When I’m sitting at my computer, I can see out a window that looks onto the front yard and driveway. It’s a useful place to gaze vacantly when I’m supposed to be working.
I was actually doing some work when movement in the driveway caught my eye. A young black-and-white cat was stalking up the driveway. He was walking towards the van, and his posture and attitude told me that he was intent on something underneath it—namely, my own cat.
I went outside to shoo him off. He was so focussed on Phurball that at first he barely glanced at me. I wasn’t walking fast or trying to be threatening; I didn’t want to frighten him, I just wanted him to go elsewhere. I was within three feet of him before it registered that yes, I was walking directly at him. He stopped and stared at me in astonishment. I said, “Yes, that’s right, I’m evicting you. Shoo, go home.” He ran a few feet, stopped and looked back. I followed him, still making shooing motions. He ran a few more feet, looked back again, realized I wasn’t going to quit, and ran off across the neighbor’s yard.
I went back to the van, got down on my hands and knees, and told Phurball, “You can come out, he’s gone.” Immediately a cat appeared from under the van, chatting happily, head-butting me, purring, obviously very pleased that his posse had come to back him up. He followed me inside and hung around while I did the housework, occasionally coming over for a head-butt and some more chatter—”Yeah man, we showed him, didn’t we?”
I wish all the members of my family were this communicative when they were pleased with me.