Songs of the Wandering Fergus

or, true tales of life with a pocket panther.

Orion and Fergus are playing tag/keepaway/Calvinball up and down the hallway. Fergus suddenly ceases his flight away from the dog, turns, charges, and head-butts the dog square in the sternum. He doesn't hit with enough force to physically rattle the dog, but Orion is so surprised he sits down. Fergus then grabs Orion around one foreleg and rabbit-kicks for all he's worth. The dog merely stares in astonishment.

Fergus is flopped out on the floor, resting from his great labours as Slayer of Six-legged Winged Things. Orion walks up and holds one forepaw out over the cat, within a smidgen of, but not actually touching, Fergus' ribcage. The cat swats at the dog, the dog backs off. Repeat. On the fourth or fifth iteration, Fergus finally takes the bait and pursues the dog around the room. Not touching you, can't get mad ...

I am in the kitchen, doing dishes and listening to The Cure. Fergus, who has so far not expressed much interest in the CD player or the sounds that come out of it, is fascinated. He examines the machine with much sniffing and whisker-twitching. I turn back to my dirty dishes, only to be distracted a moment later by a sound of something dragging. Fergus has hooked a couple of claws into the mesh covering the speakers and is attempting to pull the CD player into the next room. Concerned that he's not able to detach himself, I go to check on him. He gives me a look of absolute contempt, releases the speaker, and bolts down the hall to the cat hole which leads to the room where the cats' essentials are kept. Ah. Now I understand. Like other teenaged goth boys, he was attempting to disappear into his room to sulk and play The Cure loudly. I interrupted, so he was forced just to disappear into his room to sulk without a soundtrack.

(Orion hasn't expressed any specific musical tastes, but I once had a dog who loved bagpipe music. Really).

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