Clearly, I only require two nights of mild sleep deprivation to push me over the edge. I determined sometime late Friday night or Saturday morning – with amazing conviction – that my cat is a physicist. [I have no idea what time I had this epiphany – it was dark and I couldn’t see the clock from my sleeping bag in the window seat. And the window seat, for future reference, is way more comfortable than the floor.]
During the night, I watched the cat plan and execute multiple gravity related experiments as she tested the force required to move objects of varying size, shape and weight across the Magpie’s desk and methodically tap them off the edge. She watched them fall and land with obvious interest before leaving the room – I can only assume to write up her notes and further develop her theories – before returning to make her next observation.
Because, really, there can be no other logical reason for a cat to poke every manner of thing off a multitude of flat surfaces.
- Glass jar of a desk?
- Stone from the top of a bookshelf?
- Headband off a bench?
- Lip balm of the half wall?
- Pencil down the stairs?
Yes and yes again.
She is nothing if not thorough.
The cat follows this up, of course, by translating her theoretical findings with inanimate objects into the real-life application of acrobatic moves from the same flat surfaces. But she saves those until she knows we are watching.
I now not only suspect that my cat in a genius, but I have further theories about Mr.Q’s “reasons” for balking at another cat: one smart cat is one thing but two can only result in bad things. Like elaborate people traps or feline-instigated redecorating schemes.
Come to think if it, the neighbours with the flooded bathroom? They have two black Labradors. You tell me that wasn’t a ploy for their own fresh water feature…