Hobbit is not really a cat of enormous brain, but he appears to subscribe fully to that curious cat-telepathy which allows him both to sense and to thwart opposable thumb thing persons' evil plots to, for example, stuff him unceremoniously into a cat-box and haul him off to the vet for the annual check-up, shots and admiration session. (My lovely gnomelike vet is more of a dog than a cat person, but he is part of the considerable and ever-increasing fan-club dedicated to Hobbit's general state of floof.)
Hobbit has distinguished himself by being utterly underfoot since I moved house, the summary relocation having rendered him clingy, overly affectionate and continually demanding of attention. This state of affairs remained firmly in place until Friday afternoon, approximately ninety seconds before the moment at which I planned to grab him, stuff him unceremoniously into a cat-box & etc. At this precise time, having been until then peacefully curled up on top of the piano, and despite me not having moved in any way indicative of imminent cat-grabbage, he jumped down and sauntered off into the back courtyard. I didn't actually register his absence, being engrossed in a particularly tricky Dragon Age battle, until he leaped madly off the wall into the empty vegetable-box, knocked it over with an enormous clatter and thump, gave himself a hell of a fright, and rocketed back through the house at mach speeds with his back arched and his fur up in a sort of bristly explosion in all directions. He levitated out through the open front window and, by the time I'd opened the front door to look for him, had vanished utterly into the convenient pocket universe occupied by embarrassed cats.
I didn't see him for three hours, during which I wandered up and down the road calling seductively to no avail, eventually giving up and phoning the vet somewhat shamefacedly to cancel the appointment on the grounds that the object of the exercise had done the magic vanishing trick. (I'm more used to this from Golux, who is a pro of note and has to be crept up on via a concerted campaign of leaving the catbox in the living room for a minimum of three days while resolutely thinking of something else entirely). The nice vet reception lady is, of course, utterly inured to the magic vanishing trick and only laughed at me a little bit. Hobbit is as yet unshot, I'll have to try again this week, possibly with a butterfly net after I've located the bag of catnip, which I stashed away so cleverly in the face of Hobbit's ability to sniff it out and chew through the plastic that I haven't been able to remember where I put it.
The very lovely artificially tiger-striped Hobbit-portrait above (sun through blinds) is, of course, by stv, who Hobbit-sat in sheer self-defence for a few hours on Saturday night while Jo and I filled his house with ravening hordes of LARPers. As the daughter of an animal scientist and a sturdy rationalist in my own right I do not subscribe to baby-talking any animal of mine any more than I subscribe to baby-talking babies, but my subject line reflects a sample of the affectionate apostrophes and linguistic innovations with which I am wont to address Hobbit when I arrive home of an evening and he greets me at the door. I should point out that in the ancient tongues of men "hobytla" means "hole-dweller", which I suppose explains the pocket universe.