One of my morning rituals is after my shower I am required to "play toys" with Gabby, the cat. I know it's a "play toys" morning when she smashes her way into the closed bathroom door (which is every morning) and starts mrrrrrOWWWWing at me with a great gusto that only means "will you please MOVE IT ALONG SO WE CAN GO PLAY TOYS?"
Playing toys has specific rules. I gather up a few of the more favored toys (that I can find) and stand at one end of the living room. Gabby waits at the other end of the living room right at the opening of the kitchen. I am required to hurl the toys -- one at a time -- into the kitchen and she chases them. When she is done batting it around, she will stare at me, and I will toss another one. This happens until I've exhausted the toys on hand. Then we switch. I walk into the kitchen, and she runs halfway into the living room. I then repeat by throwing toys one at a time into the other end of the living room and she will chase them until she's ready to switch again or she's bored, though frankly, with cats, it's nearly impossible to to tell the difference.
I like playing toys, because I never get tired of watching my cat run 90 mph from the carpeted living room onto the tiled kitchen floor and smash into the counters. You'd think she'd remember by this time that cats got no traction in the kitchen, but after hundreds of sessions of "play toys" there admittedly might be some brain damage going on.
Last Saturday, Gabby decided, somewhat uncharachteristically, that she wanted to play toys at night. So I grabbed a couple of colorful mice and tossed them into the kitchen. After smashing into the cabinets yet again (yay!) she managed to bat the thing under the stove. Feeling somewhat kindly I decided that I would grab a yardstick and fish it out.
Oh. My. God.
Found underneath my stove were seemingly hundreds of cat toys, one (and only one) child's flip flop, way, carbon-dated to circa TinyTuna, 3rd grade, one People Magazine (and I don't even BUY People Magazine) and one thriving colony of Dust Wookies.
Once I finished fishing all that out, I figured I was on a roll and should take a gander at what might be living under the refrigerator. Found were several more cat toys and a smaller, cuter colony of Dust Ewoks.
Only thing missing? Jimmy Hoffa.