In order to understand the current Buddy situation, it is perhaps best to look at the confluence of at-first-glance disparate things.

First thing: Let us start with the recognition that cat Buddy is self-perceived lord of the house. Has been since he moved in couple of months ago. Does what he wants when he wants. I’m pretty sure he tolerates my presence only because of twice-daily offerings of food and occasional under-the-chin scratching.

Buddy’s pushy presence has had me thinking about how the physical universe is experienced in different ways by different entities (perceivers). (Memo for Later: Is reality one universe being perceived in different ways, or is reality built by many originator-specific universes that touch where perceivers interact?) Fascinated by how Buddy might be seeing his universe, I thought it could be fun to take pictures from Buddy’s perspective in the spots he spends his time. (Office recliner, top of the recliner, top of end table, top of desk, on printer looking out window, different window sill, under chair, under desk, in front of TV, and so on to include his latest eyeing of the closet shelves and the bookcase shelves.)

It was while I was in one of these fascinating, yoga-experience-required cat positions that I had my stroke of genius. The baseboard.

Second thing: Buddy’s exercise program. He has to have one. Buddy has always been an indoor cat. (Physically he looks like a squirrel-sized cat sticking out both ends of an old-fashioned woman’s furred hand muff—a large, wispy muff.) I want Buddy to get healthy exercise in addition to that he achieves when fighting ferociously against my apparently aggressive recliners.

My first effort at sensible exercise resulted in Attack of the Pink Pookie (explanation in a previous discussion). But Buddy is pretty wily and PP ran cool relatively quickly. So I stepped up the game (beyond Sock Storm) by instituting a program (I call it Red Laser Pointer Hunting = RaLPH) that was (and is) very popular. Simple definition: red laser pointer moved quickly in twisty patterns resulting mostly in blinding-speed floor work interspersed with height-attainment tests against a wall. Although pleased with the antic results, I decided to check on the appropriateness of driving a cat crazy via a never-caught laser spot. Sure enough, one expert opined that I was a piece of shit because a laser spot doesn’t provide the tactile stimuli real prey provides to a cat's paws and that might affect my cat’s frustration level.

Ever compassionate, I decided that however presumptuously Buddy inhabited our mutual living quarters, he didn’t deserve to be frustrated by his natural urge to hunt, so I somehow needed to relieve the stress of impossible-to-catch prey. My solution (hold applause please until after the presentation) was to ink an arched mouse hole with a black Magic Marker on the room’s baseboard. Like you see in the old cartoons. So now, I don’t stop an exercise session with the laser bug just disappearing; rather, I scoot the red dot prey onto the fake mouse hole and turn the pointer off! No more frustration for Buddy!! Even Mr. “This Is My Universe” has to accept that his prey beats him to the hole. Stroke of genius. (Applause now permitted.) 

Buddy’s new exercise regime is so sophisticated that it even gets him to cool down when he sits still watching the entrance in case RaLPH comes back out. I am ashamed to admit I took a triumphant lap around the house when I observed Buddy scratching at the fake mouse hole trying to figure out why he couldn’t get at RaLPH. Nearly peed my pants in manic laughing. Old dogs like to outfox old cats.