I came home, and the first odd thing I noticed was that a pile of papers, last seen on my desk, was now on the floor. Odd. (Know, if you don't already, that my friend Debbie comes in to clean the house on Thursdays, and so I normally come home to /less/ mess, not more.)
Then I noticed the bathroom trash can was knocked over. Then I noticed the /kitchen/ trash can was knocked over. Then I went into my bedroom and found cat shit on the bed and went nonlinear.
Came back to the desk, sat down and tried to call Debbie. While I listened to the phone ring, Torch leapt into my lap with her best trilly purry commentary on life. "You little bitch," I said. "*trill* *purr* *prrt* *trill*," she responded. (This is loosely translated as "Am I not marvelous? Am I not clever? Admire the divinity that is Cat.")
Seems she ripped the *top* half of the screen door that divides the cats' side of the house from my side, and worked her way through. Evil demon in a 6-pound cat suit that she is, I can't put her back in there until the screen is fixed.
Fortunately, there are two spare cat cages in the spare bedroom (why they are there is QUITE another story, but they are currently unoccupied, and this is of the good). In she goes. As I wander back and forth, equipping the cage with food and water, stripping the bed, starting the laundry....
... Torch's son Arnold, the only /other/ Angora currently in the house, dashes by me, presumably bent on mayhem. He is now occupying the /other/ spare cage.
I'm just lucky the rest of the pack (non-Angoras all) aren't clever enough to scramble up the screen and out. And that Torch is due to go raise hell and kittens in Texas, far away from me. /They/ are just lucky that they only stained my sheets and not the antique quilt, or there might be cat stew for lunch this week.
Angoras. Can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em.