My upstairs neighbor's huge castrate, Buster, is an amazing mix of laid back attitude and astute awareness - like a lot of cats. Today, I was about to wash the communal hallway and had set out my pail of soapy water in the stairwell. I turned back into my kitchen to get my mop, and Buster quietly entered through my open door. I wasn't aware he was out in the stairwell.
Well, what to do? He's a fairly phlegmatic creature, he'd paid me a visit before (looking for my cat), and I knew I could grab him and carry him out, but a better idea hit me - well, it seemed like a good idea at the time: I'd take his picture!
Ever try to take a picture of a cat? Heh. It's a lot like trying to herd them. A cranky, squirming two-year-old would be easier.
Buster heads for my bathroom - my rubber glove gets in the way - Buster heads for bedroom, hall, recliner, bookcase, chair, my fuzzy slipper, sofa, hall. His best pose? That last one, outdoors at the foot of the cherry tree. Sigh. So close, and yet so far.