We can has adventure!
We had a bit of an adventure this afternoon. I was relaxing on the lawn and sipping a rosemary lemonade and reading comic books while contemplating other recreation. Life was good. And then, we saw the cats poking their heads out the door. Now, I've had a theory for a while that the way to keep the kitties from running away is to condition them to believe that Outside Is Scary. We've had good luck with this with Snicket, the tabby; he won't even let you bring him near a door. Today, I figured I'd try with Jubles. So, I brought him out. When you do this with Snicket, he runs for the door. One time, he ran into the back alley and hid under an electric meter.
Jubles didn't run for the door, he ran for the back alley. OK, no problem, so I moseyed after him... and didn't see him. Cue sinking feeling. I checked around a bit, and that's when I noticed the uncovered ventilation hole leading under the building...
A bit of stake-out (move the chair, keep reading comic books, watch the hole) determines that yes, in fact, he went under the apartment complex, through a hole I can't even fit my head through. An offer of treats is met with the cat's rapid return to his hole. Jennifer, as you can imagine, is Not Pleased. Eventually, we agree that she'll watch the hole, while I go try to see if there's another access to the underspace. Turns out there is -- through a hole in the laundry room, an intrepid person with a flashlight can enter the insulation crawlspace. This is a set of room-sized chambers under the building; you can stand in the first one, crawl in the next two, and are on your belly after that, for about four more chambers till you reach the point where he got lost. As soon as I enter, I see the cat. He's already found his way to the second egress -- until he sees me, at which point he takes off back into the depths. Half an hour of crawling later, I find him -- standing on his toes near an entry vent. I am, of course, on my belly and covered in mud, and no match for a squirrely house cat. After several attempts to encourage him to run back through the vent, he bolts back behind me. It takes another half-hour of searching to find him, cowering behind pipes in an area that's too narrow for me to enter. (I also find an area that smells kind of like puke, several empty beverage containers, some mud seeps, and the collars from two other cats who have been down here in eons past.)
At this point, it's clear that direct search and rescue is mainly going to give me pulmonary asbestosis. On to plan B: put treats and cat carriers near the two entry/exit points to the crawlspace and see if Mr. Scared Kitty will recognize his former home. Go out, wait for next hour, then go back into the mud to check again. Offer further mea culpas to Extremely Not Pleased future spouse. Determine that he's not in the space he was hiding before... and not anywhere else visible, either, after fifteen more minutes of mud-crawling. Not good. A strategic retreat is called, with intent to wait and see if he gets hungry enough to approach a capturable point.
In the meantime, about two to three hours after our incident, I'm covered in mud and sitting at this desk looking up the number for our local Humane Society, and envisioning the explanation of why exactly I need to borrow a humane cat trap for a day or so. Jennifer is in the living room talking to a bridesmaid about precisely how dumb I am. I am disturbed in my searching by excited calls from the living room, informing me that something grey just ran in our open window and into the bedroom. The flashlight is retrieved from its crawlspace staging point, and a look under the bed discovers... one perfectly unharmed, doesn't-even-have-mud-on-his-fur Jubles-the-cat, giving me his best "Don't touch me!" look. The windows are promptly closed.
On the bright side, I now know that if they ever do escape, all we have to do is leave open a window...
Jubles didn't run for the door, he ran for the back alley. OK, no problem, so I moseyed after him... and didn't see him. Cue sinking feeling. I checked around a bit, and that's when I noticed the uncovered ventilation hole leading under the building...
A bit of stake-out (move the chair, keep reading comic books, watch the hole) determines that yes, in fact, he went under the apartment complex, through a hole I can't even fit my head through. An offer of treats is met with the cat's rapid return to his hole. Jennifer, as you can imagine, is Not Pleased. Eventually, we agree that she'll watch the hole, while I go try to see if there's another access to the underspace. Turns out there is -- through a hole in the laundry room, an intrepid person with a flashlight can enter the insulation crawlspace. This is a set of room-sized chambers under the building; you can stand in the first one, crawl in the next two, and are on your belly after that, for about four more chambers till you reach the point where he got lost. As soon as I enter, I see the cat. He's already found his way to the second egress -- until he sees me, at which point he takes off back into the depths. Half an hour of crawling later, I find him -- standing on his toes near an entry vent. I am, of course, on my belly and covered in mud, and no match for a squirrely house cat. After several attempts to encourage him to run back through the vent, he bolts back behind me. It takes another half-hour of searching to find him, cowering behind pipes in an area that's too narrow for me to enter. (I also find an area that smells kind of like puke, several empty beverage containers, some mud seeps, and the collars from two other cats who have been down here in eons past.)
At this point, it's clear that direct search and rescue is mainly going to give me pulmonary asbestosis. On to plan B: put treats and cat carriers near the two entry/exit points to the crawlspace and see if Mr. Scared Kitty will recognize his former home. Go out, wait for next hour, then go back into the mud to check again. Offer further mea culpas to Extremely Not Pleased future spouse. Determine that he's not in the space he was hiding before... and not anywhere else visible, either, after fifteen more minutes of mud-crawling. Not good. A strategic retreat is called, with intent to wait and see if he gets hungry enough to approach a capturable point.
In the meantime, about two to three hours after our incident, I'm covered in mud and sitting at this desk looking up the number for our local Humane Society, and envisioning the explanation of why exactly I need to borrow a humane cat trap for a day or so. Jennifer is in the living room talking to a bridesmaid about precisely how dumb I am. I am disturbed in my searching by excited calls from the living room, informing me that something grey just ran in our open window and into the bedroom. The flashlight is retrieved from its crawlspace staging point, and a look under the bed discovers... one perfectly unharmed, doesn't-even-have-mud-on-his-fur Jubles-the-cat, giving me his best "Don't touch me!" look. The windows are promptly closed.
On the bright side, I now know that if they ever do escape, all we have to do is leave open a window...