Hoover adopted us some time ago and Girl10 and I, along with a lot of effort from Auntie Mary, have been trying to socialize him. He now enjoys our caresses and ear scratches, and responds to our lilting voices by rolling back and forth on the ground. I prefer to think of it as not writhing in anguish, but happily wriggling. These bouts of affection are always accompanied by some sort of food.
When he eats, Hoover dives into the dish and food flies out at all angles. It is like watching a tornado devour whatever is in its path. Although he makes a mess, he eventually vacuums it all up. That is how he earned his name.
Hoover spends the majority of his day in the shade of a large bush in the back yard. He is near enough to the house that he can smell the daily offering as it passes through the door, yet far enough away from garden traffic and hoses. If One did not know of Hoover's hiding spot, One would not suspect a large, undomesticated feline to be sleeping there.
The summer is winding down and there are many tasks on the To Do list, preferably before school starts, such as but not limited to, cleaning the chimney, pest-proofing the yard, cutting and stacking wood, weed eating jungly corners of the yard, and making crab apple jelly. A new addition to our list is Take Hoover to the Vet. If he is going to be a permanent member of our family, Hoover needs a major overhaul, from Top to Bottom. Emphasis on the Bottom.
The day came that Hoover was to meet Auntie Veterinarian. I had been coordinating his capture carefully. (In fact, I had made an appointment for him earlier in the year, but he failed to show up at the agreed upon time.) That morning, I got up and was greeted by Hoovs patiently waiting outside the door for his daybreak vittles. I retrieved the carrier in which to transport him, and opened its doors.
I reached out to pick up the rangy tom and fully expected him to be as light as a feather. I admit that I grunted at my miscalculation as I hoisted him. He was solid and dense, with no fat at all. As he descended into the carrier, his legs instinctively splayed out and found the edges of the opening. He was squirming, and not with joy. His claws, sharpened daily for not only his procuring of a hot meal, but also climbing trees and fighting savage beasts, dug into my arms. Plan A was hastily aborted. I deposited him back on to the deck and we stared into each other's eyes. His were yellow and unblinking. Mine watered as I felt the burn of the scratches on my arms. He meowed. Still hungry, he was not offended enough to part company. I initiated Plan B.
I put some Seafood Sensations, a staple offered at our house under the brand name of Friskies, inside the carrier and flicked my fingers temptingly. "Hoover", I whispered in a soft, most friendly voice, "here, kitty kitty kitty." Suspicious, he sniffed the air inside the conveyance. His better judgment was outweighed by his appetite. He ventured inside for a nibble. I slowly closed the top hatch and then, with one swift movement, shoved the rest of his body through the end opening and latched the door.
He filled nearly the entirety of the pet carrier. I realized how much of a wild animal Hoover really was as I watched him scrabbling to get out. He was running around and around in circles, like the tigers in the tale of Little Black Sambo, who eventually turned into butter. I took one more look at the rocking crate and then rushed to prepare for liftoff.
Not even five minutes later, I could here the pounding of Girl10's feet down the hallway. She burst into the bathroom shouting, "Mama! Hoover got out!" I found myself hoping that this was her version of April Fools' Day in August. There was doubt in my voice. "Are you sure?" She squealed in indignation, "I saw him on the couch!" I instructed her to close all of the bedroom doors while I quickly got dressed.
Sure enough, Hoover was lurking around any furniture he could fit behind. I opened the sliding door and stationed Girl10 between the den and the kitchen, where she assumed a defensive stance. "Go on, Hoover," we encouraged in soothing voices. It became painfully apparent that he was much less tame than we had let ourselves believe, and getting him back into his natural habitat became more urgent. Hoover took a look at me, faked a dodge in Girl10's direction, and then leaped four feet straight up in the air to get through the open doorway to freedom. Had he been a few inches to the right, he would have smacked into the glass window. I looked at the transport box on the floor, which had not been touched or moved in the excitement. It was flipped on its side. Both doors were latched shut.
Hoover probably ran to the county border that day. We did not see him again until the late afternoon when he showed up, suspicious and hungry. It took a few days to gain back the trust we had so carefully built all summer. We are now back to friendly words and pats, and many conversations utilizing MEOW - just as it was before Hoover's Hegira.
