The Territorial

Now, I’ll admit right off the bat, I haven’t the foggiest notion why I did what I did. There I was, perched on my porch like a wise old owl with my morning coffee, minding my own business and feeling respectable.

And then I heard it, our neighbor’s cat, a furball with more attitude than sense, yowling at their front door like it was auditioning for an opera. Ten minutes passed, and twenty minutes felt like a century.

The cat’s insistence began to gnaw at me, like a mosquito with a vendetta. And that’s when the idea, plain and ridiculous as a chicken in a top hat, struck me: I would ring the doorbell for the cat.

Now, don’t ask me why I thought this would help. Logic and I had taken separate vacations that morning.

But there I went, across the way, up their porch, and I pressed that doorbell as gently as if I were coaxing a sneeze from a ghost. Then I sauntered back to my own porch, poured myself a little more coffee, and sat down, feeling terribly pleased with myself.

A minute later, the front door swung open with all the subtlety of a jackhammer, and there stood my neighbor, eyes wide, pointing at his cat as if it had just solved the stock market. “Holy crap!” he shouted to his wife. “The cat jus’ rang the doorbell!”

I swear, I almost spilled my coffee laughing. The cat, of course, strutted inside like it had been planning this all along, probably judging me the whole way.

And me? Well, I learned something vital that day: never underestimate the power of feline ambition or your own complete inability to resist mischief.

And that is how a simple porch visit turned into a story I’ll be retelling until the cat learns to drive.