Cat theory debunked from maple tree

The only kitten in our family never made it to cathood with us after mistaking Mother’s best chenille bedspread for a litter box.

She announced her overwhelming dislike for cats and said we didn’t need one with judgment that poor.

The kitten disappeared, presumably to a good home, where the woman of the house was more understanding.

I don’t have much experience with cats and now is too late in life to establish a meaningful relationship with one. But I was growing fond of the young steel-gray and white cat that visits more and more often in our backyard.

I like its style, especially when it stalks the gray squirrels that live in the dense shrubbery and pines at the back of our yard.

The cat hasn’t yet befriended us, but it’s gotten close a few times. We have fun watching from the deck as this stealthy stalker hugs the planks while making its way down the fencerow in search of a squirrel, or, perhaps, a bird.

The cat’s frequent visits coincided with the disappearance of the squirrel that habitually drops out from the overhanging maple branches and onto the metal roof of the sunroom.

“I think I finally like cats,” I said to Regina recently. “I going to ask around and if nobody claims this one I am going to start feeding it. I might even give it a name.”

She doesn’t want a cat.

“I’m not sure cats catch grown squirrels,” she said.

“Well, that one that tormented me is gone,” I rebutted.

“The squirrel’s really gone,” I gleefully repeated last Sunday morning as we sat in the sunroom reading the newspaper.

“Kerplunk” came the all too familiar sound from the roof.

“I think your squirrel is back...must have been on summer vacation,” Regina said, looking up from her reading.

So much for my cat theory.