My scaredy cat and I have a lot in common. We’re both jumpy.
If you happen to surprise Oreo when she’s busy peering out the window or cat napping, she’s likely to go through the roof and then return by way of the drapes. I imagine that’s because she used to live with a group of college boys and has good reasons to be on edge.
I live with an old college guy, and that’s why I’m like a cat on a hot tin roof.
My husband, Bill, takes pleasure in seeing me cling to the rafters while claiming that he was “just walking into the room.” On “cat feet,” I might add.
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I plead my case that over the years these shockers are premeditated. I can’t begin to count the times I’ve been startled and seen him try to mask a mischievous smile with wide-eyed innocence.
Take the other day, for example.
“If you need me I’ll be outside,” Bill called from the stairs as he headed outside.
Alone in the house, I had chores to get done. The telephone rang just as I was starting to spread clean sheets on the bed. I asked daughter Traci if I could put her on speakerphone while I worked.
I tucked and smoothed while our conversation continued. Lost in the moment of talking and arranging the plethora of pillows on the guest bed, I never heard him coming.
The slightest pinch — you know where — sent me skyward with a loud shriek. My watch flew from my wrist and crashed onto the hardwood floor. The cat scampered from the room.
“Mom! What’s wrong?!” Traci yelled from the phone.
“Oh, it’s just your Dad,” I assured her. “He sneaked up on me and now my watch is in pieces.”
Naughty. Naughty. Naughty.
When Bill gets a lump of coal in his Christmas stocking, he shouldn’t be surprised.
And when I get a new watch in mine, I won’t be surprised either.
In fact, I’ll probably jump for joy.