Snow Cat

The morning began with the usual drill: Drew, time to get up. Drew, get up now. Drew! Out of bed! Drew, do you have your lunch? Drew put your pants on. Drew, do you have your keys? Hurry up! Get moving! We need to leave NOW!

I want to migrate to a better morning system. Problem is, if I just left without him to teach him the value of self starting, he would happily sleep all day! I am seriously considering going back to the water-dumped-on-you-after-one-warning system. But at the moment, he has made the high honor roll, and I am happy he is doing well. So I delay the distress until after the holidays.

In the end, I leave the apartment before he does, managing now to exit through the back door so that I only have to deal with one icy step instead of ten. (After six months of pleading, begging, threatening, arguing, asking, whining, and making a general nuisance of myself, I managed to get a key that sort of works in the back door lock.)

Outside, the weather is mild. The neighborhood kids have built a sizable snowman, then knocked it over and smashed parts of it. The bottom huge snowball sits forlornly in the middle of the yard, a sad commentary on the state of the melting snow. I am happy I will not have to chip ice from the windshield this morning, or bother with wipers stuck to the glass. My sad attempt at creating a garage with a tarp and hooks is mostly ineffective.

As I pass the snowman remains, I am startled by a black blob on the top that moved! What in the world? I tiptoe closer to the snowball, and there, curled up in the middle of the snowball is a coal black cat, purring away like crazy. Brrrrrrrrrr! I should think the poor thing would either be stuck fast to the snow, or shivering and shaking from the coldness.

But it was not melting the snow nor sticking to it. In fact, it seemed to enjoy the elevation of its new platform bed. As I stared in unbelief, it lay its head back on the snow and scratched itself comfy, wriggling and turning to get the most out of each move. You would have thought it was cozying up to a wool blanket or a toasty warm comforter.

There is no accounting for taste. One kid's snowman is another cat's delight. I climb into the cold car and start the engine, hoping for a fast warmup. Drew finally appears, ambling along as if the car pool driver's arrival were not imminent. He scoops up a handful of snow from the disheveled snowman, packs into a ball, and tosses it at the car window.

The cat suddenly darts after him, as if to attack the stealing of its snowman, then changes its mind and returns to its lair, walking around and around the snow leaning into it as it would lean into the legs of a human.

I flip the wipers on to dispel the snow and back the car out of the parking space. I wonder what the poor black cat will do when the rest of the snowman melts?