Until Athena arrived (wrapped in a blanket, at most 6 weeks old and projecting cuteness rays that would persuade anyone to take her in), I’d never met a cat who did not want to go Out. You see, the cats at Redquarters have all had this idea that a paradise existed on the other side of the door, a paradise called Out. And oh, how they wanted to be there.
Cat #1, Rowen, had a harness and got put out into the yard on a chain affixed to a picket pin, with water available, and happily ate grass, rolled in stuff, chased leaves, and did cat-ish stuff.
Cat #2, a second-hand feline named Beauty, would get out but didn’t go to far. She did not take to the harness and chain, and that experiment was not repeated.
Gigancat. Yeah, he pulled the stake out of the ground while trying to get to “that leaf over there,” outgrew any harness available, and insisted on getting Out. So much so that two people had to answer the door, one to do the usual people-at-the-door stuff and one to intercept 20 pounds of sprinting short-hair. We ended up calling the mud-room the “catport” or “catlock.” Enter the mudroom, confirming the absence of cat. Close door and make certain that it latched, wedge if necessary. Then exit into garage or yard. Upon return, repeat the process in reverse to the sound of pounding on the door as Gigancat tried to break it down.
Once we let him go . . .Out. There’d been almost two feet of snow, and Dad opened the door to get the mail. Here came the cat. So Dad just held the door open. Out went the cat. He hit the snow, got about three feet from the porch and stopped dead in snow up to his chest. Gigancat froze, not moving, absolutely stunned by this turn of events. Then he began crying loudly, “Come get me! Save me!” And the furry little b*stard was just far enough from the porch that someone had to wade into the snow to get him. Almost six weeks passed before he tried to get out again.
And then Athena arrived. She had a traumatic kittenhood, and apparently decided that, having been delivered once from the Parking Lot of the Shadow of Death, she wasn’t giving it a second chance. She paws at glass doors and begs for you to come in.
No, I’m not joking. If I’m on the back patio at Redquarters and she sees me, she paws the door, crying, until I go inside. If you open the door and she’s there, she scampers (with matronly dignity) as far from the open door as she can get. She likes sitting in front of open windows and sniffing the breeze, she enjoys looking out and basking in the sun, but there is no way she’s leaving the building.