Bob the Tomato has found his way to outside our bedroom every night for about a week now. We go to bed, and he is in the living room, sitting majestically on top of all the other stuffed animals in the basket. He looks innocent enough, sitting there quietly surrounded by Matthew's favorite animals; his panda, his winnie the pooh, and MY baxter bear. All is quiet, all the toys are either in their toy box or still spread out on the living room floor. And the younger, more naive me, the me of last week, used to think that is where they stayed all night.
But now I know better. I mean, if Bob the Tomato is finding his way down out of the basket, across the living room, past the kitchen, around the corner and up the stairs, then who knows what else is happening down there? Are the blocks tumbling out of their canvas bin and arranging themselves in a tower? Are the matchbox cars racing about the kitchen floor? This would explain how they are ALWAYS under my feet when I am in the kitchen. I mean ALWAYS.
OK, so that is one explanation. Every evening the toys come alive and wreak havok. While that theory makes for a great movie going experience, especially if one of the toys doesn't know he is a toy, I think there may be something else going on here. I think my cat thinks he is a dog.
Now, we don't have a dog, so he is not seeing this behavior. And I have always thought this cat was a little strange. I am pretty sure he is the one carrying Bob the Tomato up the stairs and leaving him at our door, like a prize. I guess we should be thankful it is just Bob, and not a dead bird. We can hear him crying outside our bedroom as though he is annoucing his gift to us. I wonder what he thinks when we don't come to the door and sweep him into our arms for the praise he certainly so deserves.
I decided to get to the bottom of this. I asked the cat.
Me: So, cat, it is you, isn't it, bringing Bob the Tomato upstairs every night?
Cat: (says nothing, but looks startled. That's right, cat, I am on to you...)
Me: It's ok, you can tell me.
Cat: (remains silent, but turns head ever so slightly to get a better look at Bob, which I hold in my hand.)
Me: You want Bob? (I hold it out to him, just out of reach.) Talk, cat!
At this point the cat reaches out for Bob, loses his footing, and falls off the kitchen counter. I see now why police interrogations do not usually occur on kitchen counters, but instead in little rooms with sturdy chairs.
Now the cat is miffed and slightly humiliated, and slinks off down to the basement. Bob the Tomato and I go to watch tv. I like Bob, he's pretty cool.