It Was Bound to Happen

This evening, about twenty minutes before Mark and I are set to leave for opening night of the Chicago Art Open, I go on deck to look for Leo. He's only been out a few minutes. Leo is agile, strong, a good jumper, and can maneuver his way pretty well around the dock. And he always returns to the boat when I call him.

When I go outside and call his name, he yowls in return. I call again; he yowls again. Something is wrong. Inside, his brother Hunter starts crying and howling. I go searching down one of the docks and it sounds like Leo is howling from right under me. I lay down flat on the dock and peer underneath; I see his wet tail. I stretch my neck a little further and see him: he's standing, soaking wet, on one of the floats under the dock. He has somehow fallen in, swam under the dock, and climbed to a perch beneath the dock.

Now comes the impossible task of getting him out of there. He's right under the dock, and the only way back to land is through the water. He's not coming willingly. So I jump in, reach under the dock, and pull him out by the scruff of the neck. He claws his way up my shoulders and Mark pulls him out.


He then proceeds to run to the boat and hide where he feels safe: the litter box. We now have a soaking wet long-haired cat with clay clumped in his paws and hair, tracking wet litter all over the boat. A quick shower, and his brother Hunter to help clean him up, and he's good as new.

I'm not really buying this whole Turkish-Vans-love-water stereotype. They've both fallen in; neither of them is eager to go back anytime soon.