Spring Is Sprung

We are enjoying an early spring.

And an early allergy season, and more palatable heating bills, and flowers before Easter, and the luxury of not having to mop the salt off the floors after many slushy treks through the house from outside.

And it is our first spring season with Trinket. At this time last year, she was an emaciated little bag of bones with a thin coat of fur and sad eyes that told you everything. I hate to think of her alone and cold and starving. I'd prefer to think that maybe she lived in a little patch of green not far from a row of store fronts. And that one of them was a restaurant. And maybe one of the staff who took the trash to the dumpster each night saw her and would give her food. And water (and maybe that is why she insists on drinking from a glass.)

But as spring has put a little spring in our steps and songs in our hearts, Trinket's reaction to spring's arrival - or maybe setting the clocks ahead - or both- is to turn into a lunatic.

Whoever said "the fog creeps in on little cat feet" clearly had never met my cat. She is forever racing around the house, bounding up and down stairs, ambushing me from behind laundry baskets, and vacuum cleaners, and bed posts and practically crashing into things in her frenzied, neck breaking dash around the interior. Now that the cold weather seems to have left us, I've started to leave the basement door open again, and the attic too. More square footage for my Tasmanian devil to zip around in.

And as it is for humans, spring is a season for love, even if, evidently, you are a cat who is confined to the house with no other animal contact (unless you count my children) (and an occasional mouse).

The object of her affection is a very large orange cat who must live in the neighborhood somewhere. Trinket, being a window-spying Mrs. Kravitz-type cat who is so consumed with the goings on outside that she leaves smeary little nose prints on all her favorite windows, knows exactly who he is and how to keep an eye on him. Like stalking.

I have a very old house with charming old ( sometimes decrepit) features. My newfangled doors are flanked between charming little mullioned windows that are pane-over-pane up and down each side. Big Orange and Trinket discovered each other through these windows. Right there at paw level. And it was love/hate at first sight.

Just like humans.

Trinket looks out the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Big Orange. Or maybe a bird. Or bug. Or anything that isn't in the house and is therefore way more interesting. She hops down from radiator cover or mantle or some other perch to walk casually over to the door and peer outside onto the porch, looking all around for her amour. She meows. It is a longing meow.

And then at some point, Big Orange prances up onto the porch and walks right up to the window and looks into my house for Trinket. He is oblivious to me and the kids. He is just looking for Her Trinkness.

And then, as if she is offended by his forwardness, Trinket gets her tail all proofed up like a raccoon, races toward the window and screeches like a howler monkey at Big O. Bats at the glass with her paws. Gets up on her hind legs and waves her paws about. Hisses.

Not pretty.

And when Big O retreats, Trinket is sad. Moans and scowls and walks all over looking for him. A very out-of-sorts kitty. And if she sees so much as a tip of Big O's tail in the bushes or across the street, she is racing about the house. Up and down the stairs, finding the window with the best view. Trying to follow his path from every conceivable vantage point.

And while she waits for Big O to return, she is pacing. Not even catnip can cheer her. She walks to the windows by the door to see if the object of her affection might be near.

It's like having a swooning teenager in the house. I am not sure I don't have more than one.

Hil's 7th Grade dance is a mere weeks away, and we are all in a lather about a boy she simply must go with.

We have Spring Fever and there simply is no cure.