It's Three-Damn-Thirty -- Flash Nonfiction

See that cute little kitty? As he ignores the fancy cat toy that tweets to play with an aluminum foil ball. (No, we did not buy the tweety cat toy. It was passed down to us from a friend whose cat didn't care for it. We passed it on to our daughter. None of her cats liked it either. And she passed it on to her friend whose cat ignored it, too. Just goes to show, designing toys for cats has more to do with attracting cat-owners than it does with entertaining felines.)

But that's not what this is about. This is about that itty-bitty kitty, so sweetly playing with his simple aluminum foil ball -- one of many toys that would end up under the  kitchen stove.

Our daughter found the very young kitten outside her townhouse on a hot July day. He was suffering from possible heat stroke. Sensible young woman that she is, she called to ask her veterinarian dad what to do. He recommended a cool water bath. And drinking water, free choice.

She couldn't find where the kitten belonged and she couldn't keep it. She already has three of her own. So she called me. I asked her dad what he would recommend. He said "Take it to a shelter."

Well. We were just then experiencing a pet drought. Probably the first time in my life that I had no pets at all. We were contemplating what kind of dog we wanted to get, but he was adamant that he did not want another cat. And the dog should be a smooth coated breed so we wouldn't have to deal with hair everywhere.

Yes, I'd heard that before.

Years ago, when our daughter was in Junior High School and we'd just lost our resident cat, he'd made the pronouncement, "No more cats!"

On that occasion, she waited until he left the room. She had the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "Momma?"

I reassured her that she shouldn't feel bad, we'd soon have another cat.

At that time my husband was working out-of-state. He soon called. "Claudia, I was running at the lake and I heard this noise. I thought it was some kind of bird, but it was a baby kitten. I tried to keep running, but it was trying to keep up with me and kept crying. It's really, really young. Do you think it'll be all right to bring it home?"

So back to this cat -- I told Grace to bring him by before she took him to a shelter.

She handed the raggedy, little gray kitten to her dad and now he's nearly grown. And hairy. Lots of long, gray fur and the biggest fluffiest tail you have ever seen.

We named him Kocka. Pronounced K-long o-ch-k-a. Czech for cat. (My mother's father's family was from Bohemia. (Immigrants! Yes, despite the current behavior of some Americans, we are a nation of immigrants.)

Humans have obviously not bred cats for anything other than appearance. And beyond show cats, non-breed-specific cats are the norm. Cats have not been bred for behaviors like dogs have. No hunting cats. Though they all do it to entertain themselves. No herding cats. Guard cats? Rescue cats? And obedience competitor cats? Are you kidding me?

So it would not be unusual for Kocka to be unusual. BUT this unusual?

To call this cat, the standard can opener or food-pouring sounds don't work. He comes when my husband whistles or when Celtic Woman is performing on our public television station during their fund raising drives. He loves television in general and my smart phone in particular. He's learned that he can touch the screen on my phone and make the lights come on. Which leads to him knocking it off whatever surface it's on and batting it around.

He climbs. He jumps. He disregards any prohibitions we set. The dining table, the kitchen counters, the shelves where my plants are, the shelves in the linen closet. No place is off-limits for him.

And the whole world is a cat toy. The pictures on my walls hang skewed this way and that. My visitors' tree of origami cranes has been dismantled and the cranes spend most of the time piled in a plate on the entry table. It's a pretty plate, made by my potter son, but it's not the same as seeing all the signed and dated cranes dancing in the breeze. Though they are too often scattered across the floor. He apparently likes to see them fly.

He knows he can get me up in the morning if he knocks over the lamp on my bedside table. Or plays with the Venetian blinds on the bedroom window. Or rattles the papers on my desk. Or walks on the dresser threatening to knock things off. Or gets behind the bed and reaching through the crack between the headboard and the mattress -- right where my head is.

We use water to correct his behavior. He reacts appropriately when he's being bad and sees or hears us grab the spray bottle. Otherwise he gives it kitty kisses. We have masking tape, sticky-side up, everywhere. It looks a little odd, but seems to work pretty well to keep him off surfaces we don't want him on.

Until this morning, I had never gone to bed armed. Usually he wakes me around 4:30 in the morning, which is okay with me. That gives me quiet time while my husband sleeps.

But this morning . . . . He would not leave me alone.

Three-damn-thirty?! Enough is enough and this morning it was too much.

From now on I will go to bed armed. So take care entering my bedroom while I sleep. You may just be shot. A spray bottle of corrective water will be within my reach at all times.