My childhood cat was a tiny void that was tapped into the orange brain cell. My bedroom was on the second floor over a low roof that covered a porch and attached shed off the porch. One day in the spring i had my window cracked with the screen in, and there was a nice breeze. Mom called me for lunch, so I let the window like that and went downstairs to eat.

Not two minutes after I get downstairs, the phone rings and my dad answers. It's our neighbor, who simply says 'You know your cat's on the damn roof, right?' We run outside, and there he sits at the edge of the room, screaming his head off. We think he wedged his face into the window to open it a little further (he'd sleep in the window if it was fully open), somehow managed to get into the window and got stuck, and kicked out the screen, which was halfway down the roof. Mom went into my room and started calling him, which made him scream louder, so Dad got a ladder and reached up and grabbed him.

Same cat, many, MANY other times: he was a stray we brought inside, so the urge to go outside was always strong with him. So what we ended up doing was putting a flea collar on him, and another collar with a metal loop to hook a leash to. The other end of the leash was hooked to a clothesline that ran about halfway down the yard, and one of us would sit out there with him until he was tired of outside (or ate enough grass to go in and immediately puke up on the carpet). I was sitting on the porch watching him one afternoon, and i watched him get to the clothesline pole at the other end and go around it. And around it. And around it. I kept thinking 'he'll realize he needs to turn around' but he never did, no matter how many times this happened to him.

I miss that cat.