As I tried to make a copy of my daily schedule, sending it to my LaserJet, earsplitting howling emerged from the printer. I quickly flipped it off, turned around and glared at my cat. Three years of living with this mischievous feline convinced me she was up to her shenanigans again: touching things she has been told not to touch, chewing and scratching things that are not for her, like my couch and my bed.
I opened up the printer and peered into the inner workings. The grinding screeching sounded like a piece of metal (perhaps a fork) was stuck in the guts of my HP. I wouldn’t put it past Darlin’ to pick up a fork in the drying tray and transport it inside the printer. Stranger things have happened.
Once, I took on a dog-sitting gig that paid very well and all I had to do was come at night, feed and walk two sweet dogs, watch TV with them and then we all slept the night in the guest room. I left plenty of food and treats for Darlin’ and all the lights on. I waked the dogs at 5 a.m., fed and walked them, then rushed home, a 20-minute drive. When I opened the door to my apartment, with some trepidation, the first sign was that the cat did not come to greet me. I called her name several times. Then I noticed that every item that had been on my cocktail table was now on the floor, one of them broken. Next, I saw that my various post-it’s were ripped off my desk and had chew-marks on them.
So, it would be a natural assumption, given this past performance, that this was a cut and dried “The Cat Did It” crime. But then I recalled that my “therapy cat” was my saving grace after losing my husband a year ago and, generally, she is a wonderful companion. When the tech came to fix my screechy printer, I was thrilled to know that the culprit was actually old age.
“They don’t even make this model any more,” he said. “How long have you had it?”
Good question, but I had no idea. I added a trip to Staples on the next day’s schedule. Then I went to the grocery store to get cat treats and a new pink and feathered toy.