The Snowy Fall

Since I've put up some hamster posts, it seems only fair that I also put up some cat and dog posts. This one is about our cat, Nikita.



We adopted Nikita from an animal shelter in Fargo, North Dakota in January 1996. She was about two years old at the time. When we went to the shelter the woman said she only had one cat and that it wasn't available for adoption because it was a mean cat.



A mean cat! Who ever heard of anything so absurd? All cats are sort of mean; that is just part of cat behavior. And they are also very nice and warm and soft and snugly, but not when in cages at shelters. I decided the woman just didn't understand cats and we adopted Nikita that day.



I love Nikita. She and I get along wonderfully and have been in love since the very first day. I would say she can be more mean than most cats, but I love her every minute and we have lots of snuggle time every day. She's my really special furry heart.



Chuck and I adopted Nikita when we lived in a little apartment that was right above the boiler room. It was stiflingly hot in there all winter. Sometimes the floor was so hot, we wore shoes inside. Often, the rooms were so hot that we slept with the windows open. Even when temperatures were below zero outside. When Chuck came home from work (where he wore a dress shirt, tie, and dress pants), he would immediately go in the bedroom and strip down to boxers and a t-shirt. He would then come out and say, "I'm home."



And, every single time we opened the refrigerator, Nikita would try to run inside. She would scurry to get back behind the food and then would try her hardest to hide when we tried to pull her out. She wasn't phased at all if we closed the door for a minute; locking her inside in the dark. Sometimes we'd be too fast getting something out and would close the door before Nikita got inside. She would look at us so hurt and sad. She loved to be in the nice, cool refrigerator.



(Note: Cats always prefer to be in warm spots and will go to great lengths to find and possess the warmest spots. The fact that Nikita put forth so much effort to be cool is evidence of the high temperatures in our apartment.)



As I mentioned, we often slept with the windows open. And when we did, Nikita slept in the window sill pressed up against the screen. One night I woke up to the sound of her meowing, but when I looked at the window, she wasn't there. I looked around the apartment, but it was clear that the meowing sound was coming from the window. As I walked toward the window in the darkened apartment, I realized that the screen was not in the window. Now I hurried over and put my head out the window. Below me I saw the window screen laying on the snow and a cat-shaped hole in the snow (like in a cartoon) with my Nikita at the bottom. She was looking up at me confused, meowing.

I hurried into my coat and ran down the hall and down the stairs. I didn't take my shoes. Outside I ran around the building and faced snow drifts 10 feet deep that stretched for at least the length of 6 apartments before I'd get to Nikita. I tried to climb, but just sank into the snow. I started to army crawl along the surface. It was working. I was cold and I couldn't move fast, but I slowly made it to the hole in the snow. I dug out a bigger hole on a slope so that I could climb down and get Nikita. And then climb back out. With her cold little body tightly squeezed under one arm, I crawled back to the door and went inside. Back upstairs. Closed the window. Went to get a drink of water.

All was well. We were safe inside. Chuck slept through the whole thing. In the morning, I showed him my crawl marks in the snow. When I told the people in the apartment office that we needed the screen replaced, they asked why I didn't bring it back with the cat.