Things That Make Jesse Crazy

Jesse arrived at our house early one morning in June three years ago, yowling loudly.  He was about as big as a hand-span, bright orange, skinny, and fierce.  He fastened himself to the screen of one of our bedroom windows and announced his presence.  No one in the neighborhood had any idea where he had come from, but the theory was that he had been dumped on the side of the county road that runs at the end of our road.  It took a few days before we were able to calm him down enough to come inside our house, and a full day of our grandson soothing him so that he was happy riding on Jacob's shoulder and eating in our kitchen.  These days he's a great indoor-outdoor cat, but he retains some feral qualities, especially that of being a fierce hunter.  This morning, as usual, he came inside and started biting at my ankles, lunging at my tea bag tag, taking swipes at a hapless moth that had lingered too long near a lamp.

I followed him around the house and drew some of the other things that make him crazy-- a fringed throw, two battered old mousies.  Eventually he settled down to groom, but not until after he had lapped up all the remaining yogurt in a bowl on the kitchen counter.  In spite of his morning feral frenzy, he's an excellent cat, does not even require a litter box, yet has never had an accident in the house or sprayed or in any way damaged anything.