The Last Fatbender

Even though we refer to Henry as, "The Ninja," Fidget still sometimes has his moments of physical prowess and agility, despite the fact that he weighs more than most bowling balls.  He can be seen army crawling across the carpet towards an unsuspecting jingly toy with surprising speed, and at times seems as light as a feather while I'm chasing him from the kitchen countertop, to the couch, to the cat tree, to the window sill.  We often joke that Fidget is much more liquid than he is solid, since he can take the shape of any box, bowl, sink or drawer with ease.  And when motivated enough, Fidget has a steel trap of a mind and WILL get what he wants, no matter what it takes.  I admire this trait in Fidget, and wish that a larger percentage of the world's population had such moxie.

One of FatFat's most favoritest things is his stroller.  Stroller?   Yeah, stroller.  Like a baby stroller?  Yeah, but for cats...and stuff.  I'm certain the pet stroller was intended for the most spoiled of Yorkie-Poo's and Malti-Poo's and Other-Poo's, but I do not have a dog that fits in this stroller.  I had immediately wanted one specifically for my Fatty-Poo, to enhance his life experience and indulge his love of the outdoors.  Fatty-Pants adores his stroller, almost to the point of having a weird possession of it.  He would very much prefer that no other cat occupy it, and prefers to ride alone in his most prestigious of vehicles.

It has gotten to the point now that if Fidget sees me putting on shoes of any kind, he will stick to my heels like a Chinese finger-trap that you just can't shake.  He will talk to me as I put on my makeup, pick up my purse and look for my keys.  "I'm going too, right?  Can we go back to Steak N' Shake?  Tell Henry he can't come with, he just cries the whole time.  So, your car or mine?"  When the moment comes for me to descend the stairs towards the front door (which the stroller is parked next to), Fidget will take off like a cheetah on the hunt.  He jets down the stairs, bouncing and slithering, until he reaches the third step from the floor.  Without pause, he takes flight and leaps, momentarily channeling Dick Button performing a perfect double axel.  He lands (less than gracefully) on the platform of the stroller, and spins around to let me know that he's now ready to be zipped in.  The thing Fatty usually doesn't realize is that I'm just going to the store and he will not be joining me.  Dejected and sad, he looks out the window of the door and cries as I walk to my car and get in.  It's really a depressing sight.  BUT, Fidget also knows to listen for those magic words, "does the Fidgy-Muffin wanna go for a ride?"  If any variation of that phrase is spoken, the entire ordeal begins all over again with a much more desirable outcome for Fatsies.

                                                                     Fidget's whip:

Do I get weird looks on the street?  Yes.  Do people think I'm ridiculous?  Absolutely.  Do people stop me and ask if Fidget is a ferret?  All the time.  But is it worth the confusion and harrassment?  Definitely.  Fidget craves his adventures outside, and I know he loves to pretend that he's King of the Jungle, sitting in his blue nylon throne.  Maybe one of these days I'll get him one of those little kiddie cars that look like a Hummer...