Every evening when I pull into the garage, after an extended shift toiling away in the kid mines, I am greeted by the same occurrence. Cat bombs.
You'd think that I would have developed a thick skin, a tough outer shell, an unflinching, stoic, demeanor in response to this daily auditory assault. I have not. One minute, I'm chatting with The Pony, who insists on riding in the passenger seat behind me, even though the shotgun seat is empty. Like he has a personal chauffeur. Chatting insouciantly, chortling, perhaps, at The Pony's misadventures, when THUD! A cat thumps onto the roof of my Tahoe from the Machu Picchu-like heights of the garage rafters. My nerves, shredded from a long day of inflicting my will upon recalcitrant adolescents, jangle and jitter in a final hurrah. I flinch.
They appear to own the place, these cats. Two were hand-chosen as pets, before they were even old enough to sever the apron strings. The other three were gifts. Gifts of pet-abandoners who haunt rural roads, inflicting sorrow and guilt upon backwoods denizens who feel obliged to take in the wretched refuse of your teeming kennels. Or who at least feel enough compassion to assure their crying children that yes, the kitties can come home with us so they won't starve to death or be eaten by wild animals.
What they don't explain is that the kitties must be wormed, and have shots, and undergo special operations so they won't make more kitties. And five years later, the kitties will have taken over the grounds, scale the screens of the living room window in attempts to reach the summit of Mount Cedar Home, dash into the house if they see a sliver of an opening, caterwaul at 3:00 a.m. right outside the bedroom french doors, eat like they are carb-loading for a marathon 24/7, and terrorize the actual pet cats until they are fuzzy balls of nerves who appear to suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Numerous requests to cease the cat-bombing have gone unanswered.