Last night I awoke from a sound sleep when Cinnamon ran over my face then started making the most surprising racket. Growling! Yowling! Hissing! Smacking the window with her paw!
The head of my bed is against a wall with a large window that overlooks the lower roof. She was standing on my pillow, front paws on the windowsill. And using such language!
This from a cat who is chronically – almost pathologically – silent. Until last night, the loudest noise I had heard her make was the tiny chirp she uses to alert me to the fact that she’s about to jump up on my lap.
Even that time we were visited by a weasel, she didn’t vocalize. She just ran back and forth between the windows downstairs, silently watching.
I propped myself up on my elbows and peered nearsightedly out into the darkness.
And came face-to-face with a possum, which was peering nearsightedly into my bedroom.
For those of you who haven’t had the privilege, this is a possum:
Image courtesy Flickr/paparuzi
Possums are harmless and interesting (North America’s only marsupial! Prehensile tail! Immune to rattlesnake venom, botulism, and ricin! Plays dead when threatened!) and in general, I like them.
But under the circumstances, it was… off-putting. I may even have made a noise like “Eurrrgh,” and cringed back from the window.
Cinnamon, however, clearly hates possums. She was 100% prepared to fight it. She obviously didn’t see it as prey. She was telling it off in the sternest possible terms.
I have no doubt that if she had been on the other side of the glass, she would have killed it. That possum may have been as big or bigger than her, but she’s a scrappy one, my little partly-feral cat.
Two years of a cushy indoor life still obviously hasn’t been enough to erase her memory of whatever wrong the possum clan did her.