Sunday, September 7, 2014

When mom got into the kitchen this morning, she started her usual banter about “The Cat.”

Look at that. That cat is still there. I don’t know how it gets up there. 

I had finally had it. So I asked her to walk over to the sink. Of course, closer to the source, it was clear—or should have been—that there is no cat.

Oh where did it go?

Well, those two bolts and the fan motor look like a cat to you. But there is no cat up there, mom.

Oh.

No cat could live that long up there.

Oh, I see (resignedly, or so I thought). But look at that cat. I don’t know how it got up there. Rob, that’s not a cat up there? (She won’t take my word for it anymore.) 

Oh well, like Rose, the cat will always be perched on the ceiling fan out on the porch—no matter the weather. He is there night and day, day and night—at least to mom’s mind. He never goes for a walk and never eats. He’s a magic cat. But at least he has mom’s attention and Rose is gone for the nonce.