Mabel, the fat and the beautiful, is bolder. I once thought she was retarded. She would look at the simplest of opportunities with such quizzical uncertainty. Now I know she's a genius. Manipulative even. She is the feline case study on why beautiful people never have to open their own doors and why they get the best tables and why they get reduced sentences when they drive wasted or facilitate dog fights. They just look at you and purr. Or in Mabel's case, she sits on her fat rump and lifts her front paws up in a swift praying like movement. At once demanding but with an element of supplication.
That balance: confidence and humility. You can't teach that. Especially to a cat. I'm quite proud.
Mabel leaps onto the coffee table (Ikea, yes. We have given in to consumerism at its most succinct.) and struts boldly towards the dragon of dust and lost crumbs. She looks at it quizzically and struts away with the absolute certainty that she cannot manipulate another bowl of food from this thing. Linus dashes down the hall, fast like furry lightening, likely to hide under the bed. As soon as he regrows some balls (I guess that's our fault) he will come out from his fort with renewed vigor. I was never afraid, he will assure us with his noisy mews that I cannot help but think are words in his own customized vocabulary. He will begin to order us around: throw my toys! Chase me! Throw me! Let's box! He will quickly become his regular exuberant self; but he will eye the vacuum as we put it back in its closet cage. Just to be safe. Just to be sure.
