Sep 21, 2015 3 min read

Some months back, we bought an antique desk at auction. It was made in Rices Landing, according to the provenance we were given, and stayed in Greene County for over 100 years. It has now traveled about four miles over the county line to Washington County, where it will hopefully remain for the next 100-plus years, preferably where it currently sits in my dining room.

It has large drawers in the bottom, small drawers at the top, and a front flap that closes it up neatly. It is all dovetails and little knobs, and there are marks where it was hand-chiseled to fit hinges and such. It is really a cool piece of furniture, and sometimes I just sit and wonder about the person who spent such time undertaking its creation.

Aside from my own fascination with it, it also fascinates my cats. I find them on, in and under it all of the time. Left a drawer open? Cat inside. Leave the front flap down? Cat laying on top. Leave everything locked up tighter than Fort Knox? Cat squeezes itself underneath and peeks head out in such an adorable manner as to prevent any response, save laughter.

It is the squeezing underneath that really gets me. I simply don’t understand how they fit under there, or how they haven’t managed to get stuck yet. The gap is only three, maybe four inches tall, and yet, a full-grown, nearly 13-pound cat manages to fit through.

Even more fascinating to me is that one cat in particular – readily acknowledged as my favorite one, Bella – hides toys underneath it. Pencils, pens and milk jug caps have all been swept out from underneath the desk. Pretty much anything that she finds or can knock onto the floor is fodder for the “nest.”

I didn’t even see her go under there this morning, but as I was sitting down to work, I suddenly heard an odd noise coming from near my feet. Shortly thereafter, I heard it again. About the time I got down to investigate, a spool of thread came rolling out, followed by the paw trying to stop it. (Had I been any closer, I might have been hooked in the nose by a claw.)

She managed to recapture her prey and pulled it back under the desk. The play continued for a few more minutes before she tired of the game and slinked her way out and wandered elsewhere. I had to laugh at her, trailing a small cobweb behind her as she scampered off, before I reached under the desk to fish out what I could reach.

It wasn’t much because my forearm got stuck after the first eight inches or so. Attempting to grip what I could, I drug it out and threw it away. She’ll restock, and we’ll do it again – if not this week, then next. And I can’t help but wonder, if the desk could talk, what else has it seen in its hundred-plus years?

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.