This post is dedicated to Jane, who wanted a post about cats and socks:

Once upon a time, I had a cat named Beatrice.  Beatrice, from the time she was a tiny kitten who could climb up the legs of my pants, liked to chew on clothing.  It was mildly exasperating, but nothing more than that until I came home to find her sitting on the floor with a peculiarly unsettled expression on her face.  It was a mix of extreme discomfort, desire for relief, and unwillingness to admit what she’d done.  I came to know this expression as “Oh my God, I just ate a sock.”

I took her to the vet who found that, yes, Beatrice had eaten an entire sock and it had gotten lodged in her digestive tract.  In order to avoid a lingering and painful death, she had to have small animal surgery that cost more than six months’ rent at the time.  As it happened, I’d panicked a few months earlier over what turned out to be nothing and had gotten pet insurance that covered most of the surgery.  Still, when Beatrice came home, I sat her down to have a Talk with her while she was too dopey from the painkillers to run away.  It went a little something like this:

Little Blind Girl:  Beatrice, you know I love you.  You know I’d give you anything to make you happy.  But you can’t go around eating socks.  They’re not good for you.  Why did you want to eat a sock, anyway?

Beatrice P. Cat:

LBG:  Well, if you say so.   I can’t say I’ve ever found them very appetizing, myself.  But the point is that they’re off limits.  How did you even get to the socks?  I put them away in a drawer specifically so that you couldn’t reach them.

BPC:

LBG:  Not buying it.  Try again.

BPC:

LBG:  Nope.  One more time?

BPC:

LBG:  All right, clearly you’re not giving up the trick.  Level with me, kittenface, what’s it gonna take to keep your mouth out of the sock drawer?

BPC:

LBG:  Too late, I pretty much exchanged all my cash to get the half-digested sock out of your intestines.  And no, before you ask, you can’t have it back.  I don’t know, Beatrice.  Are you mad at me?  Were you trying to get back at me for something?

BPC:

LBG:  Geez, kitten, that was a joke!  I didn’t actually suck out your brain, I just told you I did.  I’m pretty sure, anyway.  You’re such a talented cat.  Can’t you find a hobby other than snarfing my hosiery?

BPC:

LBG:  Perfect!  I’ll sign you up for some lessons, maybe you can get an agent, show some paintings in a gallery…this has to qualify for a talk show or two.  All right, promise me no more socks, and I’ll give you a free pass on the next three non-litterbox urinations.  Deal?

BPC:

Should have seen that one coming.  You can’t tell a cat anything.  That was the last time Beatrice ate a sock, thank goodness.  The ‘P’ in Beatrice P. Cat stands for ‘Pest’, by the way, something dreamed up by my Sainted Mother.  All cats share this middle name.  So, Jane, I hope you enjoyed the post.  I’m trying not to turn this into a cat blog, of which there are many many excellent examples already, as you can tell from the pictures, but this post was fun.  Let it impart the lesson:  Be careful what your cat eats!  You never know what it’s going to end up costing you.