Seven Signs

I'm pretty sure--no, I'm almost certain--that this has got to be one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse.  Yesterday, I actually witnessed Mister attempting to play with Reggie.  No, really.

It started out innocently enough.  I heard some screetching that could mean only one of two things:  either someone was getting disemboweled in our house without the benefit of anesthesia, or else someone was chasing Mister.  Given that none of the buddies have opposable thumbs or sharp implements at their disposal, I nonchalantly assumed it was the latter.  I was by the bed, folding some clothes, when a miraculous thing happened.

Mister jumped on the bed to escape Reggie, then turned around and adopted the "play stance."  This would be the stance where the front part of the body is low to the ground and the rear part is high in the air.  He held it for a second, then jerked erratically to the left and held the stance again.  He almost, but not quite, turned part-way over on his side to show his belly.  It may have not been visible to the naked eye, and probably would not have been discernible to anybody else who didn't know him, but this I know:  Mister was attempting to play with Reggie.  

It only lasted for a few moments, and then the magical moment dissipated.  Honestly, Reggie seemed as perplexed by this new development as I was.  It sort of looked like when Elroy was playing with him (I imagined him thinking), but come on...this was Mister.  Mister doesn't play.  Not with the other cats, anyway.  It would kind of be like a mouse with a cat in hot pursuit suddenly breaking out a Parcheesi set and challenging the cat to a game.  It made no sense at all in the logical, ordered Universe that Reggie and I had been living in for eight or so years together. 

And yet, there it was:  Mister was trying to play.  I only wish Sean had been here to see it with me, because I did not have my videocam at the ready, and he's never going to believe me...