The epileptic cat

Moustique. That's her name.How it happenned is all my fault. That was three years ago when I moved to this country. Moustique was a Parisian cat living in a trendy-artsy neighborhood of Paris, rue Oberkampf, near the Bastille, monument to the French revolution erected where the Bastille prison used to stand, and near the huge, solemn Père Lachaise cemetery, where many poets, writers, and other celebrities now rest more or less in peace. Some of them less than more, as Jim Morrisson, visited daily by hords of Japanese tourists and cadaveric looking, nostalgic youngsters.You find all sorts of offerings left by them on his grave: flowers, messages, bottles of alcohol, and even joints. I once took my Navajo friend there to visit his grave, during her visit to Paris, and she had me promise I'd never tell her father, since approaching the dead is a Navajo taboo. But let's go back to Moustique. So we were in Amsterdam Shiphol airport, on our way to catch our flight to the US, having one last real coffee,(no offense meant) when Moustique's cage started jumping around furiously, scaring the hell out of me, my daughter, and attracting to us suspicious looks from fellow travellers around.- It wasn't long before the authorities came to circumvent the suspicious baggage- What was the matter with that cat? rabies? no, she had all her shots done. So what? after a few minutes of this scary scene that could have been taken right out of a horror movie, "The Exorcat" or something similar, the beast -for that's what she had turned into- suddenly lay rigid in her cage, inconscious and foaming at her mouth.The airport vets quarantine the beast till they figure out if she can safely be sent to the US. Just in case it would reveal to be a WMD. That meant a couple of days spent visiting Amsterdam till things cleared out. We had an avant-goût of our future life on the Skagit river with the unavoidable boat ride among the canals.It turned out Moustique had had too much calming medication before the flight and was dehydrated, which had provoked an epileptic seizure. Rule number one, dixit the airport vet: Never, ever, give your pet anything to calm it before a flight. OK, doc, but when can we leave? -The wicked rascal of a beast was now perfectly fine, as sweet as ever - I could just almost hear her little voice "I don't wanna go to America's wild West" "they'll make us go to church!". That was the act of passive resistance of the French kitty against moving to Dubya country. Mind you, since then, she has perfectly adapted to her new life on the Skagit river, in spite of the crazy idea her mistress had to make her live on a boat. What? here? you want me, a cat, to live on the water? are you nuts? ça va pas, non?! And the cherry on the cake, is that she has to co-exist with two dogs, one of which spends his time waiting for her to sneak out to chase her.So Moustique had her second act of rebellion, she disappeared two winters in a row, surviving all the scoundrels of the dike, from raccoons and coyotes to eagles, to reappear in spring. Now she has found her ways, sneaking out of my daughter's boat late at night, when our dogs are asleep, and coming back on the dock at dawn, often with some valuable prizes such as mice or birds, that she delicately deposits on the porch of my daughter's boat, if not inside.Now that's love. Americans didn't make me go to church, but they sure taught her how to hunt. The only unhappy one is Mr.B, our Westy, who waits for his Dulcinea for hours in front of her boat, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The sounds he emits while waiting for her are heartbreaking. Mr.B is in love with Moustique, the problem is she doesn't want him. He drools at the mere sight of her, and the wicked kitty sometimes teases him, miaou, miaou! now that drives him nuts. Rule number two: don't try to marry a Parisian Kitty with a West Highland terrier.