Mia and the Tomatoes

She nosed the air, distrusting the proposition I’d put forth. With the fur between her eyes furrowed, she looked more displeased with life than usual. I’d lured her to the front door with a can of stewed tomatoes, thinking to make her believe it was cat food.
“See? Cat food!” I said, encouragingly, tapping the top of the can, while holding my hand over the label to obscure the bright red tomatoes displayed there. This was no stupid cat, and knew I was perfectly capable of trying to trick her. Hence her distrust.

Late for an engagement in the nation’s capital, I was dressed in my elegant clothes from Paris, chasing the infernal whiskerado around in the damp morning grass. She wouldn’t be caught. Over by the truck transmission, a bulky reminder of another lifetime, she slid underneath the deck, peered out at me. She was comfortably certain I was too clumsy and slow to ferret her out without making an ass of myself. In this she was correct.

There was no canned cat food in the house, the kind the two cats overwhelmingly endorse. So I’d hit on the idea of the tomatoes. Trying to make the can sound like it was being opened, I made several tinny tappings on its top, rousing her interest enough to see what I was up to. She finally came to the front door, sensing a ruse. She approached no further than the doorway, not letting herself be lured inside. It was here that she scanned the air for the aroma she hoped would greet her. Without the smell of sliced turkey feast or seafood medley or some other fanciful dish, she would remain outdoors. Her suspicions were confirmed: The can of stewed tomatoes emitted nothing. They weren’t even opened, on the off chance she might actually enjoy some tomatoes for a change. She retreated, slid around the corner of the porch and disappeared.

When I came around the side of the house one last time, she seemed to know intuitively that if she didn’t allow herself to be caught, I’d take my well-dressed person and be gone for a substantial part of the day. She was on to the tomatoes, already knew that trick, so there was no use in trying it again. She hunkered down in the unruly grass that I’ve never quite known what to do with—it being such a narrow strip next to the house that sometimes sprouted large trees. She was an escapee resigned to the inevitable sweep by the wardens and guards of that place that kept her imprisoned. She meowed plaintively, just to drive home the point that she was not at all pleased by the current turn of events, but allowed herself to be scooped up and deposited unceremoniously inside the doorway. The other one, that large grey cat that is slow in her movements and thinking, tried of course to get out as I put her companion inside.

A half-hour after my scheduled departure time, I was in the car and on the road. The two cats, unconcerned with me or with what I did during the day, were comfortably asleep on the bed upstairs.