As a youngster, my favourite toy was a stuffed cheetah. I would clutch it in a headlock between my front paws, while chewing the head and kicking the body at the same time—a Smudge manoeuvre. The head was wobbly and came off heaps of times, so the human sewed it back.
I loved my toy mice, but soon their tails and ears would disappear after lots of pounces and grapples.
One day, the human came home with some small, bouncy rubber balls… Even now, they are my favourite things to bat, swipe, kick or juggle with. When she throws them to me, I’ll swipe back, sending them flying. They land under the cabinet or between the table and chairs. It’s hilarious watching the human crouch on all fours finding them—playing fetch.
If I’m outside at night, she doesn’t like me staying out too long. So for fun, I’ll whack the wire door. Hey pronto the human appears, but I scoot off, darting under a bush.
She stumbles outside, holding up her big mitts, touching the plants. I’ve told you before that the human is dumb and can’t see well in the dark. When she spots me—the moonlight shines off my white coat—she bends down and tries to pick me up, but I bunny hop off and hide under another bushy spot. A few more hops, then she goes inside. I’m left miaowing, ‘Hey let me in.’ After awhile, she opens the door and I’m ready to play.