Max was on the loose and feeling his oats. He dashed up the stairs and across the bed to the window--he likes to sit in windows, even when it's night. I caught up with him and petted him for a minute or so before helping my wife get into her nightie (one of my daily duties--it can get complicated, because sometimes the arms don't go in the right places--a game we have developed over the years).
After the kiss good-night, Max was in the doorway, meowing. I made a move, and he dashed off. I followed him downstairs (at my own speed) and caught up to him by the big window in our middle room, another of Max's favorite vantage points. There, it time for more petting, and Max pressing his head against my hand as I petted it, making his motorboat sound (loud purring, sort of from the throat; it's hard to describe). He was happy. We didn't hear from him again until morning.
A quiet observance at our house in mid-October marked Max's one-year anniversary as a feline resident. "Max," I should note, was his shelter name, but we never came up with a better one, and Max he remains. He lived in a smallish cage at the shelter for over a half year before some people decided to take him home. Us.
It sure wasn't an easy start. Charlie hated him and told him so. Maggie snarled at him. That was depressing, because the reason we wanted to get a third cat was to give Charlie someone to chum around with around the house--Maggie is an old cat (17 in human years) and doesn't like anything/anyone new.
But after a while, things got better. Charlie started tolerating Max, and they stopped snarling at each other. Later, they would lie on the same bed, on the same sofa. After that, they started licking each other around the shoulder when they met. Not that Charlie likes it when Max ambushes him, but Charlie ambushes Max, too, so fair is fair. It's just kitty games.
Here are some photos of the cats from recent months. As you see, they share the same sofa ...
They share the same bed ...
They share the same shopping bags ...
They even try to share the same sun (with Maggie) ...
When I go into our bedroom to change clothes, Max usually pops up out of nowhere--probably from one of his many hiding places, under the bed. Urrow! Buzz, buzz, buzz! Max likes to get his head rubbed and pushes his head up into my hand. He will lie on the bed during the day. But at night, after we go to bed, when the other cats spend the night on the bed (Maggie, nearly always; Charlie, for a while), Max doesn't. He's somewhere else.
Max likes sitting in windows and gazing outside. Maybe he's remembering his days as a stray before going to the shelter. Maybe he is thinking back to the time when he was roaming around outdoors. The outdoors can be very unfriendly, you know. Rain. Cold. Wind. Scrounging for food. Avoiding bigger creatures who are also roaming around, scrounging for food.
Inside, Max is safe, warm and well-fed. The sun is warm coming through the windows, even in winter. He likes his sunbaths. There are beds and upholstered chairs to curl up on. People will pet him and rub the top of his head. When he gets bored, he checks up what Charlie is up to, or else he goes to get a bite to eat or sees what Mom is doing. And when the mood is right, he never fails to find a reason to race through the house at top speed, dashing up and down the stairs or down the long hallways.
He is, after all, the world's fastest cat. I've tried to get a picture of Max running. But all I get is just a tail or maybe the rear legs, departing the scene at warp speed. Rumble, rumble up the steps. Think of a galloping horse. Sort of like that.
A little later, he's back down and suddenly tearing through the house. Rumble, rumble. We don't have to see. We can hear. We're more used to his ways now.
Maybe a month or so after we got Max, he went missing. We were sure he had somehow gotten outside. It was in the evening, the fall sun was long gone, and there was about an inch of snow on the ground. I got into my coat, grabbed a flashlight and tried to find him.
I found cat prints right by the house. They went this way. They went that way. I tried following them. Under the neighbor's trailer. Around the church on the corner. Across the street. I asked a neighbor, who was getting into her car, whether she had seen a skinny orange cat around. She hadn't. I went down an alley, where I lost the trail. I was so tired and frustrated and sad as I trudged along. Heartbroken.
I finally went inside, took off my coat and reported no success. Sat down in a gloomy mood, feeling really bad. About two hours or so later, as it was getting about time for the cats' evening meal, I saw a glimpse of orange out of the corner of my eye. Max was walking downstairs, where he had apparently been all along.
So now, when Max goes missing for a while, we know he is safely curled up, snoozing in one of his many hiding places. When it's time for supper, he'll be around.
At this very moment, he is sitting in a chair a few feet away, eyes closed. The World's Fastest Cat is recharging his batteries.
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