I’m questioning the smarts of a guy who shares my bed at night, is privy to my innermost secrets, and sees me in ways no one else ever does.
No, he’s not my husband, but I can explain.
This guy is a cat named Blue. (Okay, I call him Blue Blue.) We found him clinging to an icy blacktopped road a few days before Christmas on our way to visit friends. His stomach had been ripped open with his guts skimming the pavement. His claws were shredded, his pelvis broken and one of his eyes permanently marred by road burn.
My husband was not enthused about rescuing the cat, barely more than a kitten. “Let nature take…,” His words trailed off; he couldn’t look me in the eye. I rummaged in the back of the car and found his favorite sweatshirt to staunch the blood.
Our vet didn’t promise much hope when he assessed the injuries. He said the cat might have a 1% chance of living, ifthe surgery didn’t kill him.
When I relinquished the cat to be examined, he reached up and gently nudged my cheek (equate to Impressing a newly hatched dragon in Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonriders of Pern). He was purring as I whispered in his ear, “If you make it, you’re mine.”
That was twelve years ago. He still cuddles every chance he gets and waits at the door for my return. I delight in knowing I’m the only one he wants. Clearly he’s a smart, savvy, discerning feline.
At least I thought so, until a few days ago. We decided to add Feng Shui to our family room by moving the feeding area for our cats to a not-so-visible nook which previously housed the computer. We’re talking—maybe—a twenty foot change.
For the past three days, Blue Blue’s returned to the original site, meowing expectantly. I pick him up, carry him to the new spot, and wait until he digs in. Our other cat, nicknamed “The Piglet,” has had no problem finding the relocated dining hall.
So I’m wondering about my baby’s intelligence level. Why isn’t he getting it? I stand next to his food bowl calling his name, cajoling him to come, and there he sits in the old location, his pleas for food ending in high-pitched squeaks.
Normally he’d follow the aroma of canned chicken mush anywhere. Why hasn’t he adjusted? There must be a reason. Is he just a creature of habit, or as my husband taunts in a schoolyard voice, is Blue Blue really not the sharpest tack?
In spite of my husband’s opinion, I refuse to accept a lower wattage of brainpower theory.
For the record, we’re both still catering to this ten pound ball of fur by carrying him over to his bowl. Food for thought. ~ JD here