The cat is domestic only as far as suits its own ends.
~Saki
I live with a crazy cat lady. My girlfriend, Diana, has adopted more than a dozen carnivorous felines. They sprawl in every nook and cranny of the house, lounging about like gods. I think we have far too many cats. Diana wants even more.
As a kid, I once watched my neighbor’s German Shepherd corner a tom. The cat leaped on the dog and raked its nose with his claws. The pooch scampered off, howling. From that day on, I interpreted a cat’s display of affection as a personal nightmare of clawing and flashing sharp teeth.
It took me a while to warm up to cats after that. I was the guy who rolled his eyes when friends went on about their tabbies. I didn’t understand their undying devotion. Nor could I comprehend the cutesy names they assigned to their animals, like Fluffy, Boots, Mr. MooMoo, Pookums and Socks. Yuck!
After a couple years in residence, I’ve finally been accepted by Diana’s cats. By “accepted” I mean they’ve learned how to work me to get what they want, which is usually another can of food or a large dollop of whipped cream from the fridge.
I’ve become a personal servant to Diana’s herd. I’m alert to their slightest request. They constantly come and go. I act as their doorman. At mealtime, they rush us like hyenas piling on for a kill. They sit in our laps, sleep on our bed, and keep us awake with their late-night antics. I’ve learned to grin and bear it.
Cats are a lot like the people you meet on dating sites — never quite what they appear to be. When a dog is hungry and you feed him, he shows gratitude. When a cat is hungry and you’re late with his food, he throws your cell phone in the garbage disposal. The smarter ones then hit the switch.
I only recently grasped how remarkable and intelligent cats are. The ones around here are like automobiles. Some are full-time hunters (4-wheel drive), others only go outside in good weather (sedans), and a few never leave the house (luxury models). Some meow softly like a Prius hybrid. Others yowl at full volume like a Mack truck hitting the brakes.
Diana’s most amazing cat was a bandit-faced female named Pansy. Pansy was a slayer of rodents. She did not like to be held and preferred to live outside. On the rare occasions she wanted a caress, she let us know by flopping down in our path. Diana invested a huge amount of emotion in her relationship with Pansy. What she got in return was cold-shouldered rejection.
Pansy had it made: complete reign of the house, plenty of food, and a warm bed. Then she began secretly visiting a neighbor down the street, close to a field where she hunted mice. A week later, she stopped coming home. Diana would call for her. No answer. She would set out bowls of kitty chow and saucers of milk. But the little two-timer never came back. Did Pansy abandon us for a wealthy family with a private groomer and a veterinarian who made house calls? Was it simply a shorter commute to her hunting grounds? Who knows? Whatever the reason, it broke Diana’s heart.
Late one evening after yet another fruitless search, I told Diana that her cat would probably never return. She needed to accept the fact that Pansy was a two-timing mouser who was born to wander. Diana had to learn to accept Pansy’s affection in the cold and aloof form it was given.
I explained that there were many cats like Pansy. When they rub against us, it isn’t a sign of love; it’s how they spread their scent. These same cats only purr because they know humans will reward them. They barf up hairballs and use our furniture for scratching posts because they believe it’s their cat-given right.
Afterwards, Diana nodded and said she understood. The poor woman wasn’t crying, but she was close to it.
But the next morning, she was down at the field, calling for Pansy, hoping to entice her home with a fresh can of whipped cream. “I wish I could catch her,” she lamented. “I’d like to put flea medicine on her.” Oh Diana, still wanting to care for that unfaithful cat.
~Timothy Martin
