Kit Kat is, to be frank about it, a bossy cat, determined to have her own way. Unlike Ruby, she goes in and out. Out involves sitting by the door and giving off piercing cries until somebody appears to open it. In involves the same, only more of it and at a higher pitch, accompanied by appearing at a window and scratching it until somebody comes along to let her in. So that we are not accused of cruelty to animals, in the winter we have a snow porch with a cat door so she can shelter from the elements, and all else failing she can go through the cat door into the heated tack room, where she sulks until somebody appears.
In good weather, she goes out and kills things, or lies in the sun, or takes a long stroll to make sure everything is in order and that songbirds, mice, moles, chipmunks, squirrels and other pests don’t present a threat to us—I was about to write “to her owners,” but as the saying goes, “Cats don’t have an owner, they have staff.”
Her ferocity is legendary. Whenever Kit Kat had to visit our vet, Mike Murphy, he got out what he called his “armored gloves” before trying to deal with her; she was a ball of quivering, indignant, slashing rage, with claws as fast as a bullet and as sharp as a razor. It was, needless to say, hopeless to try and give her pills, so the only way to give her medication was to bring her in to the vet, wrap a towel around her head and let Mike give her a shot. Getting her into her box to take her to the vet was an ordeal, for which I prepared by putting on a pair of work gloves. The only person (or animal) she spared was Margaret, whom she adored. Even so, Kit Kat still thought of herself as master (or mistress) over all she surveyed, the Lady Macbeth of cats.
