In my continuing courtship of Torvald — if only in the interests of getting him fixed, stud puss that he clearly is — I found myself crossing a threshold this evening. No, actually, Torvald did.
It was really his idea.
My pair were upstairs lounging on the cat tree in the spare bedroom. Torvald and I had been hanging out on the back steps; he followed me to the front door and into the porch, and after he started gazing up longingly through the window of the storm door, I scooted in long enough to shut the door to the upstairs and then returned to see if he still wanted to follow me in.
He tiptoed in. Looked under the entryway table. Looked back at the door. Asked to go out.
I let him out. He looked back up at me beseechingly. I opened the door again. He came in. He ventured a few feet further onto the rug.
This went on until he had explored the living room, raided the catnip toy stash, and finally ventured in to investigate the office and look down the cellar stairs (it was deep housekeeping day today and I had been refreshing the epoxy paint on the laundry room floor, an aroma which might have both intrigued and repelled him, like a Congressional sex scandal).
He finally went back out in the porch and reclined, after about a half hour of tentative exploration punctuated by cautious retreats. I bricked open the outer swing door and when I looked out later, he was gone.
He emerged from the underbrush for a head-pat when I went out to get some basil for my salad and continued about his occasions. This sort of gradual seduction works most times. When you scoop them up to go to the vet there is no alarm and they will stay in your house to recuperate without peeing everywhere. Usually.
No word yet from the residents, who are still conked out upstairs. I fear I am going to have some ‘splainin’ to do.