The Way of Cats

I got Puffy from a Christian biker filmmaker, who was in despair over this little ball of fluff finding a home like his littermates. He was extraordinarily shy, and by the time I socialized him, I had concluded the process would be even longer and more difficult for his next home, so he shouldn’t go any further.

This wasn’t a downside; I had fallen in love. I named him Smokepuff, since he was as silent and delicate as a puff of smoke, and he quickly became Puffy.

Puffy is the ultimate Gamma cat. Uninterested in other cats, devoted to his people, and dependent on steady routines and his undisturbed places. When I vacuum his pillow and put it back in the same place, he is still suspicious of it for a few hours until he is satisfied it has not changed that much. When we put new furniture in the living room and threw out the broken down couch, he wouldn’t come in. “How long will this last?” Dear Husband wanted to know. “In two weeks, he’ll forget it was ever any other way,” I said, and so it was.

We adore Puffy, but it cannot be denied he is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. It’s not that he doesn’t have thought processes, they just move so slowly that observers can be forgiven for thinking they are not taking place at all.

He has a tendency to panic when Dear Husband and I wear hats. This apparently changes our profile in his head enough for him to doubt that he recognizes us. Since strangers make him panic, the reflex operates even after he gets a good look at us, sans hat. While his face lights up happily, his legs still try to run away, though usually in different directions.

We think he has tenuous connections throughout his nervous system. He is capable of grace once all his limbs settle on a plan, yet tends to fall off even the most large, flat, and stationary objects. His tongue, especially, seems to operate independently. He will lick his chops after a treat past all possibility that any residual flavor remains.

One night I was relating to Dear Husband my friend B’s theory that Puffy is actually a misunderstood genius, prompted by Puffy coming out for his evening treats. This evening his tongue, post-treat, went a little wild, in the fashion of a broken windowshade. It continued its motions so long that even he noticed, and thus he kept putting his limbs in front of it, apparently thinking that he had been interrupted mid-cleaning. He seemed incapable of reining it in.

When I realized what was going on, I had to perform a “Puffy Reset” which is accomplished by gently and firmly pressing down on the top of his head. This reboots the system and restores him to tranquility.

As Puffy sat there blinking from his reset, Dear Husband said, “Tell B I think she is mistaken.”

We had put a toy in an empty tissue box with the little plastic window, a favorite way of getting more use out of it. Puffy had enjoyed it for a few days, with us putting the toy back in once he got it out. This evening he was staring at the dark picture on the back of the box, and poking his paw at it. Just a little confused about which dark area contained the toy. After we stopped laughing, we turned the box around for him. He brightened. Oh, there it is.

I often don’t tell Puffy stories except to my close friends, since people might misunderstand, and think I’m making fun of Puffy. Well, this is the way Puffy is, and we wouldn’t change a molecule. Because Puffy also possesses one of the biggest, sweetest, fluffiest hearts in all of catdom. When he sits at our feet and gazes up at us with melting joy in his eyes, it’s a reminder that it doesn’t matter than he isn’t the smartest cat in the world. (That would be James Bond.)

No, the important thing is that we love Puffy, and Puffy loves us, with every cell in his little birdlike body. He’s a special cat, and in another home he might run the risk of being overlooked and underappreciated. We might laugh at him, but he doesn’t mind. He’s all about making us happy.

We are glad to return the favor.

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