The Time Mango Went Deep Undercover

I was commenting to a friend of mine today that I hadn't seen Mango in a few days (which isn't altogether unusual), and it reminded me of something that happened back when we lived in North Charleston many years ago.  Sean's brother had come to our house for a visit, and had spent the night on our sleeper couch.  We had a nice visit, then the next morning I left for work and the two brothers went out for coffee.  When Sean got home, he put the couch back together, and that was that.

Until a few days later, when I was lying on the couch after a long day at work.  I heard, for just a second, the tiniest little noise.  Scratch, scratch, scratch.  I sat bolt upright and looked around--there were no kitties there.  I laid back down, more alert this time.  After a minute or two, I heard it again:  scratch, scratch, scratch.   I got up, looked behind the couch, looked under the couch--nothing.  Puzzled, I sat back and stared at the couch for a minute.  Then I stuck my hand under the couch, and felt something moving in the innards of the couch.  That was definitely not nothing.  I pulled out the couch and dug out the mattress, and found a tiny little box set into the bottom of the frame, out of which a very wet hiss and some unpleasant smells were emitting.  Mango had found a fantastic hidey-hole.  So fantastic, in fact, that if I had not been lying on that couch that particular day, archeologists might have found her shrunken remains hundreds of years later during a routine dig.  

But of course, Mango being Mango, she refused to come out of the hole.  Never mind that she hadn't eaten or drunk anything in at least three days.  Never mind that she was using her hidey-hole as a combination bedroom/bathroom suite.  (I did mention that she's not quite right in the head, didn't I?)  She simply dug her freakishly tiny heels in and refused to come out.  I even left the room, thinking she would come out when she got good and ready.  Silly, silly me.

I hated to do it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.  I pulled out the vacuum cleaner.  And then turned it on, right next to the couch, on the opposite side of the hole, so instinct would take over and she would run out.  The fact that Mango lives on in our basement, hissing wetly at us and scaredy-scatting on everything in sight in evidence that I was successful. 

I wish I could say that Mango learned a very valuable lesson that day.  But unfortunately, I seriously doubt that was the case.  Every time Mango goes missing for a day or two, I feel compelled to go looking for her.  Because Mango is still a Buddy.  Emotionally disturbed or not, Mango is part of the crazy menagerie we call home, and she's still a Buddy.  Here's hoping her addled little brain understands that someday, too.