with us. She’s not into any of that solo cat stuff. She’s even taken to playing fetch. My wife will throw a ball of crumpled paper from the sofa and she’ll race off quick as lightening after it and then trot back with the ball in her mouth, her chin held up high and proud. She’ll jump up on the sofa and sit down, drop the ball and sit poised for another go.
All this has got the dog a bit miffed. Big and slow, she can’t keep up with Rain as she zips across the floor to fetch the paper ball. Not to be outdone again, she’s ready this time. So when the paper ball flies across the room the dog – four-ton is her nickname – bounds as fast as her huge frame can take her across the room and skids with a bang against the wall. The feat has proved successful. The ball is at her paws and she picks it up with her mouth and looks over at the startled kitten and with a look of, “Look who’s boss now!” she swallows it whole. “Game over, cat!”