The little gray cat, Bootsie, knows the routine very well. We feed him, my dog Gypsy, my horse Mocha, and then put birdseed in the feeder and under the lilacs.
At this point, Bootsie plants himself on the front porch or by the gate. He wants to go hiking with Gypsy and me. I grab my sunglasses, my whistle and leave a note explaining my plans. It doesn't help that Gypsy is bouncing by the front door, whining in joyful expectation. They both know what happens next.
I love sharing my hike with my little friends. Gypsy dashes back and forth, tail wagging furiously, tongue pulsating from her mouth. It is a good day and her pleasure is contagious.
It is roughly one mile to the top of my hiking hill, but about a 2,000 foot climb. Great exercise for a dog and her person, but a test of devotion for a little cat whose legs are less that nine inches long.
Bootsie is devoted. "Maw....maw.....maw.....MAW! Wait for me!"
He has unreasonable faith in his 'Maw'. So what if that hawk is swooping closer and lower with each pass. 'Maw' will keep Bootsie safe.
I run back 50-60 yards to rescue him from the hawk. He falls across the toe of my boot, panting, and demands that we take a rest break.
I have no choice but to indulge him. Five minutes later, we are hiking again.
"Maw.......maw......maw......MAW! Wait for me!"
He is playing with a pine cone under a large tree. Or he is suspended over a potty hole. Or he is just ten feet behind me and has his head turned sideways and is oblivious to my whereabouts.
Rest break #49.
If Bootsie begins showing signs of distress such as panting with his mouth open, stretched out on the ground or unconscious, I take pity and carry him. This seems to happen with more and more frequency. And he is quite happy to be carried whenever possible. He is EXTREMELY happy to be carried. He purrs, he rubs his nose to my cheek, he kneads my shoulder.
Somedays I purposely hike at a different hour to avoid him. One time I locked him in the pet carrier to keep him home.
He forgives me and goes back out with us at the very next opportunity. He not only forgives me, but he sits at the sliding glass door every night at bedtime to watch us. Mr. Hicks and I read books for about an hour before we turn out the lights.
Bootsie sits outside our bedroom just beyond the glass door, looking up at us fondly. His eyes say, "I'd really like to come inside."
I've explained to him about the allergy to cats that I've developed, and that the other kitties will soon be joining him full time outside.
It doesn't matter.
He sits in the glass window gazing at us with fondness and devotion. Most often, he is still there as we turn out the lights, and sometimes remains for a little while afterward, a little dark silhouette on our back deck.
His body language says it best. "I love you, Maw."
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