Poor Tovah! She carries the string in her mouth from room to room. Finally, she drops it, moaning and crying for someone to wiggle it. She looks at me from her slit-like, yellow eyes, and I can read her thoughts. Make it move! Please, make it move!
I reach down and give it a shake and for a little while, she is appeased. She purrs, runs about, takes the obligatory catnap, but then she wakes up and, Oh God, the string isn’t moving again.
That silly piece of nothing is more valuable than everything in her world: her food; her four-legged, striped buddy, Sidney (whom she guards it from); more valuable than me, resulting in a twinge of jealousy on my part. But her love for the string is causing her to become one unhappy, frustrated, obsessive-compulsive cat, so I take the malevolent troublemaker away. I know OCD when I see it.
I buy her another toy, but Oh, no, I mistakenly jiggle it just once, and like before she is beside herself, howling and begging for someone to make it dance. The poor thing! “I’ll figure this out,” I promise her, since I don’t want to deprive her of a daily dose of fun.
So off to the store I go again, in search of another plaything for my furry baby, but this time I’ll be careful; I won’t even tap her treasure, not even a tad, since living with OCD isn’t child’s play, especially for a cat.