Catching Up on Camping with Cat

Many people expressed their surprise that I would take a cat on a camping trip. The folk at Newport Avenue Market (where I bought some of my pre-camping supplies) asked about how it worked out. Friends at KPOV expressed wonderment. Even my lovely wife said, are you sure?

Well, the trip was a success.

Our little girl cat, Cosette, had a wonderful time camping with me; and I with her. Here she is in her favorite napping corner under the popped-top lid:

She and I stayed six nights at a secret place on the south end of the Crooked River National Grassland, a mere wide spot off a four-wheel road on the shoulder of Gray Butte. A solitary site known only to Arne Aquvit, Sven Hardwax, Bob Woodward, Brian the produce guy at Newport Market, and my son.

I busted the tongue of my little Westrailia trailer getting there.

This sweet little rescue cat-- who is not allowed to go outside off-leash at home on account of a very busy street, territorial other cats, dangerous Bad People (no one particular but the greater the population density, the higher the odds that someone who enjoys torturing cats might pick her up -- she likes people), and big rambunctious dogs who may mean no harm but could spook a little eight-pound cat into running so far that she might not know how to get back home [she is chipped but still . . . ) -- this kitty came with me.

Anyways, she and I had a fine time. For the first two nights she was on-leash until I was satisfied that she had settled down. The after that she had plenty to keep her occupied. Like this one lizard who lived in the rocks around the firepit, this one tree where a mouse had a home the roots -- and she absolutely delighted in rolling herself in the dust of the road that passed by our site.

We went for walks. On her own she does not like to get very far from me (she's a Daddy's Girl), but with her Daddy human she was happy to go exploring. Together she prowled to my right and to my left, walking behind me and before me, stopping frequently to sniff this bush, to explore that tree, and gaze interestedly down that ravine. But she never got too far from me.

In the evenings, when the coyotes sang, she looked at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. She knew those were monsters who could catch a little cat and hurt her.

And when it was time for to go to sleep (the VW Vanagon Westfalia poptop camper van's bench seat brilliantly converts into a bed) she did her final rounds of the windows: looking outside to make sure there were no lizards, no mouses, nor any monsters lurking outside the van, then laid down next to me, curled up, and snoozed through the night.

Yes, on the third morning she woke me up at 5:30 by patting me on the nose to tell me that it was time to get up! We can sleep all day! Let's go! Come ON!

And yeah, I was so charmed by her enthusiasm that I did get up, fired up the propane heater, made myself a cup of hot tea, and let her go outside to explore.

I do indulge her.

ANYWAY, we broke camp on Thursday morning. I had to put her into the pet carrier and drive home. Like most cats, she is not a fan of vehicular travel. She yowled the whole way.

But when I brought her into the kitchen and opened the latch on the carrier, she stepped out, and looked at me. "Home?" she said. Yes, home, I said. She jumped down from the table, and was happy to be back.