Lola out-Savannahs herself

This is Lola, giving me her “What is your PROBLEM?” look.*

I get that look whenever she’s just about had it with humans and their screwups.

But THIS time, I’m not taking the blame, ’cause it’s Lola’s own daggone fault.

Came home Tuesday night and did NOT find a silver-furred greeter at the door. Usually I get Lola’s puckish, catseye view of the day’s events but…no Lola. So I said:

“Shizzagamaggacat fangablangadad manga dratted snel-frocky dad-blastit CAT!!”

(actual verbiage was a heckuva lot less creative, far more recognizable, and largely constrained to four letters)

Anytime Lola doesn’t greet me at the door, she’s sick or she’s picked the lock on the laundry chute door again, slipped down to my glass studio, two flights down, and has been wreaking merry havoc on a lot of breakables all afternoon.

(well, there was that time she was playing Dr. Mengele with a poor hapless mouse ON MY PILLOW, but I don’t want to talk about that…)

Backstory on that laundry chute: Lola loves to go wherever she’s not wanted, and she is MOST DEFINITELY NOT WANTED in my glass studio. When she discovered that the laundry chute opened into the forbidden studio (and, even better, contained a comfy pile of dirty clothes to snuggle in), the laundry chute became her personal playground.

There followed a period of plaintive meows coming from behind the locked studio door whenever Lola had broken enough glass and wanted out (smart as she is, she couldn’t figure out how to go UP the chute three floors to the exit).

I finally installed a magnetic baby lock on the chute door to keep her safely out.

Lola watched carefully, spent the next couple of days experimenting and then picked the lock. It tickled me so much I spent half the day in the bathtub (minus the water) with the video camera, waiting for her to do it again.

She finally obliged me, as you can see in the video:

So when there’s no sign of Lola at the front door…sigh. I got out the broom and dustpan, automatically reducing my glass inventory in my head, and trudged down to the studio to let out the @(#$@ cat.

I opened the door though and…no Lola. “Lola?”

Nothing.

I wandered through the house, calling for Lola, got nothing at all. With most cats, you’d get out a can of tuna at this point and they’d come running, but Savannahs could care less about such things. If it’s more fun to drive the human crazy, well, there you go…

I called “kitty, kitty, Lola-you-dratted-cat-where-ARE-you!!“ for maybe ten minutes.

No Lola. Nikki followed me around cheerfully, chirping her head off, purring and begging for pets, totally relaxed.

Wait a minute. I hate to say it, but Lola’s a bit of a bully, and Nikki never quite relaxes around her. I glanced down and Nikki preened and purred and flirted,; if she purred any louder the bones would vibrate out of her little body.

That settled it. For Nikki to be THIS relaxed Lola had to be either:

• Trapped in the pantry (nope)
• Trapped in the guest bedroom (nope)
• Trapped in the kitchen trash drawer (nope, and don’t ask)

Now I was getting worried. I went into the bedroom to regroup…and noticed that my closet door was still latched shut but straining against the latch:

Backstory on that latch: My closet, which sits inside the master bathroom, opens with a pocket door. I added the screen door latch because Lola’s figured out how to open pocket doors and play in my closet. When she’s finished, most of my jackets and sweaters are piled into a comfy Lola-nest on the floor (except for the couple that Nikki has buried in the litter box), replete with cat hair and claw marks.

The latch keeps Lola out…but it also keeps ME out. And whenever I open that closet door to, say, get dressed in the morning, Lola dashes inside and hides. If I don’t find her, my clothes once again become a Lola-nest.

Over the months I’ve developed an elaborate anti-Lola routine the moment I step out of the shower:

• Turn on the blowdryer. Lola hates the blowdryer, and will leave the bathroom immediately.
• Close the bathroom door with Lola on the OTHER side.
• Quickly unlatch the closet door and enter, closing it behind me.
• Grab my clothes and prepare to exit.
• Meanwhile, Lola’s been sliding open the bedroom pocket door, and is just getting to work on the closet door.
• I slip open the closet door, waving my clothes wildly in Lola’s face.
• The waving garments momentarily distract Lola, giving me enough time to slam the closet door shut and set the latch.

I thought that routine was foolproof, but the straining latch told a different story. As I gazed, a sad little mew came from behind the door. I opened it, and there was Lola. Giving me the above look.

She’d been stuck in the closet all entire afternoon. She RAN for the litterbox, shrieking loudly.

The contents of my closet were on the floor, in very sad shape. So much for reducing the drycleaning bills this month.

Try as I might, though, I couldn’t figure out how Lola got past me into that closet…until this morning.

Turned on the blowdryer, Lola took off. As usual.

Closed the door. As usual.

Inspected the bathroom: No sign of Lola. Then…wait! I looked again, and grabbed the camera.

So take a CLOSE look at this picture of my bathroom window. See anything unusual?

No? Here’s a closeup.

Lola only pretended to be chased out. She snuck back in and hid behind the window blinds. When I opened the door, she slipped inside.

Sigh.

I peeked past the blind to find Lola staring up at me, trying to look innocent.

“Lola, what the HECK are you doing? Didn’t that stint in closet prison teach you ANYthing?”

She slunk out, looking embarrassed.

Later, I found her hiding behind the toilet.

I suspect this is only round 1.

___________

*Technically, Lola and Nikki, named after one of my heroes, Nikola Tesla, are Savannah cats but “furry miscreants” is probably a better description. Love them dearly, but they’re a bit of a handful and far too smart for my own good sometimes.