It started almost as soon as we brought him home--Kip's mom had given us some cat toys in our Christmas stockings in a preemptive strike of kitty gift-giving. We set them out on the floor, waiting for Tillamook to pick a favorite. The orange mouse with a bell at the end? Nope, too tacky, he decided. The fish on a string at the end of a pole? Too dainty, as he destroyed it within minutes (it now hangs, eyeless and pole-less, from our refrigerator door. I like to imagine it waving a little white flag of truce). The seemingly uninteresting foam golf balls? Jackpot!
He loved them from the start, particularly the blue one, which we have found in the following places:
1. Floating in Tillamook's water dish
2. In between the couch cushions
3. In pretty much every corner of the house
4. In our bed, under the covers
5. Wedged between my corner desk and the radiator
6. Sitting on top of Tillamook's food
7. In his litter box
That's not to say, however, that Tillamook doesn't have a hard and fast color preference--second in line to the throne of Tillamook's Favorite Toy is the pink ball, which we have found him carrying around in his mouth with the look on his face saying, "What? I'm masculine enough to carry around a pink ball. It matches my nose, mmk?" His playtime with the foam golf balls has even matured from a self sufficient bout of throwing them across the room with his paw, retrieving them, returning back to the throwing site, and repeating the process to a full-fledged game of catch with us humans as the throwing device. I suppose it's less exhausting that way, only having to do the catching.
Nevertheless, he thinks he is a dog.
As I type this entry sitting on the couch with my laptop, the pink ball has just dropped from the top of the couch down to my perch. Tillamook waits on the top, staring at the ball. I pause for a moment to rub his nose. He moves his head away, giving me a look eerily reminiscent of a human teenager and raising his nonexistent eyebrows as if to say, "Playing is serious business. There's a time for nose rubbing and it is not now."
"Sorry!" I say, as I grab the ball and chuck it across the living room, hitting the front of the stove in the kitchen. It bounces down the hall and Tillamook takes off, an intrepid hunter of pink prey. In seconds, he is back, dropping the ball into my outstretched hand and waiting for the next chase. I take a bit too long trying to finish typing a sentence and he bats at the ball in my hand. How inconvenient, my life. Time to go play...ahem, with all due seriousness, of course.