He used to strut into the room where we were sitting, come stand by our feet, look around, and then oh-so-casually reach up and swat the dangling foot of the one with crossed legs.
He’d then shrug like he’d done his dirty work of the day and wasn’t he oh-so-good at it, and strut right back out of the room.
Every morning, he’d scritch and scratch on our bedroom door, meowing in the most piteous way to pleeeeze pleeeeze let me out.
Within the next five minutes, he’d climb to the roof of our house, jump down to our bedroom window overhang, and hang upside down scritching and scratching the glass, meowing in the most piteous way to pleeeeze pleeeeze let me in.
We were potters at the time. He’d come out to the studio and climb into our laps as we were making pots on the potter’s wheel. One day he reached out and got his paw stuck in the wet clay of the spinning pot.
Have you ever heard one of the NYC subway trains shriek to a stop? His shocked and surprised yell was louder . . . as he spurted up from my lap and blasted from the studio, wet droplets of clay spewing all over everywhere in his wake. He never even came near the door of the studio again.
My then-BF was an avid surfer. We lived right near a cliff that overlooked one of the more popular surf spots in Santa Cruz. Oedipuss would accompany me to the overlook, and sit next to me on the bench there.
We’d watch together as the surfers did their graceful, repetitive, swim-out-surf-back routine. They were far enough way that they looked like little bugs skittering around in the water to me – I can only imagine what the scene looked like to him.
Our neighbor down the street started feeding him, and eventually he switched allegiance and we never saw him again.
I miss his snarky-sassiness.
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