Thread by @Delafina777

One of my favorite things about cats is how they set goals for themselves and then engage in sheer bloody-minded stubbornness but because they're cats it's also sneaky and circuitous, but like, not COMPETENT.

When I was in Vacationland with my parents at the house they rent there every year, my sister brought her cat with her to his Country Estate.

And in the central room of the house is this old stone fireplace with, y'know, the stones sort of sticking out of the cement they're embedded in. And on either side of the fireplace, about 8 inches below the ceiling, was a small, shallow shelf.

I have no idea what these shelves were for, btw. They were largely inaccessible by virtue of being so high up and so shallow.

On one side of the fireplace was a built-in set of bookshelves that came up to about mid-chest and then had a nice broad surface, then shallower shelves above that, and then way up at the top, the tiny useless shelf, which was empty.

On the other side of the fireplace was a door into a little hallway, off of which was a bathroom and one of the bedrooms. Above the door was the tiny, useless shelf. This one held a wooden duck.

It became the cat's mission in life to touch the duck.

My sister, of course, didn't want him getting up on that shelf because she was worried he'd get hurt jumping down from that high. My parents didn't want him getting up there because they were afraid he'd knock down the duck and break it.

I was the only person who supported Mission: Duck Touching.

I spent the evenings whispering to him, "You can do it, lil' buddy. Live your dreams. Touch the duck."

He began training for this mission by jumping up on the bookcase top on the other side, then parkouring up the fireplace, which made an excellent climbing wall, then jumping up to the tiny shelf. It was a difficult landing to stick, because it was so tiny. He missed a lot.

He also had the unfortunate habit of running into the room, skidding to a stop like Kramer on Seinfeld, and making a small, high-pitched yodeling noise to announce that he was going to make an attempt to get to the practice shelf.

This, of course, gave my parents and/or sister ample time to stop him. My furry nephew's a smart boy, though, so eventually he figured out that announcing his intentions was a tactical error.

I may have had a talk with him one evening under the cover of watching Law & Order together and advised him to keep his mouth shut until he had reached the mountaintop.

After a few days of training and planning, he snuck in while we were figuring out dinner, ascended the bookcase, climbed the rock wall, and, with a triumphant yodel, made it to the practice shelf.

He was very proud of himself. I was very impressed. My sister was less appreciative. He was retrieved from the shelf and given a bit of a scolding.

But now he knew he could make it from the rock wall onto the shelf.

It was time to initiate Stage Two. This was considerably more challenging: there was no bookshelf from which to launch into the rock-climbing, and the already small landing area on the shelf was mostly occupied by the duck.

After knocking a bag of his treats onto the floor so the dog would get into them and draw off some of the heat, he ascended the bookcase, climbed halfway up the rockwall, and began to parkour across to the other side of the fireplace.

Unfortunately, the dog is an Australian Cattle Dog/German Shepherd mix and has like 9 dog PhDs and one tiny zip-bag was no impediment to her inhaling all of his bonito flakes in like 14.5 seconds.

The cat was almost to the other side of the fireplace when the rest of us looked away from the bag-shredding whirlwind and noticed him. He was retrieved, confined, and sent to his room.

Thereafter he was confined to the room during the day so he couldn't hurt himself while we were out hiking and cheese tasting and sailing and all the other stuff you do in Vacationland.

The following evening was the last night my sister was spending with us before she went home. The cat was released from his daily confinement. He behaved with exaggerated, innocent affection.

When we were all engrossed in a wine tasting I'd set up in the dining room (complete with lightly sauteed squares of Juusto cheese drizzled with buckwheat honey, HIGHLY RECOMMENDED BTW), he made his move.

He managed to land silently on the bookcase. I'd arranged the table so I was facing the living room and everyone else had their backs or sides toward it. The bookcase landing attracted no attention.

He scaled the rock wall gracefully, and sidled across to the doorway side. He twisted so as much of him was facing the duck as possible, and prepared to make the complicated jump with the flip in the middle.

But then he seemed to lose confidence. I was alarmed for him. Everyone was finishing the last of the wines, and would turn around and move to the living room while we discussed what we wanted to do that evening.

At last he braced himself a little more firmly, fixed his gaze on the duck, and...

...let out an anticipatory yodel. I'm not fluent in his dialect of Cat, but I'm pretty sure it was "YOLO!" or something.

My sister heard, sprang to her feet, rushed into the living room, and caught him in midair.

The following morning, he departed in his carrier, paws stretched through the bars toward the duck he still hadn't touched.

My mother has declared we will rent a different house next year because this one lacks sufficient seating.

Alas, his Everest remains unscaled.

BUT.

There are things we can learn from him.
1) Practice builds confidence.
2) Enlist allies to help you overcome obstacles. He made good use of the dog.
3) When the moment comes, don't hesitate.

Believe in yourself. Touch the duck. If you're going to fail, fail gloriously in midair. Do it for the little cat with big dreams.

I did slip him a note as he was carted out promising that I would make sure the house next year has a duck even if I have to bring one myself. He is my nephew, after all. I don't want him to give up on his dreams.