Mabel in the morning

Time to till the soil, plant a seed, water the garden. Pick a metaphor. After a week away on Orcas Island -- the most wonderfully relaxing place I know -- it's time to dive in again.

And what a nice way to begin with a furry greeting. I heaved myself out of bed at 6 to go swimming and had barely taken a step out of the bedroom when I ran into Mabel, doing her high-wire balance act on the railing above the steps on the main floor. As usual, she was purring lightly and arching her back for a morning scratch from ears to tail.

Mabel is our brown tabby cat, the youngest and shyest of all our animals (well, except for Roxie the Rabbit). She's about five years old by now and often so reclusive that visitors are surprised to learn we have a second cat. Rudy, the older and bigger one, has become more social in the year or so since his buddy Juneau died.

Mabel has always kept to herself. She can be frustratingly skittish, flighty, whatever you want to call her. But she can also be very playful, typically swatting at my head when I'm turning the corner to head down the stairs. She's pretty quiet -- even a full-throated meow doesn't carry very far -- but she's also very serene, content to curl up alone in our daughter's old bedroom.

All in all, I suppose she's not much different from the usual housecat. Quirky, unpredictable, occasionally affectionate and, around dogs, predictably feisty. Unlike Rudy, who rolls with the punches, Mabel doesn't mess around with Otto, our Jack Russell, or Quimby, our daughter's Chihuahua/Pug mix. She'll hiss, flash the claws and let 'em know who's boss.

I'm not quite how she acquired this personality -- spunky adolescent, detached teenager and sophisticated lady, all rolled into one -- but she is a morning delight.