Glenwood is always right there when I get home. She puts her little furry face right up to the door as I open it so I have to go in shouting No! Get back! Don't you dare! and blocking the way with whatever I'm carrying. Then I apologize for coming in so violently. Timmy, meanwhile, sits on the table by the door and thinks about trying to run out, but never summons himself to act. We all have a little love fest then off to the kitchen for dinner. That's normal.
On Thursday, Timmy was at his post but no Glenwood. When I shut the door behind me, I heard a plaintive meow from the coat closet. I didn't see her shoot in there in the morning (I'm usually so careful!), but shoot in she did. Twelve hours later she emerged, totally nonplussed and ready for food. My coat closet, however, was trashed:
She'd pulled all the scarves off the hooks on the door, mauled a bagful of clothes headed for the Salvation Army, toppled the stack of kitty carriers and extra litter box, and moved the six-foot ladder (evidently so she could climb to the shelf and toss some gloves over the edge). And while it was quite a scene, she didn't pee, and for that I am eternally grateful.
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