Abyssinian cats love heights, are known for their curiosity and are one of the few breeds willing to compete in an obstacle course event.
Paka (from the Swahili for cat) is our second Abyssinian. After seven years of pet deprivation because of travels, we found an Abyssinian breeder who had kittens and teenage cats for sale. "And then there is Pearl," the breeder said.
Since we are both retired and were not anxious to have kittens swinging from the drapes, we decided to check out Pearl. Although a purebred Abyssinian, Pearl had a crick in her tail so she could not be bred. She was a "second" and ours for the taking if we wanted her. So we drove home with cheap Pearl muttering in her backseat carrier, and quickly changed her name to Paka.
Paka had a rough beginning. Having been advised to put her in a small room the first night, we installed her in a downstairs powder room and left her cowering in a corner when we went to bed.
The next morning the powder room door was still closed and my husband greeted me with a tight-jawed, "Come and have a look at the carnage."
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Paka, now hiding in a lower cupboard, had tried to drink from the toilet, had fallen in and, in a panic, knocked down a dish of potpourri with her crooked tail. Soaked, she had then spun wildly around the room leaving dried rose petals clinging to the walls. She was damp and shivering when I picked her up but smelled lovely - the result of lying in room freshener from a knocked-over bottle.
She spent the second night in the same room along with her new litter box, a fancy affair with a swinging door. In the morning we looked in the bathroom but saw no cat. She had slept all night in the litter box, unable to figure out how to open the door.
It has taken Paka some time to train us as her staff: to throw her toy rat for her after she fetches it; to whistle if we have a treat for her; and to push a chair close to our table at mealtimes so she can watch us eat.
We have also learned to check all cupboards before closing the doors. Unaware that she is a utility cat, Paka will not condescend to meow if shut inside, and one day spent six hours in the linen closet with nary a peep.
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Paka has a habit of kneading with her paws when sitting on our laps. This is a kittenish throwback to nursing and a show of her affection, which we usually appreciate - but not at night when we're in bed. Nor do we enjoy her toy rat landing on our heads at 4 a.m. when she wants to play. So we shoo her to the basement each night before we retire, and shut the door.
This routine had worked for more than two years until one recent night when we herded Paka down the basement stairs and both watched as the door was closed. Completely closed.
At 4 a.m., my head was being massaged - and not by my husband. Too groggy to figure out what was going on, we bounced the cat unceremoniously onto the floor and tried to get back to sleep again.
The next morning, to our utter astonishment, there sat Paka in front of the still-closed basement door. All day we questioned our sanity but took comfort in the fact that we had both witnessed the same phenomenon.
That night we put her downstairs again and shut the door. At 4 a.m., a thump on the bed, soft purring and gently kneading paws.
The next morning the basement door was still closed and a victorious, bright-eyed Paka sat waiting by her food bowl.
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For a while we both paced around the house looking for an explanation, then gave up in complete befuddlement. Later that day, however, my husband uncovered the mystery. Leading me into the den to a spot behind the sofa, he pointed to the dislodged metal grill on a vent. Paka had found her way into the cold-air ducts in the basement rafters and worked her way upstairs.
Now all-out war was declared between Abyssinian and husband. Pink insulation batting was purchased and stuffed between the basement rafters. The same door-closing routine was followed at night.
Undaunted, Paka strode about the next day with pink insulation fluff decorating her ears.
Warming to the challenge, my husband decided that strips of aluminum foil covering the insulation batting would deter the cat once and for all. But nothing worked. Paka strutted about, ears and whiskers trailing cobwebs and bent tail held high.
We, her servants, are now humbled, having learned that humans can never win a battle with a member of the feline species. She now has 24-hour domain over the entire house, but as a generous winner has mostly confined her playtime to daylight hours, and sleeps peacefully at the foot of our bed.
Several days after Paka's mysterious ramblings I had a phone call from a telemarketer. "Mrs. Best," she began," We are having someone in your area tomorrow and wonder if you need your air ducts cleaned."
Ruth Best lives in Dundas, Ont.