Intensely Inscrutable
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Life Lessons from the Cat
By Sarah Erstfeld

Looking at cats, like looking at clouds, stars or the ocean, makes it difficult to believe there is nothing miraculous in this world.
~Leonard Michaels

My mom always called Thomas — our scrappy, skin-and-bones, orange tabby — an "intense cat." As far as descriptions go, it was a pretty good one. Tom played, hunted, fought, loved, and ate intensely. The cat even managed to sleep intensely. He would fall asleep into what my mom dubbed "cat comas." He'd zonk out wherever he wanted to and wouldn't wake up for anything except the sound of the food bucket being shaken.

Though he lived inside with us, Tom, a former stray, loved to go outside. He would sit at the door and wait for a human to open the door for him. He would bolt outside and stay out until he felt like coming home. Sometimes, he'd be gone for a few hours, sometimes a whole day, and sometimes even overnight. If we really wanted him to come home, our best bet was to shake the food bucket and call his name. If he were nearby and could hear the food rattling around in its plastic container, then he'd come sprinting back from his adventures. Sometimes, he couldn't hear it, or else maybe he'd ignore it. Either way, we couldn't control him. Tommy did what Tommy wanted, although he always came home eventually. (Keep reading)