It's sad to start tearing the house down so soon, before we've even moved in, but there it is. When Ted wrangled Obie back far enough that he could get his head out, his big chest prevented his forelegs from coming out and his back legs were apparently squeezed under him, so he was stuck with his head and part of his chest out, looking something like a popover just coming out of the oven.
Ted tugged some more and extricated Obie, who ran off across the yard.
I caught up with him on the other side of the house, where he seemed dazed and frightened, but came right to me when I called. He was wet and sticky and dirty and didn't smell very good, but he wasn't hurt. He sat down and began cleaning himself up. After about 20 minutes, he calmed down enough to rub on Becky's foot, which was surprising because he's spent the last two days running away from her; he hasn't seen her often enough to trust her good intentions toward cats, but maybe he's grateful to her for the thrashing she gave to the dirt and rocks around the drain pipe as we were digging it out.
1/14/10 - Obie likes to hang out with us, but he doesn't want us to touch him. The only thing he really likes to do is play. He's 11 years old now. Most cats have outgrown playing by that age; they know all our tricks and find them boring. Moreover, while they're still kittens, most cats outgrow chasing their tails. Not Obie. His tail has a mind of its own and is never still. It whaps around and annoys him sometimes. He stares at it and glares at it and eventually pounces on it.
Apparently Obie doesn't care whose tail he attacks. Ginger's propensity to leave parts of himself sticking out while he sleeps worked in Obie's favor this morning: