Whatever you do, don’t train your cat!

We trained our cat, Hippy. At bedtime, she helps (her clue word) by tapping my hand on the chair arm, so I’ll press the TV remote’s OFF. Then, we take her to the garage for her goodnight supper.

Now, she knows the bedtime routine. About a half hour before, she stares. If my hand goes to that chair arm, I get a pat or two with gently hinting claws. Whatever you do, don’t train your cat!

We got Hippy from the pound. She’d been injured by dog bite. The pound folks expected hip problems in later life. Hence her name: Hippy. When she runs in the lawn, toward a bird coyly waiting to leap, her rear legs are notably askew. She doesn’t seem to mind.

(Can a cat mind? She often gazes as if to count the garage floor: One… Perhaps, she just finds the floor interesting.)

We got Hippy about a year after our previous cat, Fish, died. How we named him is a story for another time. We etched a stone marker over Fish’s grave in our backyard.

Both cats trained us. Her in and out routine? Hippy knocks at the back door (grabs the wood frame at the bottom of the screen door and shakes it). We admit her and, soon as we sit comfortably, she signals for the front door. Lemme in, le-meow-t.

Mornings: low purr of radio news wakes us. Then, ablutions. Coffee. Feed Hippy and let her out (of course). Fetch morning paper. TV news in the background. Read email, tweets, online news. (News junkies?) By now, Hippy’s knocking.

I used to write mainframe computer routines. Parts of life fall into routines. Takes all kinds.

It’s about 9:45. Near time for the news. A small head just bobbed up near my chair seat. Guess who? She knows the nightly routine.

Whatever you do, don’t train your cat.

¿k?